Джонатан Троппер - This Is Where I Leave You

That’s the thing about jocks. They’re wired to compete, regardless of angry wives or busted shoulders. They will not back down. If Paul strikes him out, Boner will leave here bruised and bitter. If Boner hits off Paul, Paul will brood about it for days. Whoever wins will gloat and talk some supposedly good-natured trash to rub it in. There can be no draw. Someone’s going down.

Paul steps back onto the rubber mound, shaking his shoulder and rolling his neck. He leans forward onto his front knee and takes a deep, measured breath. Horry pounds his mitt. Boner swings his bat, squares up his stance, and settles down. Everyone is sweating and deadly serious, the fact of the shiva completely forgotten. “If it reaches the point where I think you’re being a fucking idiot,” Phillip says under his breath, “then you’re probably being a fucking idiot.”

Paul winds up and something goes wrong on his release. Three-quarters of the way through, he lets out an anguished cry and prematurely releases the ball, which flies hard and fast and right into Boner’s face. Both men fall to their knees at the same time, Paul clutching his shoulder in pain, Boner’s nose bleeding through his fingers, staining his white batting gloves. Boner’s wife shrieks and runs to his side. Alice stands her ground outside the cage, willing herself to be unmoved, but then caves and runs to Paul, helping him to his feet, asking him whispered questions. It occurs to me that there’s a deep and genuine love between them, and I wonder why I should find that so surprising. Dan and Emily help Boner to his feet, and Horry pulls off his mask and says, “Whose bright idea was this anyway?”

Paul walks gingerly over to Boner to apologize. They say some macho things to each other, bang fists, and slap asses, and in this manner, all is forgiven. Someone procures an ice pack from the freezer to press on Boner’s bruised face. They may be over-the-hill idiot jocks, but you have to admire their code. If only all our conflicts could be resolved with a few grunts and a smack on the ass.

The parade of weathered flesh continues. Sitting in our shiva chairs, we develop a sad infatuation with the bared legs of our visitors. Some of the men wear pants, and for that we are eternally grateful. But this being late August, we get our fair share of men in shorts, showing off pale, hairless legs with withered calves and thick, raised veins like earthworms trapped beneath their flesh who died burrowing their way out. The more genetically gifted men still show some musculature in the calf and thigh areas, but it is more often than not marred by the surgical scars of multiple knee operations or heart bypasses that appropriated veins from the leg. And there’s a special place in shiva hell reserved for men in sandals, their cracked, hardened toenails, dark with fungus, proudly on display. The women are more of a mixed bag. Some of them have managed to hold it together, but on others, skin hangs loosely off the bone, crinkled like cellophane; ankles disappear beneath mounds of flesh; and spider veins stretch out like bruises just below the skin. There really should be a dress code.

Two friends of mine from the radio show come by. Jeff is one of the writers, short and hairy in a way that makes him look dirty at all times. Kenny is an engineer, a former musician and roadie, with colorful tattoo sleeves up both of his arms and long blond hair that he wears like a guitar god from the eighties. We were work buddies, hanging out in the break room, bonding over television shows and playlists, and sympathizing with Jeff, who bitched about Wade bungling all his best bits. Sometimes, when the show was over, Kenny would roll a joint and we’d sit in the control room unwinding while he played the guitar. I haven’t seen either one of them since I quit. They come in looking scared out of their minds. It’s touching, really.

“Hey,” Jeff says as they sit down. “I’m really sorry about your dad.”

“Condolences, man,” Kenny says.

“Thanks. How are things at the station?”

“Oh, you know, same shit, different day.” Jeff.

“It’s not the same without you.” Kenny.

“Who’s producing?”

An awkward look passes between them.

“Um, I am,” Kenny says.

“Congratulations,” I say. “Good for you.”

“I feel bad about it, man.”

“Hey, it’s fine. I quit.”

“They were going to bring someone new in,” Jeff explains.

“No,” I say. “That’s great. I’m glad it’s you.”

“Doesn’t mean I think he’s any less of a dipshit.” Kenny.

“He’s been more of a bastard ever since you left. You really kept him in line.” Jeff.

“Apparently not enough.” Me.

They aren’t sure whether it’s okay to laugh at my little joke. Jeff changes the subject, updating me on the soap-opera lives of the rest of the staff. Kenny stares wide-eyed at my mother’s breasts, like they might come to life at any moment and attack him. I affect an air of cool detachment, reminding myself to be touched that they came, while I count down the minutes until they leave. Ryan and Cole come in to stare at Kenny’s tattoos, and Kenny gives them the tour, showing them each one and explaining what it is.

“That’s my Harley,” he says.

“Harley,” Cole repeats.

“That there is the queen of hearts and over here is the album cover of The Wall, by Pink Floyd.”

“Pink Boy.”

“And that little bird smoking the doobie is Woodstock. You know, Snoopy’s friend?”

“Big Bird.”

“Close enough. And that there is some spiritual Japanese writing, but I forgot what it means.”

I walk them to the door and shake both of their hands. “Thanks for coming.”

“Yeah. See you soon.”

“Take care, man.”

I watch them climb into Kenny’s restored Camaro. They’ll probably stop for lunch at TGI Friday’s and talk about me in deeply sympathetic tones. Then they’ll pull onto the interstate, crank up the classic rock, and resume their lives. It’s quite likely that I will never see either one of them again, and the thought saddens me. They were daily fixtures in my life for the last seven years or so, and now they are gone. Or, more accurately, I am. Just like that. That’s the thing about life; everything feels so permanent, but you can disappear in an instant.

I step through the crowd and slide wearily back into my seat, instantly depressed. Phillip throws his arms around me and pats my back. He’s always had the ability to hone in on a mood.

“It was really nice of Bon Jovi to come,” he says.

AND STILL THEY come. Everyone we ever knew in our lives, pouring through the doors out of a sense of friendship, duty, community, or simply to secure reciprocation when it comes their turn to mourn.

Because more time has elapsed since the funeral and people are less worried about the appropriateness of it all, because there are apparently a lot of single women out there, because Mom has clearly put the word out, because I’m sitting here on display for all to see, because there is a premium placed on a divorced man without kids and no one here knows any better yet, and because some women of a certain age seem to think it’s their God-given right to act as brokers in affairs of the heart, the matchmakers are out in full force today.

Lois Braun wants to set me up with her daughter Lucy, who—and Lois is emphatic on this point—could have married any number of the many boyfriends she had, if only she weren’t so driven in her career. Lucy is now a vice president at PepsiCo, makes more money than she knows what to do with, and is finally ready to consider appropriate suitors. And for all I know, Lucy Braun might be my soul mate, or at least a bright, attractive woman with the body of a centerfold. But Lois’s hair is dyed a different shade of blond than her eyebrows, and her skin hangs off her jaw in loose jowls with the texture of an orange peel, and when she speaks of Lucy in her hoarse smoker’s voice, she sucks all traces of potential sexuality right out of her. Right out of the world, actually.