That night, alone in Marco’s room, I unfold Heller’s drawing of the tree and try to memorize it. I try to turn my thoughts into a tattoo, but the thoughts resist the ink. I don’t want this to make me feel less real, but it does. I cannot help but feel impermanent. I cannot help but feel I am destined to fade.
X
It helps if the person is weak.
If I want less of a challenge, I stay with someone who is already on his way to giving up. Living is a fight, and I can pick out the ones who’ve stopped fighting, who are stuck in their own loneliness and/or confusion and/or pain. The fewer connections, the better. The more despair, the better. Some people guard their selves like a fortress. But others leave the doors unlocked and the windows open. They welcome the burglary.
I have not done well this time. My vanity thought it would be good to be young, to be the object of attention. But after a day, I can feel his self wanting, can feel it trying to reject me in the same way a body will reject an organ that brings the wrong blood to its system. His family attachments are strong. There is a home he misses. There are things he wants to do. I can feel him pushing against me. Resisting. I could separate him from this body, tamp him down, but it would take time and energy. Better to roll the dice and see what I get next.
In the meantime, there’s fun to be had in our remaining hours together.
The young, handsome white guys are always fun. They’re the ones who are naturally given things, who find that gates swing open before they touch them. These guys take advantage. Sometimes they don’t know they’re doing it. Most of the time they do. They are harder to erase because they like their lives. But I stay in there anyway, because I like their lives, too.
This guy’s six feet tall, maybe six one. Swimmer’s build. Eighteen years old. College freshman. Already knows which frat he’s going to pledge. Attractive enough that I could get sex if I wanted to get sex, and strong enough that I could cause other people harm if I wanted to cause other people harm.
But I’d much rather mess with his life and leave him to clean it up. Take away as much of that advantage as I can. If I can’t use it, there’s no reason for him to have it when I’m gone.
It’s easy enough to do. His girlfriend has been texting nonstop. Apparently, while I was getting a late breakfast, this guy was supposed to be walking her to class. At first she’s mad that he stood her up. She thinks he’s asleep. Then the day goes on and she’s starting to get concerned. The interesting part is that she’s more concerned about him being truthful with her than she is about whether he’s alright. She thinks her position is precarious.
I need a vehicle for their undoing, and with this guy’s body, it’s not hard to find one. Leigh is working behind the counter at one of those coffee shops that exist just so Starbucks can kick it in the teeth. The Better Maryland Bean. Whatever. Leigh’s there, and she’s bored. Until I walk in—then she’s not so bored anymore.
I’ve got this.
Start with a smile. Tell her I just moved here for school. Ask about her tattoo. Make sure she sees my eyes linger as she pulls up her sleeve to show me the whole thing. There aren’t any other customers in line; we have all the time in the world. I ask a question to make it clear I’m really asking if she has a boyfriend. Get the answer I want.
Next I lean closer. Ask if I can get her number. Then, when she says yes, take the marker from the counter, the one she uses to write names on the cups, and ask her to write her number on my arm. Big.
“That way,” I say, “I won’t forget it.”
She’s game. She’s charmed. Writes her name and her phone number from my wrist to my elbow. Even adds a winking smiley face at the end.
Now it’s time to find this guy’s girlfriend.
Leigh says the cold brew is on the house, but I tell her no way, and make sure I’m generous with the tip jar. It’s not my money, so I can afford to be generous. This particular teenager drives a BMW; Mommy and Daddy give him a pretty good allowance.
The Girlfriend texts again. Every time she texts, I want to punish her more.
I don’t let her know I’m on my way.
I make a mockery of the speed limit and run red lights when there aren’t any cars coming. I’m a young, privileged white boy—if I get pulled over, the worst thing that will happen is I’ll be a few minutes late to somewhere I don’t need to be. If I were a young, privileged white girl, I wouldn’t even get a ticket, if my smile was effective enough. But I’m not worried about this guy paying for a ticket. Plus, he listens to Maroon 5. He deserves a ticket.
Lucky for him, there aren’t any police around to oblige. I find his campus parking spot, then head over to Girlfriend’s dorm. A swipe of my ID gets me in. Her room is on the ground floor. I don’t text ahead—I just pound on the door. When she opens it, she doesn’t look happy to see me. She looks pissed.
“Where the fuck have you been?” Girlfriend says.
I force myself to remember her name. “Gemma,” I say, “it’s so good to see you.” I grin, and she’s completely thrown off guard.
She doesn’t ask me in, but I push my way in anyway.
She goes back to wanting a fight. Says it’s not that she needs to know where I am all the time, but promises are promises.
I stand there grinning. For all I know, this guy really loves Gemma. For all I know, he’s fine with his dating life being a surveillance state. For all I know, he’s the kind of guy who’d never cheat.
Too bad.
I hold my arms out in a what-can-you-do? pose. I start counting. It takes her six seconds to notice.
“What’s that?” she asks, pointing to my right arm. “What the fuck is that?”
I don’t say a word. Just keep grinning.
She comes over and grabs my wrist. Turns my arm so she can read it.
“Who the fuck is Leigh?”
I stop grinning. I look her dead in the eye and say, “That’s none of your business.”
I think I’m the only one in the room enjoying this. She’s angry as hell and starting to cry now, which makes her angrier, that she’s crying in front of this guy. She wants to yell, but when she lets out, “What do you mean, it’s none of my business?” it’s more like a plea. I’m sure if he were here, it would break his heart wide open.
“You need to calm down,” I tell her.
As expected, this only makes her madder.
“Calm down?” she yells, shoving this guy in the chest. “Don’t you fucking tell me to calm down.”
I start laughing, because really, it’s all so predictable. She doesn’t like me laughing (also predictable) and launches herself at me.