Dana Spiotta - Eat the Document

“Right. The explosive isn’t really made of plastic. HMX and RDX are nitroamine explosives. They are combined with a plasticizer, like mineral oil. The binder and stabilizer is made of a plastic precursor, like styrene, but not the explosive substance itself. It is called plastic explosive because it is in malleable form.”

“Okay.”

“Because it has plasticity.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“YOU REALLY shouldn’t drink Coke. It’s like totally underwriting American corporate hegemony to buy Coke,” Miranda said.

Nash nodded and swallowed. “I prefer to call it a bottled soft drink. Or the Coca-Cola Company. I never call those companies Coke or Pepsi. Or McDonald’s Mickey D’s or the International House of Pancakes the IHOP. They’re not my friends. Why should I call them by nicknames?”

“Bottled soft drink, huh?” Miranda said.

Nash nodded. “There’s a generic movement — never use brand names. It’s a kind of mental hygiene.”

“No Kleenex. Facial tissue.”

“Right, no Q-tips but cotton swabs. No Jell-O. Gelatin dessert. There’s a group called Counter Corporate Contamination. They promote generic nonbrands. They fight the infiltration of brand into everyday language. No ‘fun’ corporate acronyms, no trademarks, and God, no nicknames.”

“There isn’t really a group for that, is there?” Miranda said.

“It’s more difficult than you might imagine,” he said.

“No exceptions?”

“Well, there are always some exceptions. Some names are so perfect, so apt, so electrifying with promise and eponymous in an almost magical way that to not use their names would be to deny some delight and truth to the world.”

“Such as?”

“Cellophane.” Nash folded his arms. “Cellophane. It’s beautiful. Much better than plastic film wrap. And it was also appropriated as slang for a drug — a kind of LSD on dissolvable squares of film.”

“And we know what a big fan you are of appropriations. But guess what? So was Coke.”

“Yeah, but Coke is a motherfucker’s drug. And cellophane is also obsolete. It has been defunct for years. Dupont’s Cellophane was overtaken by Dow’s Saran Wrap. Which by the way was made of polyvinyl chloride instead of cellulose, so it was a much more synthetic plastic than cellophane. With an inferior name. Cellophane is a failed and defunct brand, so I’m not promoting anything when I use it. Which, admittedly, is not very often. But mostly I give it a pass because it is beautiful.”

Miranda was lovely. It was true. Nash woke on his fiftieth birthday, and this was the first thing he thought. She didn’t quite realize it. She almost did but not to what extent and why.

The night before, Nash had watched her having a conversation with one of the late-teen testers at the store. She was smiling and talking, but the kid just looked over her shoulder, unsmiling, half-nodding. Nash remembered being a late teen. He wanted to shake the guy, grab him by his ripped jean jacket and shake him, tell him, Look, would you, look and notice please, let yourself see how beautiful this woman is, how perfect, what a masterpiece with her soft thighs and her bitten nails. If only he knew at nineteen what he knew now about how to love a girl like Miranda. To not be scared she might want things from you. To want her to want things of you.

He didn’t want to protect her, or her to restore his youth. Nothing like that. He didn’t exactly know what he wanted. Yes he did — he wanted to be close to her, closer than anyone else. She was awkward and impatient. Too sensitive. She wore the wrong, unflattering clothes, had yet to inhabit herself convincingly. She seemed to have no ambivalence, and endless energy — anything he mentioned she would read practically overnight. She was combative, judgmental, angry. She utterly dazzled him. What a complicated mess of a woman she was, and how desperate he found himself feeling about her.

So here, on his fiftieth birthday, he was giddy with his crush on her, lying in bed with a lazy erection and longing for her. This was a pleasure in itself, just to lie in bed and long for someone. He felt ridiculous, happy, foolish.

But she liked him, didn’t she? That also amazed him. Last night she appeared at his door. She brought over a bottle of wine and even cooked him dinner, didn’t she? She wanted to celebrate his birthday. Sweet, her total incompetence in the kitchen. She fought against her spoiled suburban self, even washed the dishes.

“Don’t condescend to me,” she said, but he wasn’t, she just read his expression wrong. Later, flushed with wine, she began to flirt with him. He could feel her wanting him, and he let her lean toward him across the table, touch his hand. It was heaven when she closed her eyes and leaned in to kiss him. He wanted it so much. She pulled slowly back, opened her eyes and smiled. She leaned in again, and he pulled back. She opened her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“Don’t, don’t be sorry.”

“I think I have a little crush on you,” she said, all of a sudden willing to give all her trust in the truth. She smiled broadly.

He looked around the room and sighed. “I think you are terrific,” Nash finally said.

“You think this is all very adorable, don’t you?”

“Yes,” he said.

“Yeah, I know you think that, truly. It’s what I like about you.” She watched him from across the table. “I should go before I make a total fool out of myself.”

Nash handed her her sweater. She started to laugh when she stood up, apparently a little drunker than she had expected.

“Watch it,” he said, taking her arm.

“I’m only a little drunk, you know. That’s not why I kissed you.”

“No?”

“No, I did not kiss you because I’m drunk. I got drunk so I could kiss you. That’s different.” She started to move toward the door. Nash grasped both of her hands and squeezed them.

“Be careful, Miranda,” he said softly. He let go, and she left, and he imagined she thought he meant, Be careful, he would kiss her back if she stayed any longer. But what he meant was, Be careful with me. Please. Please .

The first time Miranda talked to Josh was under the auspices of Prairie Fire. Under the auspices of Nash, really, which she found ironic. After his birthday dinner, she had avoided Nash and the bookstore for a few days. She expected him to call her or seek her out. But he hadn’t.

Seven days passed, and she couldn’t bear it any longer.

She walked straight to the back of the store, right past Nash, and ordered a chai tea from Roland.

“Hi, Miranda,” Nash said from the table where he sat.

“Hey,” she said, cupping her tea and studying it. She walked to a secluded corner and sat. She picked out a book and began to read, furrowing her brow and concentrating. She read the sentences, and then read them again, but all she could think was, Why did I have to come in here, looking for him? After all, I kissed him. She parsed through that evening again, as she had been doing all week.

Not only did she kiss him but he didn’t really kiss back, did he? He just handed her her sweater when she said she was leaving. How foolish she was. By the time Nash came over to where she sat holding her book, Miranda felt close to tears.

“Why haven’t you been in?” he said.

“I’ve been busy.”

“We are having a big plenary tonight — remember?”

“Of all of your groups? That should be interesting since they all have the same members.” Nash laughed, and she glared at him, refusing to laugh.

“It isn’t any of my groups, I promise. It’s the Green and Black Action group. The GABA Group. I merely facilitate it. You should come.”