Rafael Yglesias - The Work Is Innocent

John laughed. “The countryside does strange things, Richard.”

Richard served the coffee while Jonas went on describing life at the Harrisons’, a weird series of arguments and activities that fascinated Richard. He began to like Jonas because of the stories he told in his Brooklyn accent. Jonas talked compulsively, going on from the Harrisons to warning them that wolves had rabies and that the state cops were out to crucify longhairs. Later John took him upstairs to see his work and then Jonas left. While they were making dinner Richard tried to find out how John felt about Jonas. But apparently he had none of Richard’s concerns, he just thought Jonas was a funny, disorganized man. So Richard talked through dinner and cleaning up about how Jewish Jonas was and how that didn’t fit with living in Vermont and living with WASPs. He developed the notion and ended up convinced Jonas was having an identity crisis and would either leave or have a breakdown.

John did nothing to keep the conversation going, and Richard was so hurt by this that, while rambling on, he had a hysterical private monologue to assure himself that it was merely John’s inability to keep pace with a novelist’s insights.

John had taken out the drawings for his house and was bent over them when Richard finally shut up. Richard watched him silently, afraid that he had offended him. Then John sat up and dragged on his cigarette, looking at him quizzically, “How ya doin’?” he asked with a smile.

“Uh, I’m depressed.”

“Really?” John said, glancing at his drawings. Richard made a helpless gesture with his hands and nodded. “What about?” he asked and picked up a pencil, hunching over the drawings.

Richard didn’t know what to say. He was embarrassed by his feelings. He thought of something that would be plausible—sex. “Well, when I was in New York I called up an old friend.” John looked up with interest. “And he took me to a party.” Richard stopped as he realized what he was getting into.

John got up and went toward the pantry. “What kind of a party?”

“Well, this guy is going to Performing Arts and it was just a party for those people.”

John re-entered with a bottle of wine. He put it on the table and went over to the cabinets for a glass. “You want some?” he asked.

“Sure. So I met a girl there.” This really interested John, and Richard regretted having mentioned it.

John had stopped in his movement toward the table. He put the glasses down and looked at him with a smile. “So did you get a little of winter’s warmth?” They both laughed while John took out his pocketknife to open the bottle.

Richard was completely nonplused. He couldn’t bring off a lie and the truth—what was the truth? “Well, not really,” he said as it occurred to him that it was worse to say she wouldn’t let him.

John had uncorked the bottle. He filled their glasses and said, “What do you mean, not really?” Richard laughed nervously and picked up his glass, taking a long drink. “She didn’t want you to?” He had sensed Richard’s reluctance. John’s expression of shared pleasure had changed to tactful concern.

“No!” Richard said, willing to admit anything else. “She was into it.” He giggled. He saw the look of pleasure and curiosity in John’s face and tried to think of a good lie.

John ran his hands through his hair and tipped his chair backward. “What’s to be depressed about?”

Richard was flustered. He saw how funny it was and decided there was no escape from being foolish. He said, “I wasn’t able to do it,” in quick choppy words.

John seemed to fight embarrassment, but Richard couldn’t be sure. John scratched his beard and cleared his throat. Richard couldn’t stand that and he laughed in a high screeching tone. John’s eyes suddenly focused and said, “What—what do you mean?”

He had to convince John he wasn’t a schmuck. “It’s hard to explain. I, uh, we had some grass and we necked for a while.” Richard was almost unable to say the words. “And then she suggested we go into her room.” John smiled. “So I—well, we got into bed and I had”—he laughed—“an erection. A big one.”

John’s smile was becoming uncontrollable. He said, “That’s cool anyway. What’s the problem?” They laughed and John put on a serious look afterward.

Richard imitated it. “Well, I jumped on top of her with no introduction and I couldn’t get in.” He said that quickly, his voice loud to bluff confidence.

John cleared his throat and dragged on his cigarette. Richard knew he’d blown it. John slowly picked up his wine and took a sip. “That’s nothing. I mean, that’s not—it’s your first time. Stuff like that is normal.” He laughed but Richard didn’t. “I mean impotence isn’t—”

“Impotence!” Richard was stunned. Impotence was for Tennessee Williams characters. “I don’t think, uh.”

“It wasn’t that?”

“You mean did I lose my erection? No, I don’t—I don’t know.” His voice cracked and he laughed helplessly.

John shook his head no and said mildly, “I didn’t mean a classic case of impotence. I went through that. The first time I was scared shitless.”

Richard looked at him hopefully. “Really?”

“Sure.” He looked down at the drawings and brushed the back of his hand over them. “She didn’t help you out?”

“No.” Richard groaned. “It would’ve helped.”

“She just lay there? Yeah, that makes it worse.” John opened his knife and sharpened his pencil. “So that’s what’s been on your mind.”

“I know. It’s so humiliating that I’m in this position. I mean, I should have been fucking for years.”

John laughed and looked at him with the old closeness and pleasure. That cheered Richard up. John closed his knife with a snap and said, “We should all have been fucking for years.”

Richard exaggerated his laughter, hoping to be happier. “I just feel that the rest of me has outgrown being a virgin and I’m stuck, unable to become blissfully ignorant and fuck without caring.” He reached for the bottle and filled his glass.

“You should get drunk and find somebody. If you’re really wacko it’s a mess but at least you get it done.”

They were quiet. John returned to his work and Richard looked at the wine in his glass. He was half drunk already and a moment ago he wanted to be blind, but now that seemed sick and he put his glass down in disgust.

The next two weeks were as dull as Richard had feared. Even though they would be up drinking until five in the morning, Richard would always find John working upstairs. He would get up with a splitting headache at about one o’clock but John was up and around by nine-thirty. The afternoons were depressing—workmen banged all about the house putting in central heating. Richard had passed out one night, forgetting to draw the blinds, and he was appalled the following morning, when he opened his eyes into the stare of a workman outside his window. For weeks Richard would imagine what the workman had seen: the covers draped over the bedside, books and empty beer cans strewn on the floor, Richard in a thermal T shirt, black on the edges with filth, his pants still on, his head thrown back with his mouth wide open. He got up and pulled the shades down violently. After a cup of coffee, he went upstairs and told John about it. John laughed and asked Richard when he’d last taken a bath, but Richard tossed the question back at John and they laughed, agreeing it was a draw.

Nevertheless, Richard cleaned his room up, changing the sheets and airing it out. Then he took a bath. John teased him about it and his inability to hold liquor. Richard felt the jokes keenly and resented John but he never showed it since that would make him more of a fool.