It is very dark in the living room.
Ellen stands and walks away. Her book hits her leg and falls and she walks away faster.
Andrew uses the bathroom then comes out. Ellen is walking very slowly through the living room. She looks a little confused. Andrew follows her to the kitchen. Ellen opens the refrigerator and without bending her back stands looking in.
“What book were you reading?” Andrew says.
“Weren’t you reading a book?” Andrew says.
“I don’t know,” Ellen says. She leaves the refrigerator open and walks away. She comes back and closes the refrigerator. It is very dark without the refrigerator’s light. Ellen trips on a chair and falls and stands and walks into another room.
“You took a long time,” Steve says in the car.
“I tried to talk to your sister.”
“Don’t be an asshole,” Steve says.
“No, I tried to talk to her for real.”
“You are an asshole,” Steve says.
“She was sitting in the dark staring. It was good.”
“She has no friends,” Steve says.
They go to Wal-Mart. They look for something to use against the little sisters. Can’t find anything. They stay at Wal-Mart over two hours. In the car Andrew has a videotape, Gosford Park.
“You son of a bitch,” Steve says.
“Did you see this?”
“You son of a bitch,” Steve says again.
Steve on a killing rampage; mass grave in the side yard. “It won every award,” Andrew says. “Because the director is a hundred years old or something. It’s the Jhumpa Lahiri of movies.” Doesn’t make sense. Oh well.
“You’re the Jhumpa Lahiri of stealing shit from Wal-Mart,” Steve says.
“I bought it.”
“You bought it with cunning and speed,” Steve says.
“Yeah. And a ten dollar bill.” Andrew turns on the car. Sara. The music is loud and depressing. Andrew turns it down. “Jhumpa Lahiri makes me want to kill a blue whale or something. I told you about her, right? Yeah. I don’t understand her … name. Her name looks like a killing rampage.”
“We should hunt her down,” Steve says. “With cunning and speed.”
“She probably lives on a diamond boat with her Pulitzer Prize.” Sara lives in New York City. They had classes together. She drew a penis on Jhumpa Lahiri’s face. They went into bookstores. She graduated early, met someone else. Andrew met no one, moved back to Florida, and has no future.
They drive to Justin’s house and throw Gosford Park in the front yard. Probably five guys inside playing cards and drinking; all depressed, though none will admit it. Five guys drinking, admitting being depressed. They would go on a depressed rampage, killing things languidly. Andrew killed an extended family of birds and squirrels. He climbed a tree with Sara. Her Popsicle was blue. It was strange. It was opaque or something. Why is your Popsicle confused?
They drive around, not doing anything; not going anywhere. It’s dark and quiet outside. In the car they listen to really depressing music. Andrew feels disorientated and bored, or else lucid and calm; he can’t tell. The stereo system is pretty good. Honda Civics are strange. Andrew likes Honda Civics for some reason. They look like how he feels; is that it? Should’ve leapt to her branch and kissed her. Too dangerous. Should’ve suggested building a tree fort. Let’s quit school and live in a tree fort. Like a garage. Wink at her. Sara, laughing. Sometimes she’d laugh maniacally. Sara’s beautiful face, laughing insanely. Then calm and pretty.
“What if one of us started crying,” Andrew says loudly.
“I’m going to Seattle tomorrow,” Steve says. Didn’t hear. Music’s too loud. Or did he? Doesn’t matter. Steve will go to Seattle and never come back. Sara in New York City, Steve in Seattle. Andrew alone in a tree fort, feeling sorry for himself. The mother squirrel staring at an acorn, disillusioned. The little sisters grown up and depressed, sarcastic high-fives in the living room. The balloon, smacking Steve’s face. The balloon.
They go to Denny’s.
“I need a wife,” Steve says in a booth.
“I need … I don’t know. I knead bread.”
“We’d go on a shopping spree,” Steve says. “Then she’d leave me and I’d go on a killing spree.”
Sara, married; she’s probably married by now. “Remember when the balloon slapped your face?”
“I’m going to kill them,” Steve says. “I will never kill anyone.”
Sara, laughing marriedly. “Remember …” Sara Tealsden. Stop thinking about Sara. “When I said, ‘remember when the balloon slapped your face?’ ”
“Yeah,” Steve says.
“What if your sisters marry each other?”
“We should start a band,” Steve says.
Steve in Seattle, drinking coffee with his dad. Steve’s dad, screaming. Doesn’t make sense.
“We will never start a band,” Andrew says. “I want to start a band called ‘Lesbian Incest.’ ” He feels stupid.
“What the fuck is a ‘Jhumpa Lahiri?’ ” Steve says.
“I don’t know. I told you about her. Didn’t I tell you about her?”
“Yeah,” Steve says. “Still. What the fuck is a Jhumpa Lahiri?”
“I don’t know. A person.”
“It’s not a person,” Steve says.
The waitress comes, a girl they knew from high school. Andrew doesn’t remember her name. They pretend they don’t know one another. They order quickly; she leaves. She has gotten fat. Working at Denny’s. Her life is over. If Sara worked at Denny’s Andrew would smile. Andrew works at Domino’s, a more cutting-edge version of Pizza Hut. He should quit. He wants to quit his life like a job. He is writing a book of stories about people who are doomed. He will never commit suicide. He will never kill anyone, start a band, or commit suicide. His girlfriend in college once tried to commit suicide. Then she published a book. Andrew needs to publish a book. Publishing a book will not make him feel less fucked. He cries a little some nights. He worked in a library and a movie theatre in New York City and now works at Domino’s, and cries a little some nights. His parents moved to Germany. Germany is a more cutting-edge version of China, maybe.
“I forgot her name,” Steve says.
“Starts with an S.” No, that’s Sara. “Uh, she was in my English class.” Mrs. Poole had a bald spot. They put Rogaine brochures on her desk and she pretended it never happened. Sara liked that story. Andrew told her in the tree. He said he wanted to give Mrs. Poole a hug, and three wishes. What else, Sara said. A golden tiara, Andrew said. Sara laughed and said she liked Mrs. Poole. Andrew said he liked Mrs. Poole, then felt depressed and couldn’t speak anymore. Sara’s Popsicle was depressed. His was green. “Starts with an F.” Should’ve thrown it at her; danced nimbly in the tree. “I don’t know. I just made that up. I have no idea.” No future. “I have no future.”
“I don’t want to think about this shit,” Steve says.
“Neither do I. It’s depressing.” And a waste of time. “What are you doing tomorrow?”
“Seeing my dad,” Steve says. “In Seattle.”
“Oh yeah. For how long?” Steve’s dad, screaming.
“One week or something. I can’t wait.”
“You really want to see him? When people get enthusiastic I feel like they’re being sarcastic. I hate that.”
“I sounded enthusiastic?” Steve says.
“Not really. I don’t know. You sounded strange.”
“I wasn’t being sarcastic,” Steve says. “I don’t really want to see my dad though. Um, I think I meant I can’t wait to not have to raise my siblings for one week.”
“I can’t process what you just said.”
“Neither can I,” Steve says.
“Good.”