Noah Cicero - Best Behavior

The two photographers had all of us sit on a couch. We all sat together peacefully and responsibly at first. It looked kind of like a family photo. Everyone thought that was boring, which was predictable. So the photographers had us sit on the couch with the men touching and having their legs overlap. John Walters and I kept pretending we were homosexuals in the photos which entertained everyone. Nobody thought it was homophobic because both of us have had sex with men when we were bored and lonely at different points in our lives.

We took a break, so Jason Bassini and I went on the fire escape to smoke. It was dark and we could see Brooklyn and the lights of Manhattan in the distance. Snow was falling but it wasn't a bad temperature. Jason looked short, frail and nervous.

I said, “You took a plane out here?”

“Yeah, it was only three hundred dollars.”

“That's not bad.”

“No.”

We stood in silence and looked at the snow for a minute and I said, “Where do you work now?”

“At a coffee shop that serves barbecue.”

“People eat ribs and drink espressos at the same time.”

“No, people come in there and wonder what the fuck is going on.”

“That sounds dumb, what do you do there?”

“I work the register and make coffee.”

“They don't have you make ribs.”

“No, they have Mexicans that do that,” said Jason.

“Are you going to move here?”

“I think about it, but I don't feel like trying to raise enough cash every month to live here. Everything is fucking expensive.”

“Supply and demand. Everyone wants to live here. This is one of the few places in America you can work for television, make movies, be a writer, a stock broker and walk dogs and get paid for it.”

“I've never done anything like this.”

“Like what?” I said.

“Get my picture taken for a magazine.”

“No, this is very unusual. I feel like Britney Spears.”

“Are we Britney Spears?”

“I think we are now.”

“Are we famous now?” Jason said.

“What does that mean to be famous?”

“I think it means, hmm, that people notice you. You are like walking down the street and people are like, 'look, that's so and so.'”

“I don't know if we'll achieve that level with this magazine.”

“The magazine is pretty big.”

“I've never heard of it. I was in a music magazine in England and it didn't cause any sales.”

“You don't think it will cause sales.”

“The only thing that causes real sales is if you are on the tables at Barnes and Nobles and Borders,” I said.

“I don't think my writing will land on those tables.”

“Neither will mine. I don't think it matters, though: I mean, from writing I've released a lot of emotions. People send me emails telling me that it entertained them. I've met people like you and the other people in there. When I come to New York City people buy my meals and beer. I mean, for a fuckass from Youngstown, that's pretty cool.”

“It never occurred to me to be a big writer. When I was in high school I remember really liking the story of Emily Dickinson. I didn't care much for her poetry. It was all right, whatever, Emily Dickinson. But I remember walking around my neighborhood thinking about Emily Dickinson walking around lonely in her house. Nobody was around. She was wearing white walking around her garden being scared and nervous about everything. I always imagined her sitting outside looking at a slug slowly making its way somewhere. She had the time to watch the whole thing, so she did. She would watch caterpillars and when a mosquito landed on her arm she wouldn't kill it. She would stare at it instead in wonder. I would ride my bike into the woods and be alone and stare at things pretending I was Emily Dickinson. Sometimes I would imagine Emily Dickinson was hanging out with me. I would think if Emily Dickinson only met me, she would have had a friend. I didn't think that about Stephen King. I didn't imagine I was attending a movie premier of my book, or doing long signing tours across the world.”

“I liked Emily Dickinson too. I read everything by Kerouac in high school. I liked the idea of a man traveling around working odd jobs and having relationships with random women. I liked that even though he never got money for writing until the end, he wrote all those books without ever considering he would get famous. He just wrote without concern for anyone. It was like a hobby. I mean, now, I don't even read his writing anymore. It all seems disjointed and sloppy at times and I've realized I'm not that kind of person. I'm not the kind of person that goes out drinking every night. Hell, I barely drink at all, this is the first I've drank in three weeks. I don't like drugs. I don't even think people should do drugs. I don't even think weed should be legalized. I like to travel but I don't sleep in my car. I get hotel rooms or sleep in well-ordered camp grounds in a nice new tent. I'm not like those old school writers like Hemingway or Pound who traveled all over the world and lived sweet lives. America has two wars right now; I haven't attempted to join the military. I don't care about fighting in a war. I don't find wars sentimental or romantic. Maybe they were back then, who the fuck knows, but right now the military seems like a giant corporation that requires a lot of exercise. I like comfort, I'm used to it. I like security; I want things to be normal. I mean it, it isn't like philosophical. I don't have any philosophical Kantian reasons for these feelings. These are just reflexes. I grew up in a normal little house on 5 acres of land in a rural part of Ohio. But it wasn't like we were in the country. I was ten minutes from a city with malls and shopping outlets. We had indoor plumbing and heating. My parents made enough money I never had to worry about lacking the necessities of life. I could say philosophically that it would be better for Americans to put down their cars and their excess and go back to the land, of outhouses and fireplaces. But I don't want that. I don't even know what that is. I don't know how to live a simple life. I like to go to work and go back to my house and check my email, turn on the lights at night and read a book. I like being warm in the winter. I don't even like working odd jobs. I didn't mind sweeping floors and doing stupid shit before. But now, I'm getting older and want to be respected and have some sort of authority in the world. I don't really care about impressing other people. But I don't feel like being shit on by idiot managers anymore. I think that is why I started reading Richard Wright and Richard Yates. Their characters are always trapped in the modern economy. Beatnik characters never have to work, they are always out, running around, having a good time. Even Bukowski is like that, his characters do work. But they are always having a good time also. I hardly ever have a good time.”

“Neither do I.”

Jason and I crawled through the window into the room. The photographers were taking single pictures of us. Everyone stood around and waited for their turn. John got his picture taken first. He stood smiling a huge goofy smile. He looked like a maniac. Then they went to the two girls I didn't know. The little white girl snarled and the Asian girl gave a pretty smile. Hu went and did funny things and made the girls laugh. I went next and pretended I was nervous and weird like I didn't want my picture taken. The photographers smiled at me to show that it was okay. I walked away and Jason went. He looked absolutely fucked but they took his picture anyway.

During all this Petra was taping it with her digital camera. It was very important that it was documented on digital film. She said she planned on putting it on Youtube.

The photographers put their stuff away. Hu, Jason and John looked on the Internet for stuff that didn't matter to me. I walked over once, looked and didn't care. I went back to the couch, sat down and drank a beer. Hu Chin's apartment was very bare. Nothing was on the walls. The walls badly needed painted. There was no carpet. The kitchen was small, the oven and refrigerator were old and ramshackle. His bedroom was a lonely little place with books on the floor stacked very orderly. Hu Chin lived with another writer named David Lexmark. David Lexmark wrote articles for The Believer and got his stories in popular hipster magazines. He had gone to a prestigious MFA program, attended a shitload of writer's workshops, and now taught English composition classes at a local NYC university. David was obsessed with new writers and reading all of their books. The man was on top of it. He had ambition and the will to succeed in the world of NYC literature. David Lexmark was always very outgoing, courteous and charming. He never frowned or acted weird or considered suicide. He wasn't that type of person. Hu Chin lived with that person.