Roland tried not to cry, but couldn’t hold back the tears. He threw the locket on the ground and kicked dirt over it.
His father hurriedly picked it up and wiped off the dust. “Non mais, ça va pas la tête?” (“Are you crazy?”)
Roland’s cheeks were like peaches in the rain.
“Why can’t you ever act like a man?” his father said, pacing around him. “It’s an honor, that I’m giving you this. I’m not giving one to your sister. Doesn’t that make you happy?”
“That’s because you don’t want her to die!”
His father grabbed his arm and shook him. “I don’t want you to die. Unless you want to.”
Roland still pouted.
They resumed walking, and his father began a speech, which Roland never forgot. His father said, “Life is a prison. Most of the time, it’s a nice prison, and you want to be in it, but the prison is even nicer if the door is unlocked. Knowing that the door can be stepped through at any time makes your time in prison more relaxed, that’s all. By giving you this locket, I am telling you, ‘You are old enough, my son, to decide if you ever want to walk through that door.’ I’m giving you freedom. Having quick and easy access to death makes us more elevated, more evolved than other men. Less like women. We’re carrying around a bit of perspective at all times.”
The young Roland reluctantly began wearing the locket. He would practice finding the idea of spontaneous self-destruction attractive.
After a few months, he always wore it and enjoyed what it meant, and now, as a grown man, he couldn’t imagine what it must be like, psychologically, for the rest of the population, who didn’t have this quick and easy access to death. Of course, they had certain means at their disposal — jumping out a window or hurling themselves in front of a subway train, for example — but those methods were inefficient and melodramatic.
“Well,” Alan repeated, “are you trying to imply that you’re superior to me in some way?”
“No, not in some way. In every way,” Roland said. “I’m sorry, but I couldn’t take it any longer. I didn’t want to hear any more of your crap. I’m sure you understand.” He got up and added, “We better call this game off. Maybe I’ll see you next time.” He walked away, dropping a small button.
Alan remained sitting for a long time. He had never been so insulted in his life. His skin prickled. There was not such a big difference between them. It bugged him that there was even a single soul on earth (Roland’s soul) who thought there was.
Alan hated that soul.
He ordered a beer. The waitress asked him for ID. He could not believe it. “I’m thirty-four,” he said to the waitress, who didn’t seem to care. While searching for his driver’s license in his bag, he thought, Well, I may be short, fat, and balding, but at least I look under twenty-one. He didn’t find his license and wasn’t given the beer.
The homeless man said to Roland, “They’re still behind you. You’re not alone.”
To Lynn, he said, “You’re being followed as well. Join a dating service, a choir. Take a break, an antidepressant. Get hold of yourself.”
And to Alan, “Forget about her. Get a pet, a hobby, a makeover, dignity. Explore the world and gain perspective.”
Roland felt guilty immediately. He regretted the things he had said to Alan and was surprised that Alan continued meeting with him for their racquetball games.’ When Roland tried to apologize, Alan didn’t accept the apology and was not willing to forgive him.
Alan was smart enough to know that he was in an advantageous position. He would continue to sulk mildly, until he came up with a way to profit from Roland’s guilt.
Alan liked hating Roland. In fact, he had wanted to hate him from the beginning, but it had been hard at first, Roland being nice, most of the time.
In an attempt to rekindle a semblance of friendliness between them, Roland brought up an old topic. “You know, it’s a shame that we never came up with a plan to get back at Lynn. She toyed with us. We’ll toy with her.” Roland looked affectionately at Alan and managed the approximation of a smile, using his neck and eye muscles. “Whatever it is we’ll do to her will be a lot of fun for us, I’m sure,” he said. “So let’s give it some thought, okay?”
Sitting on his beloved armless white easy chair at home, Alan did give it some thought. And he did come up with a plan. An excellent plan, for someone who hadn’t gone to Harvard, he gloated.
Taking advantage of Roland’s still-existing feelings of guilt, he told him the plan, and quickly pronounced it as the only way Roland could ever make up for the awful way he had treated him.
Resentfully, Roland said, “That’s not the kind of plan I had in mind.”
Firmly, Alan said, “I know it’s not.”
“Listen,” Roland said, “you annoyed me so much when you pretended you couldn’t see the differences between us, that I ended up saying those stupidities that made me feel remorseful. If it now amuses you to take advantage of that by forcing me to do this thing which you know will be a nightmare for me, fine. I will make this huge sacrifice for you. But then I’ll be done with you.”
Roland Dupont strolled into Lynn’s gallery, casually dropping a button. He planted himself in front of Lynn and her assistant, who were standing in front of a blank wall, discussing it. They were stunned by Mr. Dupont’s arrival.
“I need to speak with you. I have a proposition to make,” he said to Lynn. “I propose that you spend a weekend with Alan, the gentleman who fancies you, and in return I will spend a weekend with you.”
Lynn had no idea what he was talking about. She didn’t know who “Alan” was. She knew lots of Alans, and it didn’t occur to her that her stalker and stalkee could know each other. But regardless, she was already shocked by the repulsiveness of the offer.
“Who’s Alan?” she asked.
“The gentleman who fancies you.”
“Could you be a little more specific?”
“There are lots of gentlemen who fancy her,” Patricia said.
“Alan is the gentleman you might have noticed walking behind you on occasion,” Roland said. “He sent you a naked picture of himself, which you then kindly passed on to me. Am I jogging your memory? He sent you dozens of notes signed ‘Alan,’ which you covered in Wite-Out. You sent me the underwear he bought for you. You sent me the bonsai tree he gave you. And the flowers, and the cookies. It’s always good to economize. Passion doesn’t need to be expensive, nor does it need to use up mental energy or creativity.”
Lynn was getting the sneaking suspicion she had picked a nutcase to stalk. “You know my stalker?” she asked.
“Yes. Your stalker, Alan, is my racquetball partner.”
They stared at each other.
“So where are you from, anyway?” Roland asked. “If we’re going to spend a weekend together, I’d like to know a little about you.”
“Long Island,” she said, and added nothing.
“So, are you interested in my weekend offer? Sex will not be expected, on either weekend, from any of the parties.”
Since she didn’t answer right away, he added, “I know that half of the deal is repulsive to you, but just think of the other half — the weekend with me.”
“I am.”
“She’d like to mull it over,” Patricia said. “Wouldn’t you, Lynn?”
“Yes,” Lynn said.
They exchanged business cards, and her stalkee left, dropping a paper clip.
“I’m not sure my stalking therapy is working,” Lynn said to Patricia. “My degree of revulsion is … phenomenal.”
“You do look pale. But he’s not so bad, Lynn,” Patricia said. “He’s pretty good-looking, and he could be intelligent. You never know, he might turn out to be the man of your dreams.”