Sam Lipsyte - The Fun Parts

“Guns?” called a tall fellow with a can of dip. He was a theater jock from Texas, which meant he affected flasks and went bare chested under his pleather vest.

“Put those away,” said Brianna. “Davis, this is not funny.”

“It’s just a game. They’re not loaded.”

“What game?” said Brianna.

“Come, Princess,” he said to me. “I mean, Countess. Choose one.”

“You’re drunk,” said Brianna.

“Somewhat. Also stoned. Why do we even say stoned? So brutal. So Levitical. Pick a pistol, dreamboy. We’re going to play out that scene for our friends here. From the Pushkin.”

“And then will you can it?” I said.

“Like Steinbeck.”

“Goddamn ridiculous.” I hardly looked at the pistols, drew one from the box, took a position near the stereo. The girl who stood there smirked.

“They’re not loaded,” I said.

“Bummer.”

I shrugged, raised the pistol at Davis.

“Did I grant you first shot?” said Davis.

“I’m following the story. I’m the young, handsome soldier everyone has left your orbit to be near. You are the older, bitter officer who can’t compete with my charisma.”

“Funny,” said Davis. “Not exactly as I saw it, but I admire your hustle. You framed the scene first. We’ll go with your version.”

“It all fits, Davis. You called for the duel. You’re the crack shot. I’ve never even fired a gun.”

“True. Well, on with it, then. You may have the first metaphorical shot, you upper-crust social usurper. Just flick that safety off.”

“What about the tangelos?”

“My poor father has a little tree. Now take your shot.”

Our audience, stymied in their lust, groaned at our stagecraft.

I grinned and pulled the trigger. Davis fell back with the bang. There was a neat hole in the drywall.

“Shitsnickers!” called the kid with the dip.

Brianna swayed in shock. The goblin squealed under the table, and the girl by the stereo clutched her ears.

Powder smoke hung in a clot. The room hummed with vanished noise. We stood there, grave and giddy.

I shook, and laid the pistol on the coffee table. My stomach cramped, and I wanted a cigarette. I wanted to see the body. I started to move, but Davis popped up, waved his Beretta.

Brianna swooped in and wrapped him in her arms.

“Baby,” he cried. “Was that dramatic? Was it worthy?”

“Are you hurt?”

“Not a scratch! How did it look?”

“It was radically trangressive,” she said. “Of something.”

Davis nuzzled his lady, shoved her away.

“Now we must complete this man deed.”

“No,” said Brianna. “No, sweetie. The piece landed perfectly. Don’t fiddle.”

“It’s okay,” I said, lighting a Korean cigarette I’d mooched from a pack on the table.

“It is?” said the girl by the stereo.

“Davis’ll put one in your frontal cortex,” said the Texan.

“No, he won’t,” I said.

“You going to duck it like Davis?” said the goblin.

“Just watch.”

Davis hocked a loogie and leveled his gun. The room got quiet. Davis winked, lowered the Beretta.

“No, no,” he said with the quiet and cadence of a maestro. “I think I’ll take my shot another day. I think I’ll wait. Until our friend here is a little older. When he’s lost his bunnylike nihilist strut. When he’s discovered love. When he’s struck a truce with feeling. When his every thought and action isn’t guided by childish terror. When he’s graduated from douchebaggery. When he truly understands all that he’s about to lose. Let’s forget these shenanigans for now. Just a little show. But you, buddy of my heart, you’d best watch the ridges and the roads. It could be years from now, but watch for the ragged rider’s approach. He comes only for his shot.”

“And … scene,” I said. We’d taken some drama classes together. The others clapped hard for our skit, or the oratory, really. Davis, wasted in the right ratios, was a natural. We both took a bow.

* * *

I had one of those phones that did everything, but I could never master the simplest apps. Every time I tried to add to my schedule, these words would flash on the calendar display: “This appointment occurs in the past.” I grew to rely on the feature. It granted me texture, a sense of rich history.

I was remarking on this to Davis in the midtown diner where we’d agreed to meet. I suppose you could call it a retro diner, but what diner isn’t? They’re all designed to make you think fried food won’t kill you because it’s the 1950s and nobody knows any better, and besides, there’s a chance you haven’t been born yet.

We dug into our bacon and cheddar chili burgers. I watched Davis chew.

He didn’t look sick at all. He was still ugly but a good deal less so. Some men get handsome later. It’s up to them to make it count. He’d replaced his granny glasses with modish steel frames. He looked scientific, artistic, somebody trained to talk to astronauts about their dreams. He eyed me over his drippy meat.

“That’s funny,” he said. “I could look at your phone, maybe fix it.”

“No,” I said. “I like it that way.”

We were silent for a moment.

“So,” I said. “The ragged rider.”

“Indeed.”

“You look fantastic. I thought you’d be much more winnowed.”

“It’s not that kind of disease.”

“What kind is it?”

“We’re still working on that. The doctors.”

“I’m sorry. Whatever it is.”

“It’s in the blood. They know that. I’m sorry, too. But at least it’s given me an excuse to gather my old friends.”

“We haven’t talked since—”

“Since graduation,” said Davis.

“No,” I said. “That other time.”

We’d run into each other in a cocktail lounge in San Francisco several years after college. Davis wore a suit of disco white and toasted the would-be silicon barons at his table. I, assistant manager of this spacey blue sleazepit for the young and almost rich, sloshed Dom in their flutes. Davis slipped me some cash and a wink, but he flailed in a world beyond his code capacity. His group appeared composed of algorithmic gangsters, expert wielders of their petty and twisty Jewish, Welsh, Cambodian, Nubian, and Mayan brains. They hadn’t spent their undergraduate years soused, brandishing pistols and theory. They’d been those morose, slightly chippy bots I’d noticed at the refectory whenever I rolled in for some transitional pancakes after a night of self-bludgeoning. They were churls with huge binders, and I’d always known they were my betters.

“Be honest,” said Davis at the bar. “Are you gunning for maître d’ or is this research for a screenplay?”

“I’m trying to pay my rent, sycophant.”

“We were like brothers.”

“Cain and the other one.”

“That’s true. So what’s your life plan?”

“Drinking,” I said. “One day at a time.”

“These people here think I’m Swiss,” said Davis. “They think I have Ph.D.s in cognitive science and computer engineering. There’s a serious tip involved if you help maintain my cover.”

“What’s the angle?”

“I need them to work for stock options. I’ve got a start-up. It’s called the Buddy System Network. You become friends with people online, share your opinions, your stories, put up pictures. Only connect, right? What do you think?”

“I think you’re a freaking crackpot. Your idea is ludicrous. People aren’t machines.”

“If you’d read more great literature, you’d know that machines are exactly what people are.”

Now, as we sat in the diner, Davis — the new, dying, steely, reframed Davis — dragged a waffle fry through his chili burger sauce.