Iain Reid - I'm Thinking of Ending Things

“My answer seemed to bother him. He was visibly upset. He didn’t like the idea that alone, you couldn’t be the best kisser, that one was reliant on another kisser. And then he said, ‘This is too much to overcome.’ He said that would mean we’d always need someone else. But what if there wasn’t someone else? What if we are all just alone?

“I didn’t know what to say. Then he kind of snapped, as if we’d been in an argument. He said, ‘It’s stupid to try to wait the rain out.’ He told me to take a right out of the parking lot. It was so strange. He indicated where I should go with various tilts of his head. He was quiet after that.”

“Interesting,” says Jake.

“I’m almost done.”

“Go on.”

“For the remainder of the lesson, Doug was twitchy in his seat and seemed disinterested in anything driving related. He offered some basic advice on driving technique, but mostly he looked out the windshield. This was my first and last driving lesson.

“Since it was still raining, he told me he’d drop me off at my place so I didn’t have to wait for the bus. Very little was said. When we reached my house, I pulled up in front and told him I’d keep practicing with my dad. He said that was a good idea. I left him there and ran into the house.

“About a minute later — it wasn’t long — I came back outside. He was still there in the car. He’d moved himself into the driver’s seat and had the wheel in both hands. The seat was still positioned for me, as was the mirror. He was squished in tight. I signaled for him to lower the window. He slid the seat back first before rolling the window down. It was still normal then not to have power windows.

“Before it had fully reached the bottom, I slid my head into the car and gently placed a hand on his left shoulder. My hair was soaked. I had to make a point. I told him to shut his eyes for a second. My face was close to his. He did. He shut his eyes and sort of leaned toward me. And then…”

“What? I can’t believe you did this,” says Jake. “What the hell came over you?”

It’s the most animated I’ve ever seen Jake. He’s shocked, almost angry.

“I’m not sure. It just felt like I had to.”

“This seems so unlike you. Did you ever see him after that?”

“No, I didn’t. That was it.”

“Huh,” says Jake. “Is a second person required for there to be a best kisser? It’s interesting. That’s the kind of thing that can stay with you, that you can think about and obsess over.”

Jake passes the slow-moving pickup in front of us. It’s black, old. We’ve been following that truck for a while, pretty much for the entire story. I try to see the driver as we go by but can’t make him out. There haven’t been many cars with us on the road.

“What did you mean when you said all memory is fiction?” I ask.

“A memory is its own thing each time it’s recalled. It’s not absolute. Stories based on actual events often share more with fiction than fact. Both fictions and memories are recalled and retold. They’re both forms of stories. Stories are the way we learn. Stories are how we understand each other. But reality happens only once.”

This is when I’m most attracted to Jake. Right now. When he says things like “Reality happens only once.”

“It’s just weird, when you start thinking about it. We go see a movie and understand it’s not real. We know it’s people acting, reciting lines. It still affects us.”

“So you’re saying that it doesn’t matter if the story I just told you is made up or if it actually happened?”

“Every story is made up. Even the real ones.”

Another classic Jake line.

“I’ll have to think about that.”

“You know that song ‘Unforgettable’?”

“Yeah,” I say.

“How much is truly unforgettable?”

“I don’t know. I’m not sure. I like the song, though.”

“Nothing. Nothing is unforgettable.”

“What?”

“That’s the thing. Part of everything will always be forgettable. No matter how good or remarkable it is. It literally has to be. To be.”

“That is the question?”

“Don’t,” says Jake.

I’m not sure what to say right then. I’m not sure how to respond.

For a while he doesn’t say anything else. He just plays with his hair, curling a piece at the back of his head around his index finger the way he does, the way I like. And then, after a while, he looks at me.

“What would you say if I told you I’m the smartest human on earth?”

“Pardon?”

“I’m serious. And this is relevant to your story. Just answer.”

I’d guess we’ve been driving for at least fifty minutes, probably longer. It’s getting darker outside. There are no lights on in the car, beyond the dash and radio.

“What would I say?”

“Yeah. Would you laugh? Would you call me a liar? Would you get mad? Or would you just question the rationality of such a bold statement?”

“I guess I would say ‘Pardon?’ ”

Jake laughs at this. Not a big laugh, but a small, sincere, ingested, Jake kind of laugh.

“Seriously. I’m saying it. You’ve heard me clearly. How do you respond?”

“Well, what you’re saying is that you’re the smartest man on earth?”

“Incorrect. The smartest human . And I’m not saying I am ; I’m wondering how you would respond if I did say that. Take your time.”

“Jake, come on.”

“I’m being serious.”

“I guess I’d say you’re full of shit.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. The smartest human on earth? It’s ridiculous for so many reasons.”

“What are the reasons?”

I lift my head, which had been resting on my hands, and look around, as if there’s an audience present. Blurs of trees pass the window.

“Okay, let me ask you a question. Do you think you’re the smartest human alive?”

“That’s not an answer. That’s a question.”

“And I’m allowed to answer in the form of a question.”

I know I’m opening myself to the obvious Jeopardy! joke as I say it, but Jake doesn’t make it. Of course he doesn’t.

“Why is it impossible that I’m the smartest human on earth beyond just saying that it’s crazy?”

“I don’t even know where to start.”

“That’s the whole point. You just assume it to be too far-fetched to be real. You can’t perceive that someone you know, some regular dude sitting beside you in a car, is the smartest person. But why not?”

“Because what do you even mean by smart? Are you more book-smart than me? Maybe. But what about building a fence? Or knowing when to ask someone how they’re doing or feeling compassion or knowing how to live with others, to connect with other people? Empathy is a big part of smarts.”

“Of course it is,” he says. “That’s all part of my question.”

“Fine. But still, I don’t know, I mean, how could there even be a smartest person?”

“There has to be. Whatever algorithm you create, or whatever you decide makes up intelligence, someone has to meet those criteria more than everyone else. Someone has to be the smartest in the world. And what a burden it is. It really is.”

“What does it matter? One smartest person?”

He leans a little toward me. “The most attractive thing in the world is the combination of confidence and self-consciousness. Blended together in the proper amounts. Too much of either and all is lost. And you were right, you know.”

“Right? About what?”

“About the best kisser,” he says. “Thankfully you can’t be the best kisser alone. It’s not like being the smartest.”

He leans back his way, reasserts both hands on the wheel. I look out my window.