Сэмуэль Шэм - Mount Misery

"What's going on?"

"Arnie. That prick. I was supposed to go to his home in Indiana with him for Christmas today, to meet his family. Last week I went skiing with my girlfriend in Colorado. The day before I came back, Arnie sent me a dozen red roses at my hotel. No one had sent me flowers since high school. They were lovely. When I came back I was psyched. I mean he had said…" she was overcome with weeping, and shouted out, "he loved me." Again her black mascara ran down her cheeks, diffusing in her rouge, in a lethargic gray. "So my first night back-last night-we get together for dinner, and I'm in such a loving mood. I've been thinking Arnie is it, Mr. Right, right? So at dinner he starts talking about himself and his analysis with Dr. Schlomo Dove."

"I thought he wasn't supposed to talk about what Schlomo and he did."

"He never did before, but for some reason last night he starts to tell me everything. On and on about his childhood on the chicken farm. It was sort of interesting, but only sort of. I mean how interesting can a childhood with chickens be? And we were eating chicken too, wouldn't you know it? It's like he's talking to a mirror. I start feeling I don't exist."

"Yes?"

"So I go-in the kindest, most loving voice-'Arnie, that's fantastic, but I haven't seen you in a week and, maybe, before

we get into all that we can make a little contact with each other?' " She looked at me imploringly. "Nothing wrong with saying that, is there?"

"Nope."

"Well, he goes apeshit. He goes, 'I thought you were truly interested in me and here I'm telling you the most important thing going on with me and you don't want to listen? You just want to talk about yourself?' So I go, 'No, I don't want to talk about me, I just want to talk a little about us, okay?' He goes more apeshit-like he's going to smack me. I hold up my salad plate, for protection. And he goes, 'Us? There is no more us. I'm out of here.' And he gets up and starts to leave. So I go, 'Please, Arnie baby, please stay and talk. I need to talk to you.' And so he stares at me and with like incredible contempt he goes, 'That's a borderline dissociative response,' and walks out. Now he won't return my calls." She lost it again, sobbing hard.

Bozer was at the moment rotating on Emerson. His "borderline dissociative" comment came from his Heilerization. I didn't mention this to Christine.

"Is there something wrong with me?"

"No."

"I mean he seems fine. I must be the one who's screwed up."

"Arnie's got problems," I said, "big-time."

Startled by my frankness, she stared at me. "Y'know, they ought to have some kind of licensing board for men, some way they could look men over and check out all their wiring and connections and all, so they come out certified."

"Certified?"

'To be in a relationship with a woman."

I burst out laughing, as did she. She gave me the wrapped Christmas present. It was a blue sleeveless sweater.

"I knitted it myself," she said. "I've spent so much time looking at you, I've measured you hi my mind. I'm sure it'll fit. Go ahead, try it."

I slipped it over my head. It fit perfectly.

"Thanks," I said. "It's really nice. Regular time next week?"

She nodded, got up and went to the door. With her hand on the doorknob she said, "You're a real sweetie. Better than two Bayer aspirin."

"Merry Christmas."

She started to cry. Waving bravely, she left.

Jill was waiting for me at my car, with a bottle of cheap champagne.

"I'm glad I met Berry," she said, "and that she knows everything about us."

"Everything?" Jill was drinking from the bottle. She nodded. "But how? You didn't tell her. I heard every word between you."

"You heard but you didn't. We did it girlwise-too high a frequency for guys to hear. I really liked her. It's worrisome."

"How's it worrisome?"

"If a guy like you couldn't even make it with a girl like her, it makes me wonder what the hell I'm gettin' myself into. It's not that I don't like sensitive guys, but give me a choice between a sensitive guy and a guy who's great in bed and I'll take in bed, every time. Like now." She kissed me. She tasted like vodka and cherry.

"I'm not sensitive?"

"I didn't say that, you did. Let's make crazy love all night long."

"I've got to see her tonight, at eight."

She was quiet for a while, as we drove along. Then she said, "I'm feeling pretty good right now. For the first time in a long time my self-esteem isn't being affected by real-life disasters."

"It's that low, is it?" I said, trying to lighten things up.

She didn't laugh. "What's with you guys and jokes? I mean really. What?"

"Grief."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. Everyone's got their own grief, sucking away at their heart."

"FLAKY, BUT NICE," Berry was saying guardedly a few hours later in my turret. "She seemed flaky, but nice."

"Yeah," I said, just as guardedly.

She paused. "Roy, I think you're depressed."

"I'm okay."

"You're not-I mean, don't take this the wrong way, but… but you're not thinking of suicide, are you?"

"Are you crazy?"

"No, I am not cr-"

"Don't you know me at all?" I said, irritated, coming down off the alcohol high.

"That's what I'm asking. I don't feel I do know you very well right now."

"No, I am not thinking of suicide. It's just tough right now, seeing so much grief coming into Admissions every day, and doing nothing much to help."

"Roy, please-you need some help. I think you should get into some therapy."

"Therapy? After seeing what it's done to Solini? To Hannah? Hannah's in fourteeen different kinds of therapy and she's worse than ever. When she talks to you, she stares up at the light fixtures. Because of therapy she left a great career as a cellist-to become a therapist! Not to mention my models as therapists: Heiler? Schlomo? Lloyal? Ike White! Gimme a break."

"There are other therapists, out in the community, not caught up in all the academic stuff, more commonsense people. I've found one."

"Hey-I'm not that complicated a person. I just want to stop thinking so much. All I want is to do my job till five, go home, not think."

"I thought you went into this to think, to understand?"

"Right now I'm stressed out. I just want to have a little fun."

"And I'm not fun?"

"I love you, but this, this is not fun, no."

"So you want it nice," she said, "but I want it real?"

"All I want," I said, feeling more and more trapped, "is to be free."

"And if the only real freedom is in relationship?"

"Real freedom is like climbing Mount Everest. You do it alone."

She took this in, then said, "Nobody climbs Mount Everest alone."

"Here we go again."

"Fine," she said, rising, her voice shaking. "Good night and good luck."

"No!" I said, feeling as if some bottom were falling out. "I'm sorry, I'm really sorry. It's just that, with you now, everything seems so damn hard. Like gravel or something."

"And I'll bet that with her everything seems easy."

I hesitated. "Yeah. Like for you, with whoever you're with-Chandra…" I paused. She said nothing. "Or some red-hot nursery school teacher or something." She smiled. "What's funny?"

"If anyone, it would be my car mechanic."

"You're making it with your car mechanic?"

"I wish. If I were, my car heater would be working, wouldn't it?"

We both smiled. All winter her Volvo had been ice cold. The texture of the stuff between us went to velvet.

"I just want you to know, Roy, that whatever I'm doing now, I'm not jeopardizing this relationship with you."

She waited for me tarespond. Things turned, velvet back to gravel.

"I don't know," I said finally. "I just don't know."

She stared at me, and I saw the realization hit her, the horror in her eyes of our losing each other. I felt it too. She started to cry. I moved to hold her, wanting to comfort her. She cried harder. I felt her ribs expand and contract around her sobs, all edged, jagged.