Rafael Yglesias - The Work Is Innocent

“No. As a matter of fact, we never got along in Cabot. Raul was a winner even in failure, and I think he just had contempt for me.”

A sandy-haired young man who had been introduced as a playwright sat down next to Richard. He had thin shoulder- length hair and with his metal-rimmed glasses looked like a poster of youth culture. “Did you feel the same way about him?”

Richard was surprised. “Contempt? No, I liked him. We just didn’t get along.”

“So, you haven’t seen him in a while?” Joan asked.

“About eight or nine months.”

“Is he different?”

Sandy-hair passed Richard a joint, and after taking a drag Richard felt encircled by silence, protected from the harsh music. “Do you love him?” he asked as if he were offering potato chips.

Neither of them was surprised by the question. “I don’t know,” Joan said. “We were a couple for a while.”

“I hope you don’t mind the question.”

“You worry too much,” she said quickly. She got up to leave.

Richard barely heard her say those words. He knew what she had said but the sounds bounced off the glass bubble that was forming around him. He looked at Raul: he was waving his arms about and obviously talking loudly. His hysteria was ugly and irritating to Richard. Not caring if they heard, he said, “You’re a lot like him. Very quick to judge. You’re both so fuckin’ clever.” He got up and roughly pushed Joan aside, stepping over the people seated on the floor. The music was sex and corruption. He only wanted to be away from it. He went down a hallway, quiet and carpeted, disturbed a couple, and, confused by that, he walked quickly into a bedroom and shut the door.

Its silence was an institutions’, but at least he was alone.

The grass had thrown him into a panic—he knew it, and the knowledge was redoubling his fear. He could feel himself going into the bad LSD trip of a few months ago. He was enclosed in the same antiseptic bubble. Of course, he knew it all came from his self-consciousness and alienation, but that hadn’t stopped the onrush of panic that the trip would never end, that his true self was out.

“I’m a paranoid homosexual,” he said, hoping to make a joke of it. But the walls, the carpet, the night were not amused. “It’s very serious, isn’t it?” He held his hands out and they looked long, powerful, and very real. “I don’t care,” he said to live up to the humanity of his hands. And at that moment it seemed as if he could beat it.

Joan came in meekly, frightening Richard. Had she heard? “I came to say I’m sorry,” she said. “I really am. I’m sensitive about Raul. He hurt me.”

Richard didn’t know what to make of her about-face in attitude. He was relieved to have company and he said that the grass had made him jumpy. He regretted having snapped at her.

She sat down on the floor. “How adult we’re being.”

Richard smiled, feeling this was a compliment to his gravity of demeanor—something he prided himself on. “Raul,” he said, “is an incredibly competitive person. You probably don’t see it that way, but it comes out in his dealings with men. Particularly at Cabot.”

“I don’t think he’s that crass.”

“Crass?”

“You know, I gotta win. Low-level American mentality.”

“Oh, he’s clever and neurotic. At Cabot, once he started winning he lost interest in the game.”

Joan nodded but said nothing.

Richard leaned back and smiled. “I’m putting him down and that’s bothering you.”

“Not exactly. There are good reasons why I should be putting him down. But I wouldn’t like myself if I did. So I’d rather just not talk about him since he’s an unpleasant subject.”

“I’m sorry,” Richard said. “Talking about him seems to be a good way of getting to know you.”

“It’s the worst way. He was a weird episode. Why don’t you tell me about yourself?”

“I think I’ll need a cigarette for that,” he said, worried. He reached into his jacket pocket.

Joan said, “You’re sweating. Why don’t you take your jacket off?”

This second intimacy from her was disturbing. It was too naked a movement to remove the jacket and be left with only his blue Brooks Brothers shirt. He did it quickly without grace. “There’s, uh, not much to say about my life. I left Cabot at the end of the ninth grade, spent the summer in Vermont, and went to school there until just about a month ago, and came here to New York.”

“You didn’t have a life before that?”

“Oh that,” Richard said without irony. “I played a lot of slug. That’s a kind of handball—”

“I know.”

“Let’s see. What else? I burned my room down when I was eight. That’s pretty spectacular, isn’t it?”

“It’s heavy. Why did you burn it down?”

“Why?” The question floored him. He thought no detail of his life had been left unexplored but this seemed to be. The event was so dramatic that it needed no reason to exist. “You know, I was a child playing with matches. I had been burning paper behind radiators for a while. My parents caught me at it and warned me that I shouldn’t do it again. We were also studying it at school.”

Joan laughed. “It was a learning experience?”

Richard smiled with her. “It sure was. I had no idea of its potency.” He laughed and pretended embarrassment. “Pardon me.”

“Maybe that’s what it was about,” she suggested.

Now he was embarrassed. “I don’t think so. Anyway I got some kitchen matches, went into my room, lit one, and not quite sure but at least telling myself that it was out, I dropped it into a wicker wastepaper basket. And left the room, shutting the door behind me. When I came back the room was completely in flames. I mean it was incredible. I don’t see how it could have spread so quickly. I don’t know why people always talk about the natural elements as being awesomely real. They’re awesomely unreal. That’s why we make up gods to explain them. Or chemical symbols. They’re never explained in human terms.” She looked at him, puzzled, and he felt a great urge to make her understand. “You relate to what I’m saying?”

“Well. I don’t know. The natural elements exist outside of, uh, us. They shouldn’t be explained in our terms.”

“Listen. Since we’re human, it’s childish of us to explain things unless we explain them in terms of our perceptions. A flood is a great deal of water that drowns us, sweeps our homes away, tears up the land we’ve grown used to. Snow is white and it’s very cold. It’s soft for a while and then it hardens and becomes very dirty, like we do when we grow older.”

“Life’s better than that.”

“I was exaggerating for effect.”

“The way you talk about it, nothing changes. The way somebody first felt about rain is the only reasonable way for anyone to ever think about rain. That’s too much to expect of people to never invent anything else. It’s too boring.”

Richard saw that it was futile explaining to her, that it was silly even to have made an attempt. “I guess so,” he said with what he hoped was an ironic smile. How distinguished of him, he thought, to bow out so maturely rather than to argue stubbornly. He was learning about life.

“Raul said you’ve dropped out of high school.”

“Yeah.”

“And your parents don’t mind?”

“Oh no.”

“Are they going to support you?”

“For a while. I’m hoping to make some money.”

“You’re gonna get a job?”

The novel. Should he discuss the novel? “Yeah, I guess so.” From his response, Joan obviously thought he was going nowhere, but he preferred that to being ridiculed for writing.

She got up. “Let’s go back to the party.”