Not that I was so deluded as to think that a book deal might save me. AR gaming, VR porn, and the era of addictive, B/B+ quality TV had all but abolished the market for the kind of intellectually rigorous project I had in mind; there would be no angel at the Funeral for Capitalism handing out six-figure advances for hybrid works of cultural criticism and memoir. Still, if I could find a publisher, Wendy would understand how serious I was about this new vocation. And sure, we’d have to deal with our debt—I was working on that—but the important thing, I would stress to Wendy, was that I’d found a passion, a calling, and that this new pursuit would sustain my soul, and would maybe, eventually, lead to my procuring a tenure-track gig at Pratt or The New School.
“Sounds like a good funeral,” I said. “Open bar?”
“BYO,” said Devor. “We may have power in numbers, but we’re not particularly flush.”
He pointed at the donations bucket, which contained some coins, a two-dollar bill, and the butt of a sesame bagel. I wanted to prove my traitorous disregard for my industry, but not so badly that I was willing to part with the little cash I had. As a show of my sorry financial state, I flipped open my flap pockets. Out came a fistful of burrito scraps: pork nibs, green peppers, a wadded ball of aluminum foil.
“Calexico?”
“La Esquina.”
“Ah,” he said. “Delicious.”
“I’m glad we’re agreed. It’s like that joke about Israelis and Palestinians, and how they only agree on hummus. Maybe bankers and #Occupiers can be unified over burritos.”
Devor produced a heartier laugh than my remark warranted.
“Did you get my email?” I asked.
“I get a lot of emails.”
“Did you get mine?”
“Write the article,” he said. “We’ll see if it’s any good.”
Wendy
Michael and I deal with anxiety differently. Michael is an extrovert. He had a hip-hop group at Columbia; he was MC WebMD and he rapped about his neuroses, rhyming thyroid, typhoid, and infinite void, and occasionally spasming into a performative coughing fit.
I remember my first attack in his presence. We had just returned from dinner, Indian, our third date. We were in my dorm room illegally downloading MP3s and drinking wine from coffee mugs I’d stolen from the dining hall. This was as close as I’d come to nurturing a rebellious streak. I was nervous. Dinner had upset my stomach, and Michael’s eyes on my objects and meager hangings made me feel exposed.
I wanted to be one of those girls with a record player and a stack of LPs. One of those girls with a vintage fur displayed on a sewing form. I was not that girl, too timid and self-conscious, too conflicted between my fear of and desire for attention.
In high school, the lacrosse team made a website where they ranked and analyzed the females in our class. I was given points for my looks, but demerits for my supposed inability to smile. Verdict: frigid bitch. People mistook my shyness for coldness, my stilted manner for arrogance. And though I’d tried to make myself over in college by wearing costumes to theme parties and laughing at unfunny jokes, I knew that these adjustments were cosmetic.
I sensed Michael was about to make his move. He’d been giving his take on “The Real Slim Shady,” misquoting Frederic Jameson and explaining the song’s postmodern assault on the illusion of objectivity. My stomach rumbled. What Michael was saying was pretentious and half-baked, but I appreciated his spirit. Here was the college experience I’d imagined before the disillusion of matriculation: discourse with flirtation. It was surprisingly hard to come by. The gender theorists had rejected me for precociously shopping at Ann Taylor Loft. Besides, they were averse to hegemonic concepts of courtship even when the courtship rituals included avowals to lay waste to the hegemony. Everyone else was only interested in real estate. Even the other writing students discussed it ad nauseam, debating which neighborhoods still inspired enough dread to keep gentrifiers from spoiling their storefronts with juice bars and yoga studios.
I’ve heard people say that during sexual encounters they’ve felt outside of their bodies, distant observers. My experience has been the opposite. I am only a body, a sensation machine. Michael kissed me and I kissed back. His tongue felt mealy in my mouth, like a chunk of soggy apple. He scooched closer on the bed. He wrapped an arm around my waist and placed his palm beneath my sweater, just above my beltline. He traced a path from my navel to my hip.
I pulled away. I thought I might vomit. I had trouble breathing. I hyperventilated. I thought I might have spontaneous diarrhea. I assumed that Michael would flee. I felt like the night’s failure was indicative of all my future failings, indicative of the hopelessness of any such endeavor.
Music continued to play. I imagined Michael staring at my body and assessing what I considered its flaws. We’d fooled around on our first date, but we were in a dark car, and I’d kept my clothes on. Now, in the privacy of my bedroom, further exploration was expected.
I was, and still am, by most accounts, attractive: tall and relatively thin with red hair that falls in tight spirals below my shoulders. I have expressive lips and turquoise eyes. I have my maternal grandmother’s upturned, Irish nose, which nicely offsets my other, Ashkenazic features. I’m not a size zero, but I dress to accentuate my strengths.
Still, during all of my pre-Michael sexual experiences, I’d arrived against disappointment. I’ll never forget Gabriel Simm’s face upon the unveiling of my breasts, my flat and ovular nipples reflected in his lenses. Gabriel did a double take. He could only blame his vision. Then: a cringe of acceptance, a closing of eyes, tongue diving toward areola as if, with enough torque, he might bypass reality and land on fantasy’s shore.
The first thing Michael did was turn off the music. He knew not to touch me. He pulled over my desk chair and sat facing me. He spoke very slowly. He said my name. He told me to take deep breaths. He said everything would be okay. He said he understood, that he had felt like this before. His voice was steady. He said there was no rush, that he liked me, and that he could wait. He told me there was time. He asked if there was anything I took to calm down when I felt this way. I told him where I kept the Ativan. He took one too, “to be on the same wavelength.” I thought this was funny. We watched a video on the computer. My breathing regulated. The video was a clip of a monkey fainting from sniffing its own feces. Michael said he’d watched it hundreds of times. He made me laugh.
We fell asleep fully clothed. I woke with Michael in my arms. He lay drooling in the fetal position. He looked vulnerable, sweetly sleepy.
When I got home from Lillian’s on Sunday night, I was surprised to find Michael in the apartment. It was ten o’clock. He had been going out after work. He usually arrived home past midnight. I’d be in bed, alert, awaiting the sound of his keys. Eventually he’d stumble in and clomp across the loft. I’d pretend to be asleep.