Lori Ostlund - The Bigness of the World

“My wife will be staying. Only I must return early. You understand.” And to be sure that the man did understand, he placed a twenty-dollar bill on the counter, which, he had read in his guidebook, was the way that things got done in Indonesia. The man seemed embarrassed by the bill’s appearance and in no way acknowledged it, but neither did he return it. Instead, it sat on the counter between them as he made his calls, first to Singapore Airlines, arranging a shuttle flight from Yogyakarta to Jakarta for the next morning, followed by an afternoon flight to Singapore, and then to Garuda Airlines, canceling the original flight. Only after hanging up the telephone for the final time did he place his hand on the counter between them, over the twenty-dollar bill, and, still mispronouncing Martin’s name, he declared, “Everything is arranged, Mr. Stein.”

“Thank you,” Martin replied, but looking at the kindly, toad-like features, he felt suddenly ill. He walked quickly away from the desk, and as he passed the nearby pool area, which doubled as a bar, a woman called out to him from one of the tables, asking where he was from.

He turned and stared at the woman and her companions for a long moment, thinking to himself, “Where am I from?” and finally, he took a deep breath and said, “Cleveland,” and then, as though these people might not know where that was, he added, “Cleveland, Ohio,” and they all nodded and smiled.

“Of course we know Cleveland. We’re Americans,” they said, and they invited him to sit down.

* * *

They are playing a game, the fame game. Martin hates games, and when it is his turn, he tells them about his parents’ paperboy, Ted Bundy, though hesitantly, for he is still not sure that he understands the point of the game. The two lesbians go next, relating a very long and increasingly convoluted story about a woman with big thighs and an Australian who might or might not have been Olivia Newton-John. The thigh woman was raised by Satan worshippers in Minot, North Dakota, but had escaped when she was seventeen. Now, she raises horses and lifts weights and is a lesbian also.

Suddenly, or so it seems to him, Sylvie, the lesbian who is doing most of the talking, pushes her hands against her own throat as she explains that the thigh woman had threatened to kill the Australian woman with a pool cue, claiming that the Australian had been sent by the Satan worshippers to retrieve her. Martin is sure that he has missed something, some crucial detail, and he studies the others, hoping for a clue, but the waiter approaches their table with another round of drinks, and Sylvie pauses while everyone pays, a chaotic undertaking because they are all distracted by trying to convert rupiahs into dollars in their heads.

Joe, seeing an opportunity to get the conversation away from this god-awful story that, as far as he can tell, has nothing remotely to do with a brush with fame, turns to Martin and asks, “Did I hear you discussing flights with the desk guy?”

Martin considers explaining that the “desk guy” is actually the manager, but he is tired, so he simply says yes, he is leaving the next day. He does not mention that he moved his flight up two weeks, only that he has made the change to Singapore Airlines. “I’m feeling a little nervous about this Garuda Air,” he says. “They had a crash in September. Now, Singapore Airlines — you know how things are in that country. They cane pilots for crashing.” They all laugh because it is the only thing they do know about Singapore — that it’s that little country that’s always caning people.

Amanda, the sixth and youngest member of the group, says softly, “I think you’re very wise, Martin.” She is the sort of woman that men describe as sweet, which simply means that she listens far more than she talks and that she is prone to comments like this, comments that reinforce their opinions of themselves in very uncomplicated ways. She is the only one who has not yet described a brush with fame and who is actually interested in Sylvie’s story, partly because she has a cousin in Minot, North Dakota.

There is another thing to know about Amanda, a secret that she has maintained successfully over the last two days, largely by keeping track of her vowels. Amanda is not American. She is Canadian, though her mother is American, a Minnesotan who fell in love with Amanda’s father years ago over the course of a weekend getaway to Winnipeg with a group of friends. “With my girlfriends,” her mother says when she tells the story, though Amanda has told her mother repeatedly, and at times petulantly, to stop using girlfriends like that — to talk about the women with whom she bowls and shops.

“Only lesbians call other women girlfriends these days,” she explains, “and they don’t mean friends.” But her mother disregards everything she says, every attempt she makes to offer advice that might save her mother from embarrassment.

Once, for example, during their annual visit to Minnesota, she overheard her mother telling a group of relatives that Warren — Warren was Amanda’s father — had to “really Jew down” the used car salesman from whom they had just purchased a car. Amanda was sitting on the sofa nearby reading a book about lighthouses. She always read books about strange topics when she visited her relatives because she secretly liked promoting the notion that they already had of her — as different. Different was not meant as a compliment, but because she considered her relatives backward, she clamored after the label as though it were. She lowered the lighthouse book and said, “Mother, I cannot believe you said that.”

“What?” said her mother.

“ ‘Jew him down.’ I cannot believe you would use an expression like that.”

The conversation had stopped as they all turned to look at her, seventeen-year-old Amanda, their flesh and blood, who was being raised in Canada. No wonder she had such odd ideas. No wonder she read books about lighthouses. But her mother just laughed. “Honestly, Amanda,” she said. “Sometimes you have the most peculiar ideas. Next you’re going to tell me that the Dutch are up in arms about ‘going Dutch.’ ” The relatives laughed then also, laughed because even though Amanda’s mother had moved to Canada, she still had her sense of humor.

Amanda hopes to sleep with Calvin, though Calvin is not yet aware of her interest, a state of affairs that would normally suggest that nothing is going to happen between them. Calvin, however, does not work that way, does not allow himself the luxury of choosing friends or sexual partners. Calvin waits to be chosen. Today is Calvin’s birthday, but he has not yet decided whether he will tell the others, afraid that they might find him weird, even pathetic, if they learn that he is here celebrating alone. Back home in Michigan, the story of his trip to Indonesia will play differently. His friends and coworkers will say, “That’s Calvin for you, trotting off just like that to celebrate his birthday in Java — wherever the hell that is.” Back home, he is funny, risk-taking Calvin, spontaneous Calvin who runs off to places like Java and Florida and Belize, warm places, at the drop of a hat. Calvin has worked hard to create his own myth.

By the time the group begins to break up for the night, Calvin has finally noticed the way that Amanda’s hand creeps across the table when she addresses him, the way it sits demurely in her lap when she speaks to everyone else. Then, too, there is the way that she laughs at his jokes, heartily, with a whispered, breathy “Oh, Calvin” at the end. He thinks that all they need is one more good session of drinking and chatting as a group, one more chance for him to showcase his humor for her, and so, as they stand to go off to bed, he says, “Tomorrow, folks? Same table? Fourish?”