“Hold on.” Shy looked up the showtimes on her phone. “There’s one at one p.m. that looks good. That was like three minutes ago. Leave the crumbs. Come on, Dad, let’s go.”
“All of a sudden we’re in a huge rush,” Roy grumbled, but secretly he was grateful. If Shy left him alone he’d feel compelled to try and write something.
They hurried out to the cinema.
“Don’t eat them all before the trailers are over,” Shy whispered as Roy removed the cellophane wrapper from his box of sweets.
“Hush.” Roy slid down in his seat. “You’re supposed to be in school, remember?”
Shy hadn’t warned him that this was an R-rated French comedy about two bored teenage boys who snuck onto a cruise ship on a mission to lose their virginities. The trailers were all for foreign R-rated films too, full of sweaty naked people drinking wine and throwing vegetables at each other. Roy hunkered down in his seat, imagining the headline: Pervy Author Kidnaps Daughter from School and Forces Her to Watch Pervy French Film.
Shy nudged him with her elbow. “It’s okay, Dad. There’s no one else here.”
The film opened with a scene in which one of the boys was babysitting his little brother. They were watching a strange old film called The Red Balloon on TV. The balloon danced and flew over a sagging residential neighborhood of Paris. Its string became snagged in a tree, the balloon so red against the blue Parisian sky.
Red, Roy thought. Not Gold but Red.
Chapter 3
Cue music. Cue talking cat. Cue voice for cat. Cat sits in chair and slurps spaghetti from owner’s bowl. Sated, cat burps politely into his paw. And cut. There was a fraction of time for an ending, some sort of sound better than the burp. He had to get the audience out of the burp and to another, less-gross place. But where?
Stuart liked his job, and he was good at it. Plus, it paid ridiculously well, considering how easy it was. Touring was way harder, but he missed it. He missed the band.
“Wazzup?” Robbie always answered the phone the same way.
“What time is it in Australia? Sorry if I’m calling at a bad time. I just never know,” Stuart apologized. He called Robbie and JoJo all the time, like a lonely ex-girlfriend, checking in. He lived vicariously through their adventures in bachelorhood or felt smug about how comfortable his life was now, depending on what state they were in when he called them.
“Fuck if I know. I’m not in Australia. I’m in fucking Indonesia, man. Some island I can’t even fucking pronounce. The surf is outrageous and the food is too. I love it here. I’m like, growing tentacles, the water is so warm. It’s like a bath, like surfing in the fucking bath.” Robbie had an Australian accent now, which was sort of annoying since he was from Park Slope. Stuart kept waiting for him to break into his normal voice, but it had been years now, and he never did. He’d even cut an EP with a song called “G’day, Kanga” on it, featuring an Aboriginal musician playing the didgeridoo. It never made it to the American charts.
“If this is about us getting back together and playing Coachella, sorry dude, but I’ve got surfin’ to do.”
Stuart laughed. “You wish. Nope, just checking in. It’s my lunchtime and I’m not hungry, so I called you instead.” He twirled his chair around a few times. “Any news besides the waves?”
“Dude, that’s the thing. I am the wave.”
Stuart waited for Robbie to say something normal.
“How’s the wife?”
“Mandy is… worse, actually.” Stuart was never completely sure whether Robbie and JoJo liked Mandy or if they resented her. At some point he’d decided not to care either way. “She’s pretty bad.”
Dead silence.
“Hello?”
“I’m here, mate, I’m here. Christ,” Robbie swore. “I am truly sorry.”
“It’s all right. I just feel bad for her. And Ted.” This wasn’t completely true. He liked being the able parent, the caregiver, going out for ice cream cones together and teaching Ted how to skateboard. Ted seemed to like it too. Mommy time had been reduced to first thing in the morning or at the end of the day, when Ted was only partially awake—the way Mandy was all the time—on the big bed in the kitchen.
“Hey, has she tried medical marijuana? It’s supposed to really help. Not that I’d have any idea, having never touched the stuff myself.”
Stuart laughed. Robbie was a huge pothead in high school. He’d carried Visine and mint gum at all times and subsisted on Oreos and Doritos.
“She’d have to get a prescription.” Stuart did not enjoy Mandy when she was high. Annoying didn’t even begin to describe it. She liked to wedge herself into tight spaces where she felt safe and give orders from there: “Are there any lemons? Can someone make me some fresh-squeezed lemonade? In a bowl. Please?” But it was worth a try.
“New York State is impossible for that sort of shit though. Red tape like crazy. People die of cancer and AIDS before they get their prescriptions. I know someone who can fix you up. Doctor to the stars, or so I’m told. Music connection. He makes house calls and everything. Just tell him what you need and he’ll hook you up. Dr. Mellow. That’s not his name, but it’s something like that. And I don’t think he’s an actual doctor, more like a nurse.”
“A nurse? I know a nurse.” Stuart’s mind so easily diverted to Peaches. Maybe she could actually help. How perfect that he’d just been in to see her about the lice. And he’d told her about Mandy. Going in to ask her about this wouldn’t seem too random. He just had to loosen up his balls and do it.
“Gotta pick up the kid. I’ll let you know if I need that guy’s info,” he told Robbie distractedly, already standing up and shoving his MetroCard, wallet, and keys back into his pockets. He could surprise Ted by meeting him in the schoolyard when school let out. Ted could play four square with his classmates while Stuart asked Peaches about pot. He’d much rather buy it from Peaches than from some sketchy fake doctor. Not that she was selling it, but she probably knew where to get it.
* * *
Roy’s mobile phone bleated as soon as he and Shy got home from the movie and she’d retreated to her room. Shy had put his phone on “goat” for when he received texts. Roy meant to ask her how to personalize the noises for each contact. He wanted the Beatles’ “Eleanor Rigby” to play whenever this particular person texted or rang, because of all the lonely people Roy had ever encountered, Tupper Paulsen was the loneliest.
Thanks for feeding the cat. He seems happy.
Well, at least the cat was alive. Roy had only fed it the one time, two days ago. He was supposed to go back again yesterday and today, but he couldn’t face it.
Tupper had approached him on the street. He seemed a bit desperate.
“Look, I see you all the time, and I know you must be very busy with your writing, but you work from home, right?” he’d said. “I’m Tupper Paulsen. We’re the Paulsens.” He’d hesitated, as if waiting for Roy to recognize his name. “Elizabeth and Tupper Paulsen. We’re on Kane Street, directly around the corner from you.” It was a bit creepy that he knew where Roy lived, but then again, so did everyone.