Sam Lipsyte - The Fun Parts

“So what have you been doing?” I said, thoughtless as usual.

“Right now I seem to be dying. Before that I was looking to break into your line of work. Sponging off wealthy women. My tangelo flow isn’t what it used to be. The economy mugged the Davis dynasty. Come to my place tomorrow, will you? It would mean a lot to me.”

* * *

That night, back in my shimmering crypt, I called Martha in Michigan.

“This is crazy,” I said. “Let’s patch it up.”

“You turd, I’m married again.”

“Oh, right,” I said. “Scott. How well does he grill?”

“We’re vegans now.”

“No dairy?”

“Kills the sex drive.”

“So that’s what it was.”

“No, honey, it was other things with us.”

“How’s your mom?”

“Let’s not revisit that incident.”

“Incident? Try era.”

“I’ve got to go.”

Down in the hotel bar, I thought of how much Davis and I still had to discuss. Our friendship, for example, and how quickly we’d passed through each other, from fascinated strangers to loyal chums to relics of each other’s worlds. We’d been pawns of proximity, choiceless as brothers. I’d always sort of hated him, really, his arrogance, his masks, his whispery fake ways with my mind. I’d been nothing to him, just his handsome stooge, a barker for his depraved tent.

Now, I could tell you my family history and you could do some amateur noodle prods, conclude I needed one such as Davis to salve my certain hurts. Was it the time my mother beat my hands with a serving spoon while I stood enchanted by the ripples in her gray rayon blouse? Or the occasion my father recited a limerick that began “There once was a dumb fucking boy / who was never his daddy’s joy”? Yes, we could solve for why, but we could also eat another slice of coconut cake. Why won’t save you, anyway. Why makes it worse. And Davis, I realized, he wasn’t sick.

He was sick.

* * *

I took the train and then the bus to his place in Red Hook. He lived in a refurbished ink factory. I pushed through the iron doors and climbed the stairs until I saw a metal plate with Davis’s name on it. This building, he’d told me at the diner, was owned by rich artists who rented cheap, unsafe spaces to poor artists. Davis had a good deal with these slumlord aesthetes.

His apartment, empty and unlocked, was a great cement room with high windows. Greasy carpets covered the floor. A pair of half-shredded cane chairs and a stained divan connoted a parlor. I recognized all the furniture from the old days. He’d added nothing. Even the stereo had survived.

Davis appeared in his doorway. “Everyone’s up on the roof, kid. Follow me.”

He led me up a narrow ladder to a nearly nautical hatch. I popped through after him, my chin at tar level, surveyed the roof scene — so many pasty, dulled versions of the people I’d known, our old audience, and strangers, too. Caldwell the goblin had gone waxen and squinty. The Texan, dipless, had a tidy potbelly. He sported a polo shirt and unsevere trousers, golf philanthropical. The girl who once stood by the stereo was now a woman who hovered near a hooded grill. It resembled a Greek design I’d coveted from catalogs back in Ypsilanti. I could smell the seared tuna smoke, the zuke-juice vapors. Davis pulled me from the hatch, led me to the sawhorse bar. We had vistas of city and sea.

“My friend will have the rum punch,” said Davis to the teen boy with the ladle.

“Okay, Dad.”

Davis pounced on my surprise.

“You bet your life I have a magnificent son. This is Owney. Eugene Onegin Davis.”

“A pleasure.”

“You’re doing the math, but I’ll save you the trouble. Especially you. She drifted away from both of us that fateful night. But we crossed paths in Marfa years later.”

“She?”

“She,” said a voice. A dark, glitter-dusted hand brushed my shoulder: Brianna.

“So, you two are…”

“God, no,” said Brianna. She still had the heart-threshing looks, the wicked corneal glint of a serious reader. “We still care for each other, and we both love Eugene, but our affections have relocated.”

“Well phrased,” said Davis.

“So,” I said. “How are you dealing with the illness?”

Brianna looked baffled.

“Great news,” said Davis. “I’m not terminal. That’s you, I’m afraid. I’m going live forever. I’ve gotten my hands on some black market Super Resveratrol. I’ll tell you, some of these scientists become dope slingers just to keep their three houses going. But no, I’m fine. How was I going to get you out here? For my shot?”

“Your what?”

“Please, you’ve already figured it out, I’m sure. Down deep”—he poked my chest bone—“you must have understood exactly what was going on.”

“I don’t have much of a deep down.”

“But remember, this can’t work unless you know what you will be missing.”

“The future?” I said, and broke from his grip.

“What can’t work?” said Brianna.

“Nothing, sweetie.”

“Brilliant Brianna,” I said. “Did you know I was married? The union didn’t last. I couldn’t forget you. I sexed it with the mother, though. That was tender.”

“See, that song won’t pass the audition,” said Davis. “I have to know I’m ventilating a contented man. Otherwise it’s a mercy job. So you’ve drifted a bit. Lived with uncertainty. You’re a student of life. You’re the eternal student. You should have lived centuries ago in Germany. Besides, you’re a stud, my man. Women want to make love to your sunglasses. It’s always been that way. You’ve pursued and overtaken happiness. Maybe you’ll suddenly decide to make a ton of money, find a beauty to bear your children. This life, it’s all so exalted, so tremendous and full of wonder, and also relaxing. Are you with me?”

“I’ve just been running from anything that resembled revelation. For twenty years I’ve been running.”

“Nonsense,” said Davis. “You have friends. You have health.”

“I did quit the cowboy killers,” I said. “And you and me, we had a ball, just hanging out, talking.”

“I didn’t like you,” said Davis. “Go another way.”

I stepped forward and stroked his lapels. He shucked me off.

“You condescended,” said Davis. “Acted like you were killing time until a better life came along.”

“You never cared for my ideas,” I said, and snatched his hand, kissed his knuckles.

“What ideas?”

“Not ideas. Something. I’ve blocked most of it. Our whole friendship is a blur.”

“I remember every microsecond,” said Davis.

“It’s really good to see you,” I said.

“Fetch the party favor, Owney.”

The boy reached under the bar for the mahogany box. Davis lifted out the Beretta.

“We’ll just need one of these.”

The new guests, who had gathered in for our sloppy matinee, gasped. The old hands, the repeat attendees, stood back.

“Not this homoerotic gunplay again,” said the goblin.

“Homosocial,” said Brianna. “Or, no, you’re right.”

“Shitesnickers,” said the Texan, whom I’d overheard talking about his Irish roots.

“Just blanks,” said the goblin. “They’re old farts now. Wouldn’t dare.”

“It’s a prank,” a man with a gray-blond beard said to his date. “They all went to college together and it’s like a sketch they do.”

“Juvenile, entitled,” said the date.

“It’s like that Chekhov play,” said another woman. “The one with the gun that must go off if you dare introduce it.”

“No,” the woman by the grill cried, wrapped herself around my waist. “Didn’t you know it was me! Me all along!”