Arthur Nersesian - The Fuck-Up

He took this study to all ends. One time, while he was studying revolutionary France, he spent a week attempting to re-create the heartburn and gastritis of the time. Could a mushy crepe significantly contribute enough fury to provoke a revolution? I did my own cooking that week.

Due to the ten-percent money-market return that existed in 1983, in which he had invested his parental inheritance minus only the pittance that he lived on, he was actually able to save a little each month and had no need for a job.

“Just from the garbage America throws out,” he once said, “one could live like a well-to-doer in a third-world country.”

His thrift often breached into pettiness. His rent controlled apartment was stocked with charitably resold bargains, irregular discounts, and damaged goods. He pedalled an old cast-iron bike around the town, and his pockets were usually lined with hurriedly snatched packets of sugar and other assorted sealed condiments which he would habitually take when the opportunity arose.

Although he was a passionate lover of all arts, literature was what he tried to produce. To hear him casually rattle off a favorite passage or stanza in which each intonation had been rehearsed to a grace—I would imagine it was like listening to Caruso sing his favorite opera. He easily could sound pompous but he was actually very modest. In fact, he preferred relating to the arts alone. On those occasions when I bore witness, he seemed to go beyond propriety with his eyes rolling and his body swaying like a Shaker in a spiritual fit. I’d get nervous, and try to snap him out of it.

I would usually see a lot of Helmsley for a couple of weeks and then a stretch of time would pass without so much as a phone call. I hadn’t spoken to him for at least two months, but whenever we resumed our friendship it carried an instant familiarity as if only a day had gone by He always seemed glad to see me and always had a place on his couch if I needed a bunk. When we first met, I was writing my premature memoir. He was impressed by the idea, and the amount of time and attention I was giving to it. Because of that I think that he convinced himself I would someday be a bona fide writer.

The subway screeched into the Carroll Street station. It was cold and late and my arms were full with my belongings as I trudged to Helmsleys house. When I knocked on his door, he mindlessly threw it open wide. Despite his under-heated apartment, he was completely nude and bathing in sweat. In his right hand was an old Modern Library copy of Light in August. When I first met Helmsley he explained how he had put together his own anthology of selections and which, for the sheer pleasure of reading, he would reread, again and again.

“You mean you just reread excerpts? Is it fair to take a work out of context like that?”

“When you want to hear a song, do you feel compelled to always listen to an entire album?” The particular tune that I had walked in on was the last two pages of Chapter Eighteen—the execution and castration of Joe Christmas. It was high on Helmsleys hit list.

“What’s up?” he asked as soon as I dumped all my worldly goods onto his hard couch.

“Sarah gave me the old farewell.”

“What happened?”

“I fucked up.”

“You got into a fight?”

I went into his kitchen, filled a glass with water, emptied it in a gulp, and replied, “No, I transgressed.”

He stopped asking questions and just gave me a wide-eyed expression.

“I drew water from the well of another.”

“I hope she was worth it.”

“That, I’ll never know.” He gave me another of his curious expressions.

“Are you telling me that you lost everything for her and you didn’t even score?”

I lay on my smelly worldly possessions. “It was a turgid punishment; a flaccid crime.”

Helmsley marched back into the living room fully dressed in his second-hand clothes. “I was about to go for a walk. You’re invited if you like.”

I needed to stew for a while, so he left. I turned off the lamp and thought about Sarah. I had always wanted to believe that love was a hypnotic and sustained state of lust, respect, etc., but that never happened with Sarah or anybody else. We did have a good relationship. Sarah was a nice, attractive, intelligent girl. We functioned well together. To be young and alone in New York City meant you either had to have a lot of parental assistance or have a lot of luck, and I had neither. Entry-level salaries for most good jobs could not pay for basic living expenses. Unless you wanted a quirky roommate, the economy encouraged you to find a lover. Sarah and I complemented each other well. We were emotionally matched and although things never got too sweet, they never got too sour.

At first, as always, the sex was sublime, but after a couple of months that petered out, and if we were lucky, which was about once every two weeks, one of us would discover or rediscover some novel aspect that would serve as arousing. We enjoyed each others sense of humor and knew each others moods, and how to provide mutual comfort. But also I think we both understood that appreciation grew with distance and every so often a controlled neglect was healthy.

But I had damaged the works and proved myself the adulterer and probably gave the impression that I didn’t give a damn about her. All I could do was sit there and brood.

Soon Helmsley returned and attempted to start me talking. “So what did you mean when you said you lost your job?”

“I got canned.” I was preoccupied and didn’t feel much like elaborating.

“Why?”

“I forget, I was implicit or something like that. I don’t want to think about it now.”

“Well, excuse my persistence, but how will you live?”

“Are you kidding? With a year of ushering under my belt I can go anywhere.”

“I know an opening as a packer at the Goya plant.” It was a warehouse near his house.

“Look, I’m still basking in disgust and self-pity. Can we rebuild my life tomorrow?”

He thoughtfully retired to his room, but before turning out his light, he placed a half-full bottle of Scotch on the night table along with an old shoe-box filled with K-Tel hits of the seventies that he had purchased through a TV commercial. “If you’re going to listen to mood music, do it on the headphone, and if you want to cry do it in the pillow.” And then he left.

I thought for a while about the real tragedy of the breakup. Of course, it was deeply rooted in vanity; I had slowly regained a normalcy that I had lost years ago when I first left my parental home. Under Sarah’s tutelage, I had been redeveloping healthy habits like brushing my teeth and hair. I was also sleeping and eating well. I had lost the bulge of pounds that I acquired when I first came to the city. I was going to NYU Dental School for cut-rate, semi-annual checkups and, most of all, I was finally conquering that Himalayan peak of unlaundered clothing. Once a week I would push all my things—which were presently sprawled along Helmsley’s couch—into a seventy-five-cent machine and read a magazine. Everything was slowly coming together; a decency was winning; people were slowly coming to treat me with more respect; I was in less general pain and was finding greater comforts. I even thought more lucidly. As the mercenary and the maniac were slowly being exorcised from me, life was becoming both more peaceful and productive. For not even a nipple’s pinch, I’d lost it all. Strapping the headphones over my scalp and taking a painfully long guzzle of that mouthwash Scotch, I listened to an unknown band singing depressing tunes of the seventies.

The next morning, I got up slowly and found a note from Helmsley informing me that he had gone to some arcane exhibit. I showered and began to shave, but after doing significant damage to my features I conceded I was still too wobbly. With Helmsleys toothbrush I scrubbed my teeth. Closing my eyes I must have dozed as my hand mechanically kept brushing. When I came to a moment later and tiredly inspected myself in the mirror, my face was snagged with nicks and my traumatized gums were lined with blood. I cleaned up, dressed slowly, and boarded the F train, returning to Manhattan.