Rafael Yglesias - The Work Is Innocent

Richard took one look at him and was amazed. “You mean we’re travelin’?”

He clicked his tongue. “Do our little numerino.” They walked rapidly through the airport, Richard laughing most of the way as John would slip him looks brimming with mischief.

They jumped into the truck. John turned the radio and the car on almost simultaneously. They swerved out of their parking space, and Richard couldn’t contain his pleased surprise. “We’re movin’! We’re doin’ it. And I thought you’d be bummed out.”

John glanced at him, puzzled. “Why?”

Richard was embarrassed to say that he thought it would be unseemly to have a good time while one’s wife was away, and at that moment it became obvious how stupid—“Do you know what I was thinking? That for some reason you weren’t going to have a good time because it would be unfriendly to Naomi.”

John laughed. “She’s goin’ to Europe man. She’s not gonna be mopin’.” He pointed to the glove compartment. “There are a couple of joints in there.”

“Big time.” Richard got them out and lit one. He dragged deeply and passed it to John. “Naomi and I really haven’t been getting along.”

John laughed silently to hold the smoke in. He passed the joint back to Richard and exhaled. “No shit. How come?”

“It’s hard to explain.” He passed the joint and began to feel its effects. The car’s warmth became very important to him and he started a long investigation of its operation, pushing red and green knobs and thrusting his hands in front of the vents. He found it hard to remember which knob he had just pushed that caused an icy wind to blow on his leg. “Well,” Richard said. “I’ve had a lot of talks with her about literary people. About Dad. You know he drove her crazy with his self-important manner. ‘So and so has no ideas. He’s just a reactionary shit.’ You know how he talks.”

They stopped at a light and John solved Richard’s problem by pushing the green knobs down and the red ones up. “You wanted heat, right?” John asked.

“Farout. That’s beautiful, man.” Richard laughed very loudly, but looking at John reminded him of his point. “What was I saying? Oh yeah. I think Naomi decided that thinking of yourself as an artist was pretentious.”

“No,” John said very quietly. “I don’t think so.”

“I mean that’s what she thinks.”

“I know that. Boy, are you stoned. She doesn’t think that.”

“Oh, she does! She does!”

John let out a laugh. “Uh. Okay. Anything you say. Just don’t fall out of the car.”

“I know she doesn’t think it consciously. But Dad’s soured her on being creative. He’s made her feel that writing is pretentious, because she thinks he’s pretentious and she can’t separate the two things.”

“But she doesn’t feel that way about you. She thinks it’s great that you’re writing.” John shifted gears and looked at him inquisitively. He was obviously worried that Richard wouldn’t believe in his sister’s good will. And he didn’t. Sure she loved him, but Richard knew that they were going different ways and he needed to prove that to John.

“I mean she’s got problems with Aaron,” John went on after a silence. “But, you know, I think she blanks out on certain”—he searched for the word—“phrases that remind her of him. But when you say those things she doesn’t think you really mean them.”

“But I do mean them!” Richard made a helpless sound. “I really do. I think it’s more important to be a writer than to be a housekeeper.”

“Listen, I agree with you.” John looked at him and smiled. Richard saw how amused John was and he laughed. John said, “She’s wacko about that.”

“She thinks she’s Tolstoy.” They were both quiet thinking about it, and John handed back what was left of the joint. Richard bent down to smoke it, because they were in heavy traffic. The butt was so small he burned his finger but he felt the pain only dimly through the overwhelming warmth and relaxation of his body.

“Wanna do another joint?” John asked.

Richard heard himself groan in agreement. He laughed as he slowly opened the glove compartment and got out the other joint. “I’m stoned, man. Wiped out.”

“You’re gonna start raving any second.”

“No,” he protested, realizing how hard it was to co-ordinate as he was unable to strike a match and keep it lit long enough. John noticed this and smiled at him. Richard laughed and handed him the joint. John very competently managed both the car and lighting the grass. Richard said, “Aren’t you stoned? I don’t understand how you can drive.”

“I got my number goin’, don’t you worry.”

Richard felt his face in chaos, eyes half closed, his mouth open, his cheeks sunken and lifeless. John, except for a little brightness in his eyes, seemed normal. Richard envied him. “John’s totally together. It’s heavy.”

“Gotta keep the social graces goin’.” John glanced at him, his bearded face large and cheerful. “You want more of this?” His hand held out a misshapen cigarette with a long, uneven ember trailing smoke.

“I’m goin’ to sleep,” Richard said, suddenly disgusted. He put his head against the seat and, smelling a mixture of the grass and the vinyl, he fell asleep to a face that was either his father or John discussing the merits of his prose.

He woke with a start when they arrived in front of the barn and he got out without responding to John’s exclamation of surprise. He hurried into the house to go on sleeping but was stopped by someone saying hello. He looked up and saw Jonas, a friend of John’s, who had moved to Vermont from New York to live quietly as a carpenter. His natural look of discomfort was accentuated by the suspicion with which he observed Richard. John said hello and earnestly began a conversation with him while Richard stood ten feet away, unhappy physically, and revolted by Jonas’ presence. Jonas always inspired Richard’s anti-Semitism, his brown, stringy hair tucked behind his ears, his pale, fleshy face slumped in perpetual complaint. When most depressed, Richard would harp on how alike they were. After a visit from Jonas, Richard would become obsessed with washing his hair and walking with greater dignity and quickness.

He was so groggy that these feelings became acute and he wanted to assault Jonas. But watching John smile and make some reference to being stoned, he woke up and wearily approached them.

“Man, you’re wrecked,” Jonas said to him.

“Really?” Richard asked, and looked at John. “Are my eyes bloodshot?” He hoped to communicate to John by his glance that he had contempt for Jonas.

John said, “No. But you really popped out. Were you tired?”

Richard stretched and yawned. He was pleased by his relaxation. Somehow it made him feel superior. “No, but let’s go inside. I want some coffee.”

They did and Richard felt mature. Normally, he would have stood there miserably until the others made a decision. While he put out the cups, John built a fire. Jonas straddled a chair, tilting it back and forth while talking: “Hey, John, you know Ricky’s mother is visiting. Crazy lady. Dig what happened, though. I go over there to help him with the chicken coop and he’s taking a bath with Janey and Mrs. Harrison standing there. So he gets out of the bath and Mrs. Harrison drys him with a towel.”

“What!” Richard said. “You mean his mother?”

Jonas nodded slowly. “Yep, by Gawd.”

John laughed and repeated the imitation. “Buy tha sweet luv of Jeezus Chryst.”

“Now wait a second,” Richard said. “You mean that his mother dried him with her hands all over?” Jonas nodded. “And this is the same Ricky whom I’ve met? He’s in his twenties.”