“I don’t believe- Look, will you lay off that? I haven’t written books, I have written a book, one. It’s something I did once in my life and I’m not even sure I’ll ever be able to do it again. At this very moment there’s possibly some guy sitting in his office thumbing through my manuscript, but that doesn’t mean it’ll ever get published. So you see, I’m not exactly counting my money yet.”
“Shit… I thought…”
“Yeah, well, you were wrong. It happened that Betty came across it one day by accident, and ever since she’s got it into her head that I’m some kind of genius and she won’t get off it. Eddie, look at me. Ever since then I haven’t been able to write a single line, you hear me? This is where we are, Eddie. We’re here, sitting around waiting to hear. I know that’s all she thinks about from morning till night. The whole thing makes her edgy, you understand?”
“Well, why don’t you write in the afternoon? You have the time…”
“Don’t make me laugh. Time isn’t the problem.”
“Then what is it? You’re not comfortable here?”
“No, it isn’t that,” I said.
“Then what is it?”
“How the hell do I know? Maybe I have to wait for divine intervention, how am I supposed to know?”
It took a few days for the last vestiges of the episode to disappear completely. Every night I knocked out most of the work at the pizzeria-handling three-quarters of the customers, running around like a maniac. I made a beeline for every pain in the ass or troublemaker I saw walk in the door. I didn’t let Betty get near them. By closing time I was pale as a ghost. Betty would tell me, You’re crazy, you haven’t even had time to smoke a cigarette and I stand around twiddling my thumbs.
“I just feel like hustling a little, that’s all.”
“I think you’re just scared I’m going to bite another customer…”
“That’s nonsense, Betty. You don’t believe that.”
“Anyway, I’m not tired. Want to walk home?”
“Sure, good idea!”
We waved to Eddie in his posh sedan, and he took off slowly into the night. I felt like I’d fallen victim to an illusion. I felt like my legs had been sawed off, and it was a hefty little hike back to the house. I bucked myself up by thinking how much farther it would be to walk to Heaven. I shoved my hands in my pockets, turned up my collar, and off I went-the genius-brain empty and feet sore, but somehow I made it. It intrigued me how she thought that being a waiter was better than being a plumber. It didn’t keep me up nights, though. It seemed like with her you had to learn everything over again. Still, I had nothing better to do.
One morning when I woke up she wasn’t there. It was past noon and I’d slept like a log. I drank my coffee standing up, looking out the window onto the street. It was nice out-the sunlight very white-but I felt a cold draft coming through the pane. I went to take a look downstairs, but no one was there except Bongo, asleep by the door. I asked him how he was doing, then went back upstairs. The silence in the house confused me. I went to take a shower. It was only when I came out that I noticed the envelope on the table.
It had been opened. The return address was printed on it with curlicues-the name of a publisher. My name was on it too, typewritten much smaller in the lower right-hand corner. So here we are, I told myself, the first response. I grabbed the piece of paper folded inside.
The response said no. Sorry, no. “I like your ideas,” the guy explained. “But your style is unreadable. You deliberately place yourself outside the literary sphere.” I stood there for a moment trying to understand what he was saying-what ideas he was talking about-but I couldn’t figure it out. I put the letter back in the envelope and decided to shave.
I don’t know why, but when I saw myself in the mirror I thought of Betty. I started feeling low. It was obviously she who had opened the letter. I could see her there, ripping it open, her heart pounding, covered with hopeful goose-pimples-then the guy offering his regrets and the world coming down all around her.
“Shit! No…” I said.
I leaned on the sink and closed my eyes. Where had she gone this time?… Tell me, what could possibly be going through her head now? I could see her running through the streets. I had this image of her, stuck in my head like an ice pick-her bumping into people, cars screeching to a halt, her running blindly into the street, wilder and wilder, her face twisted and terrifying. It was my fault-me and my book, me and that ridiculous whatever-it-was that popped out of my brain. All those nights, forging and sharpening the blade, only to have it come back and stab me in the gut. How did it happen? Why are we always the source of our own misery?
I felt my blood turning to ink-felt myself going off the edge, hung over a roasting pit spitting flames, ten years older. Then she walked in, fresh, pert-a queen with a cold nose.
“Ooooh,” she said. “Damn, it’s cold out there. Hey, what’s the matter with you? What’s with the scowling?”
“Nothing… I just got up. I didn’t hear you come up the stairs.”
“You’re going deaf in your old age.”
“Right. The worst is that it’s all downhill…”
I was trying to be witty, but the truth is I was disconcerted. I was so sure the bad news would have her moaning and groaning that I couldn’t handle her easygoing attitude, so carefree. I sat down randomly in a chair. I leaned backward to get a beer out of the icebox. Maybe a miracle had occurred-why not?-maybe on the million-to-one chance that she’d take it in good spirits we’d picked the winning number. The beer hit me like a bottle of amphetamines. I felt my mouth start to twist itself into a half-smile, half-snarl.
“You have a nice walk?” I said. “Tell me, did you have a nice walk?”
“Great. I jogged a little to warm up. Hey, feel my ears, they’re frozen!” There was of course another hypothesis: she was playing with me. Jesus, I said to myself, shit, SHIT-she must have read the letter. What the hell was she trying to pull? What’s she waiting for? When is she going to dissolve in tears and start throwing the furniture out the window? I just didn’t get it.
I felt her ears, but I didn’t know why. She smelled like fresh air, cold outdoor air. I stood there holding her ears.
“See? They’re frozen, aren’t they?”
I let go of them. I grabbed her hips instead. I pressed my forehead into her belly. A ray of light came through the window and landed on my cheek. She stroked my head. I went to kiss her hand. It was then that I saw her fingers were bright red. It was so odd that I jumped back.
“What in the world…?”
She looked at the ceiling and sniffled.
“It’s nothing… It’s… it’s red paint.”
Something like an alarm went off in my brain. Somewhere a Cheshire cat was grinning. I felt the motor starting to go out of control, but I didn’t put on the brakes.
“Paint? You were painting this morning?”
Her eyes lit up with a glow, her face congealing into a little smile.
“Yeah. I was,” she said in a clear voice. “I decided to get a little exercise…”
I had a flash, like a hallucination. It half strangled me.
“Fuck, Betty… you didn’t…”
She gave me a huge smile, but it was bitter.
“Yes I did. Sure I did.”
I looked at the floor, shaking my head. I saw stars.
“No, I don’t believe it,” I said. “I don’t believe it…”
“What’s the problem? Don’t you like red?”
“Why would you go and do something like…”
“How should I know? I just did. It makes me feel better.”
I stood up and walked around the table gesticulating.
“So every time a publisher rejects my book you’re going to go bombard his building with red paint, is that it?”
“Yeah, something like that. I wish you’d have been there to see the look on their faces.”