Sam Lipsyte - The Fun Parts

“I can’t fucking listen to this anymore. Have you seen Leo today?”

“Leo?” I said.

“John’s cousin,” said Cassandra.

“Yeah, I saw him. Not today. Wait, I don’t understand.”

“What are you kids doing to yourselves?” said Timothy, his gray eyes greased with tears.

“Daddy,” said Cassandra.

“That’s great,” I said. “Father and daughter working at the same publishing house.”

“I’m a lawyer,” said Timothy.

“Sorry?” I said.

“We’re planning an intervention,” said Cassandra. “For Leo. We’re gathering information for it.”

“How much is he doing?” Timothy said.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t really know the guy.”

“He talked like you were close,” said Cassandra.

“I’m not sure what to tell you,” I said. “I’ll help any way I can.”

“Help yourself!” said Timothy. “Save yourself, young man. Dear God, go to your family. You are about to die. Don’t you see this?”

“Sometimes,” I said.

The man shook and crossed his arms.

“Daddy,” said Cassandra. “Daddy, we can go now.”

“What about the book?” I said.

“The book.”

“The advance?”

“The advance,” said Cassandra. “Here’s your advance.”

She pulled bills from her bag, tossed them onto the table.

“Pay for the drinks. Whatever is left is your advance. But don’t ever contact me again. And stay away from Leo. Seriously. You are never to be in his presence again. My husband works for the district attorney. Don’t cross me, or people will put you in the river. Let’s go, Daddy.”

My editor led her sobbing father away.

“One more thing,” she called over her shoulder. “Boxing is barbaric, and you are a sick little parasite. What do you know about sweat and blood? Bet you’ve never even been punched in your life. I’m serious about Leo. Stay away!”

* * *

I scored down at Fanny Packs and headed back to the apartment. Gary and John and John’s cousin had gathered on the futons.

“I saw your sister,” I said to John’s cousin.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“You gave me her number.”

“Right. For your book.”

“I was robbed!” said Gary, giggling.

“He did lose one bout,” I said to Gary. “Early in his career. Lost it fair and square. To Willie ‘the Worm’ Monroe. The Worm took him in Philly.”

“The Worm!” cried Gary.

“The defeat was soon avenged,” I said. “And here’s one more thing, and then I’ll shut up. They did an MRI on Hagler’s skull. It was abnormally thick. It was basically a helmet.”

“Cool,” said John.

“My sister likes your idea?” said John’s cousin.

“I don’t think so. She’s got some other things on her mind.”

“Like what?”

“Like you.”

“Me?”

“She’s going to intervene. Your dad, too. They’re planning the big ambush. They’ve got the maps out. They’re watching you through scopes. Somebody will give the signal.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You’re Leo, right?”

“Of course I’m Leo.”

“The van will pull up. Men will pour out. Or maybe your sister will just take you out for a nice meal. All the people you’ve ever felt judged by will be there.”

“What?”

“You’re going to rehab, Reverend.”

“I was rehabbed!” said Gary.

“Shit,” said John’s cousin. “Not again.”

“What about me?” said John.

“They didn’t mention you,” I said. “I think you’re on your own.”

* * *

Supplies ran low, and I went back to Fanny Packs. The big guy was gone. There was police tape across the doorway, a dark, wet splash on the wall. I hit other spots, blocks and blocks away, but they were closed. The Laundrymat: closed. Pillbox: closed. Rumpelstiltskin: closed. Scooter Rat was nowhere. Ditto the Old Lady of the Sealed Works. That left Cups.

Cups was near the river in a crumbly walk-up. The light was on in the hallway and I could see people huddled near the banister. I started up the stoop when a hand shot out and grabbed me.

“Hey.”

He was a big kid, lumpy in the folds of his sweatshirt. He rubbed his stubble-covered head.

“I’m stuck here, bro,” he said. “I’m on lookout. I need a bag, you know? Just buy me a bag while you’re in there.”

He pressed a ten-dollar bill into my hand.

“I don’t know,” I said.

“Yeah, you know. Just get me a bag.”

“Boy?”

“What? Get me a bag of dope.”

“Okay,” I said, shrugged, went inside.

I waited behind a man who stank of subway station elevators and a soulful-looking woman in fishnet sleeves. The thing about Cups was you never saw the guys with the cups. They stayed upstairs, invisible puppeteers. The Styrofoam containers bobbed down on strings. The lookouts on the stoop and the rooftops called their codes, for the cops, for the all clear.

“ Gato! ” they’d shout, and I pictured jaguars with badges in their fur.

Maybe I pictured that now as the cups came down. I put the lookout’s money in with mine in the cup marked D, watched it go up. The cup started down once more, but there was something wrong. The lookouts shouted, the cup swung hard, bounced off the stair rails, tilted, tipped. The lights went out.

I groped the scummed tiles for my bags. Broken bottles pricked my palms. I heard a burst of siren, then more shouting, then nothing at all. My hand brushed something, one of the tiny glassine envelopes. I scooped it into my fist. The lights came on. The lookout stood in the doorway.

“Got my bags?” he said.

“Bag,” I said. “One bag. You only gave me ten dollars.”

“I gave you twenty, motherfucker. You trying to rip me off?”

“No, man.”

“You little fucking junkie, trying to rip me off. Just give me what you’ve got.”

I walked toward him, opened my palm. We both sort of gasped when we saw the flattened cigarette butt.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m really sorry. I’m sure it’s over there near the stairs. Come on, let’s look.”

I wanted the lookout to follow me the way a father would, reserve judgment until it was clear a misdeed had occurred, maybe the way my father used to follow me when I was a boy, for he was a reporter and his job was to seek the facts, even if it was just the fact of who won a ball game or who’d ripped the sofa or stained the rug. My father always wanted to know what was truly happening.

Except maybe once.

There had been a big snowfall, and we stood in the driveway we’d just cleared, leaned on our shovels, sucked icy air.

“I remember,” my father said then. “I remember when you were a little boy. You had some words here and there, but you hadn’t really spoken a sentence yet. We were all waiting for your big first sentence. We were eating dinner and I was having my wine. I get up for some bread and knock over the glass. Wine spills everywhere. Stains the tablecloth. You know how your mother was about stains. We’re all sitting there afraid to speak, and you know what you said?”

“No.”

“‘I’m sorry.’ That’s what you said. ‘I’m sorry.’ Hah. You were always like that.”

“Like what?” I said.

“Listen,” said my father. “I need to tell you something. I don’t love your mother anymore. I’m seeing somebody else. Somebody I love. I care about you, but I can’t live with your mother right now.”

“She’s really sick.”

“I know. Believe me. That’s what makes it so hard.”

“You fucking bastard,” I said.

“Okay,” said my father. “I’m not going to let you speak to me like that too much. But right now is warranted. Give me what you got.”