“SO?” he screams. “Why do you always bring that up to defend your inadequacies?”
“Please don’t be so harsh,” Penelope’s mother finally says.
His tone softens. “Don’t you feel ashamed to do business this way?”
“It’s a selling technique,” Penelope says.
Feeling sorry for her, I jump in. “Positioning the broken pieces in such a way as to make them appear unbroken requires great skill. I wouldn’t be surprised if, in the long run, the art of the deception becomes the true art of the piece.” I reach for an ugly mug that looks in perfect condition. The moment I raise it from the shelf, a piece of the rim falls inside the mug. “Wow,” I gasp. “It looked so undamaged. Your technique is remarkable, Penelope. Achieving this effect of false wholeness, this illusion of integrity, must take a lot of work. It’s a tough balancing act.”
“Yes,” she says.
Her father is not satisfied. “But don’t customers object to paying for something they didn’t break? How did you manage to get so many people to pay for the pieces?”
“I cry,” Penelope says.
“You cry to sell your broken merchandise?” her father screams.
“Yes, it helps! And I’m thinking of branching out and selling glassware, too.”
“I’m embarrassed by you.”
“I was kidnapped!” she exclaims again. “And don’t pretend you don’t see how that could possibly affect the rest of my life. I was kept in a coffin for three days and three nights. No food. No water. No physical movement. Hardly any air to breathe. No toilet. I should be dead right now.” She gives her father a searing look.
Her father turns to me. “You seem well balanced. Do you have a good therapist you could recommend?”
I stammer, “I have one… since yesterday… uh, I don’t know how good she is.”
Penelope says, “I didn’t go to a therapist when I came out of the coffin — I don’t see why I should go to one now.”
Her father takes her by the shoulders and stares deep into her eyes. “You’re the one who keeps using the coffin excuse to defend every poor choice you make and to justify your lack of… achievements — which I don’t say is invalid, but it tells me you might want to deal with your coffin issue. Face it, you never really got out of that coffin. Let a therapist free you.”
Seeing no reaction from her and unwilling to wait more than two seconds for one, he adds, “And anyway, if you don’t start contributing to your living in a legitimate way very soon, I’m going to stop supporting you. Then you’ll have no choice but to make money, honey.”
THE TENSION OF the last couple of hours has exhausted me. I decide to go straight home instead of buying some more materials for my masks, as I’d intended.
By the time I arrive at my building, I have a blasting headache.
The doorman opens the door, saying, “Here you go, cunt.”
I cringe because I’m afraid he’ll be overheard by the other two doormen at the front desk. There are other staff members as well in this large lobby: porters, handymen, the super, one of the employees from the management office. What worries me is that he’ll get fired, end up homeless, kill himself, and it will be my fault because something about me — my kindness, my compassion, who knows — made him feel safe enough to drop his inhibitions and allow his mental problem to surface in my presence.
“Having a bad day, huh, Adam?”
“Yeah.”
“Me too. Hope it gets better,” I say cheerfully, trying to make my tone raise his spirits. And I go up to my apartment.
Chapter Four
That evening, Lily, Georgia, Jack, Penelope, and I go to a bar to blow off steam. We’re all upset. Lily’s shown us a postcard Strad sent her:
Hey Lily, Sorry I can’t make it to your concert. Hope it goes/went well. Last month I read that great article in Time Out about your new music’s powers. Congratulations on your success! Strad
When we meet up, Penelope gives me a gift to thank me for helping her deal with her parents at her store of ugly ceramic items. The gift is an ugly ceramic item: a hideous box with a beautiful metal clasp encrusted with a small green stone. But at least the gift is not broken.
“Sorry I didn’t wrap it,” she says. “I made it. Except for the clasp. Someone in the metal department at school created it for me in exchange for two pots.”
“Thank you!” I say, kissing her on the cheek. “I’m so touched. It’s wonderful. It has such character.”
We all make a show of admiring the box, though secretly we’re just admiring the clasp.
Penelope tells the others about the fight with her dad in her shop of broken pots and his threat to stop supporting her if she didn’t start contributing to her living in a way that wasn’t against the law. They’re astounded to hear about her selling technique.
I’m sad for Penelope, after the fight with her father, and I’m sad for Georgia over her lost novel. Mostly, though, I’m angry on Lily’s behalf. So I scan the bar, as has become my habit, for a possible scapegoat, for a shallow man to represent all shallow men.
At the same time, I’m also searching for an exception, for a man capable of falling in love with a woman for reasons other than her looks. That’s the only kind of man I could ever fall in love with.
While my friends huddle on a banquette and order drinks and snacks, I spot a man reading a stack of handsome books at the bar. He’s a bohemian type. Chin-length hair.
I approach him. The books are small, old editions with lovely bindings. The man himself is attractive, too — not that that matters. As I near, I glance at the spines of his volumes: Cinderella, The Sleeping Beauty, Little Red Riding Hood, Rumpelstiltskin, Tom Thumb, The Princess in Disguise, Hansel and Gretel, Rapunzel, and Snow White.
Maybe this isn’t an occasion for my usual bar ritual. The presence of the books gives me hope that perhaps this guy isn’t as shallow as all the other strangers I’ve approached.
I stand behind him and look over his shoulder. The page he’s looking at has a beautiful illustration of Sleeping Beauty, with a few lines of text.
“This is the first time I’ve ever seen a man reading fairy tales in a bar,” I tell him.
He looks me over and tersely replies, “I’m doing it for work.”
“Now I’m dying to know: what kind of work?” I sit down on the barstool next to him.
He closes his eyes wearily and says, “I’m a kindergarten teacher. I really have to focus right now.”
He has to focus, and yet I can’t help noticing him turning his head to look at several attractive women who have entered the room.
“Bringing fairy tales to a bar must be a great way to meet women, though I don’t think classic fairy tales are the best things to read to children,” I say.
“Excuse me?” he says, in a tone that conveys annoyance, not only at what I’m saying, but at the fact that I’m still talking.
I’m fully aware that I’m very annoying during my bar ritual. That’s the point.
“Haven’t you noticed how the heroines are always beautiful?” I say. “There are no ugly heroines, no ugly girls that are worthy to be loved. There are poor heroines, dirty heroines, like Cinderella, but never ugly heroines. That sends out a terrible message to kids.”
“I can see how that could make certain ugly women angry,” he says, not looking up from The Sleeping Beauty.
I glance at my friends and hold my nose to indicate that this is a real stinker. Georgia mimes stabbing gestures toward the man, which startles me. That seems a bit excessive, even for her.