Arthur Nersesian - The Fuck-Up

“I must be a burden.”

“You seem to think I’m the norm and you’re ill. My life is no picnic. You know nothing about me.”

“You seem like a nice guy, but you are too young. Maybe we can try to work something out, some kind of relationship.”

“I think all our relationship does is cure symptoms, not problems.”

“What’s wrong with curing symptoms?”

“In just the short period of time that we’ve been together a dangerous routine has started,” I replied.

“What kind of routine?”

“Don’t you see it? First you feel lonely because your boyfriend dumped you. Then you call me. Then we make love. Then you begin to realize that you’re an attractive young career lady with prestige and wealth and I’m a kid ten years younger living from pillar to post. And you feel embarrassed and ashamed so you need to be alone until it all starts again.”

“So?” she replied. “Is it my fault that we live in a lonely, pathetic world? What the hell am I supposed to do?”

As I reached for my jacket, which she had seized from me, all I could think of saying was, “I’m sorry.”

“Just one final request,” she asked with a curious sobriety.

“What is it?”

“My son.”

“Yeah, he really has that stereo too loud. I could hear it all the way down the block.”

“I know. His father sent him here for the week, and I can’t deal with him.”

“Why don’t you talk to him?”

“Believe me I tried, I tried to interest him, but when I asked him what was new, he said, ‘your boyfriend.’”

“He’s probably just a little jealous. I’m sure it’ll pass.”

“I can’t even speak to him. When I asked him to lower that damned thing he slammed the door in my face. And the entire upper floor reeks of marijuana.”

“Well, there is a limit. Perhaps you should consider some stern disciplining.”

She looked at me fearfully for a moment and then out of the silence she asked, “Would you do it?”

“Without a second thought.”

“He’s up there now.”

“You go right up there and show him who’s boss,” I pepped.

“You just said you would.”

“Pardon?”

“You said you would do it for me.”

“Me! Are you kidding?”

“You just said you would.”

“I meant I would discipline my child if it came to it.”

She looked at me maternally for a minute, “I’ll give you fifty dollars.”

“Surely you jest,” I replied sincerely.

“It has got to be done; you said so.”

“You’re the mother,” I replied. “If you do it he’ll respect you. If anybody else does it, he’ll hate you for a lifetime.”

“I’ll take care of that.”

“Well, I’m not going to do it. It’s out of the question.”

“The boy’s out of control, and I can’t do it.”

“I ain’t doing it, period.”

Suddenly she put on the poker face and upped the ante from fifty to a hundred, and then a hundred and fifty and then three hundred and then six hundred dollars. Just as quickly as she offered, I refused each sum.

“Look, I’m not just a pacifist, I’m also a coward. I freeze up in violent situations, it’s a psychological thing. Some people can get instantly mad. I get quiet and terrified.” Before the farce could continue, I grabbed for the doorknob.

“Leave here and I’ll call the police,” she screamed.

“Good, have them do it.”

“I’ll call them on you! There is a law against stealing a car.”

“What?”

“Where’s my Mercedes?” She pulled her final trump. I shut the front door.

“The car’s old. I don’t need it. I don’t need the money. If you do this little deed, I’ll sign over the title to you. Do you understand? You’ll own it.”

To own a Mercedes Benz: it sounded wonderfully unreal. For the first time I realized how Glenn was capable of being a merciless businesswoman. A Mercedes Benz, one of the classic status symbols of wealth—a working Mercedes that could legally be my own. Where I came from, you were what you drove. Typically, for the wrong reason, I meekly accepted her offer. Before any reprieves of thought could occur, she raced over to her file cabinet, located the car’s title, opened a fountain pen, and dramatically signed on the dotted line, explaining, “I’ll mail this in just as soon as the job is done.”

As I climbed the steps, I came to realize the new low to which I was sinking—quid pro quo: thrashing a kid for a Mercedes. I envisioned Helmsley’s eyes glancing down on me sadly. I couldn’t believe it. I paused on the landing, but as I listened to that heavy metal music, I decided that he wasn’t exactly a kid and I wasn’t exactly an assassin.

I knocked on his door authoritatively and waited. I decided that I would give reason a chance before brutality. I knocked again and heard a giggle, and then a splashy sound and finally, “Oh, fuck.”

“Open this minute,” I yelled, and trying the knob, I opened the door.

Junior was on his knees, carefully searching the carpeted floor. Apparently he had dropped his bong and was looking for the small wire screen filled with grass.

“Man, you made me drop my shit.”

“That’s illegal you know.”

He laughed and kept searching for the screen, which was probably the same thing I would’ve done in his position. Locating the grass-packed mesh, he restored it to the bong and after lighting up and holding it in, he extended it toward me.

“Want a hit?” he creaked, not employing his smoke filled lungs.

“I’d like to talk,” I replied as I walked across the room and lowered the volume of the stereo. I then squatted on the floor next to him.

“Shoot,” he said, exhaling and then took another hit from the bong.

“Well, this is difficult to say, but I was informed that you were rather disrespectful to your mother.”

I waited for him to reply, but he only exhaled and inhaled another hit.

“Ideally, I’d like you to apologize to your mother.” He exhaled his lungful of smoke into my face and shook his head no with a big grin. I would’ve done the same thing.

“Get this through your head,” I replied sternly “You are going to apologize to her.”

“Look coach, why don’t you let her give you a blow job and calm down.” Then peacefully he started on another hit. When I heard the bubbles gurgling in his bong, I decided that there were no short cuts, I slapped the bong out of his hands.

“YOU MOTHERFUCKER!!!” he hollered at the top of his lungs and jumped to his feet looking at the dead bong.

“I want you to apologize to your mother.”

“Get the hell out of my house!” he yelled back. “My father bought this house! Get out and fuck off!” He started walking across the room to pick up his bong when I grabbed him by his thin neck and threw him on his bed. “Now listen to me. You are going to apologize, understand?”

“What the hell do you care?” he asked quickly, quelling his anger, which he might’ve realized was pointless.

“I love her,” I lied angrily. “I want you to apologize to her.”

“Well, that’s the biggest lie I’ve ever heard, ‘cause she can’t love. You better get that straight, right off.”

“Just apologize to her. We’ll let it go at that.”

“No, I can’t,” he replied. “I’m not as much of a liar as you or her. So the both of you can just go fuck each other.”

The kid no longer reminded me of me. He was far more principled. I stood there a moment wondering whether he would apologize to her if I gave him a hundred dollars. But I didn’t think he’d accept it. Besides, I didn’t have a hundred dollars. After a silent moment, I decided that I still wanted the car and this kid’s pride, which stood in the way, was just too weak a thing. “Are you going to apologize?”