Neither is keen on eating lunch today, but both realize they have no choice. More than that, though, more than worrying about food poisoning, neither wants the new account and both are hoping the other gets it.
The two of them never interact at work. When they see each other in the hallway or lobby they will sometimes nod. The one in the passenger seat is certain the one in the driver’s seat must think this lack of interaction is related to what happened in the supply closet. The one in the passenger seat is fine with the other one thinking this.
The one who says that pussy is not pussy does not like to hold anyone’s hand. Once he had dinner with his mother’s neighbor. His mother’s neighbor worked as a nurse, was handsome around the face, save some old pockmarks and acne scars, and shaped like a field hockey player. The mother arranged for the outing, said the nurse was perfectly suitable, and instructed her son to pick up the neighbor and walk her to the restaurant. He did this. At dinner, they discussed her job, her background, her plans for the future. He shared nothing of himself, instead asking questions and smiling when he thought it appropriate. On the walk home, she slipped her hand in his. She did this casually. There was no call for such an action, no reason for it. There was nothing about his body language or demeanor or anything he may’ve said during dinner that would’ve indicated such a thing would be welcomed. He always sweats when he comes in contact with another person. He sweats, too, whenever he eats or is active for more than two minutes. Every day, he has to change out of his shirt after lunch. He keeps five freshly laundered shirts behind the door in his office. He does not like going to a doctor but promises to do so whenever he talks on the phone with his mother. His mother worries about him and is correct in doing so.
The walk home with the neighbor was a long one. Still clutching his hand, she prattled on about one of the doctors at work, remarking that one was a letch. The one in the passenger seat said every so often, That’s terrible. He also said once or twice, People are different. He wanted to talk about the one who says that pussy is pussy, what he saw in the supply closet. He wanted to know what could be done about it, how he should proceed.
The one in the passenger seat now says, There are different kinds.
The one in the passenger seat rarely leaves his apartment unless it’s to commute to or from work. On weekends and holidays, he goes to breakfast at the diner. He eats pancakes and bacon, almost always. He spreads the butter all over each cake, however many pats he is offered, then pours a generous amount of syrup onto the plate. He likes the pancakes drenched but not soggy, and he likes it when syrup gets on the bacon, too. Inside the diner, there are always well-dressed people, people who’ve come from church, people who are related to one another, families, loved ones. He always finds a table facing away from these people. He doesn’t want to listen to their conversations, the righteousness.
The one driving talks about the one in the passenger seat with his wife sometimes. He talks about the shirts behind the door. He remembers when his boss introduced them, how his hand was damp. He points out that he never socializes with people in the office, how he always keeps to himself. He tells his wife he thinks the one in the passenger seat is half a fag. The wife asks why he would think such a thing. He tells her he isn’t sure, that he’s heard it around the office, that it’s the scuttlebutt.
Whenever the wife initiates sex, she likes to ask her husband about his special friend at work. She calls him a fairy because she doesn’t like the word fag. She wonders if he would like to join them sometimes. The one who is driving feigns anger when she talks like this, but the truth is, he doesn’t mind.
The one in the passenger seat almost never discusses his work or his colleagues when talking on the phone with his mother. When his mother presses him, he tells her that everyone is cordial. He tells her they are all good people. He has never mentioned the one who is driving by name to his mother. He did say once that he saw something he wished he hadn’t. But when his mother asked what, he told her she wouldn’t want to know.
He doesn’t tell her that he thinks about quitting sometimes but doesn’t know what else he could do for work. He doesn’t tell her that he imagines certain crimes, committing them, things he could do in the workplace, things he could maybe get away with, things that happen all the time, all over the world. He doesn’t tell her how bored he is by everything. He doesn’t tell her that he visits Asian massage parlors every so often on the way home from work, that he knows which ones are good and which aren’t, which try to rob him and which seem like they are genuinely happy to see him, to service him. He doesn’t tell her he’s visited two transsexual prostitutes during lunch breaks, doesn’t tell her that he’s touched their parts and that they’ve touched him and that he wants to do it again. What he does tell her is what goes on in his apartment building. He tells her about the front door, how that the buzzer won’t work for weeks at a time, and how that he has to go downstairs to let the deliveryman in whenever he orders dinner.
The two are in the car together.
The one in the passenger seat says, I’ll say. He rolls the window down a little.
The one driving did not formally propose marriage to his wife. After several months of misinterpreted conversations and endearing gestures, they found themselves in front of an ordained minister and two paid-for witnesses. The ceremony was simple and brief, as there was a line out in the corridor waiting to do likewise.
The bridal night included a mutual decision to forgo the threshold ceremony but was otherwise traditional. Once inside their room, the ersatz honeymoon suite, she spent a solid hour in the bathroom while he examined his genitals under the covers. He was hoping they would go twice, once she came out, if she came out. He wondered what would happen if she didn’t. Wondered what he’d do if she had done something to herself in there, maybe with pills or a razor. He waited. He thought about them going twice again. They’d gone twice only a couple of times before, once during a memorable evening that involved take-out Chinese. He was hoping she would come out wearing something special, something he hadn’t seen before. That is, if she were to come out at all. If she didn’t come out, he’d have to go in after her, break down the door, find her like that, dead in the tub. He’d have to call the police and explain the whole thing, the wedding, the witnesses, the threshold. For the rest of his life, he’d be the one whose wife committed suicide on their wedding night. He’d have that story to tell over and over to all kinds of people, all kinds of empathetic women. Eventually she did come out, and when she did, she wasn’t wearing anything special. She came out naked and said something like Are you ready for me? He was, as anyone might expect, devastated.