Truth in Advertising Page 0,123
don’t watch the boy this time. I watch me follow her on my bike. I watch the car speed up, turn sharply, rocket up over the curb, and hit the tree. I hear the noise, the sharp, fast crack. Time stops. Waits. I watch as I ride through traffic, watch, out of the corner of my eye, the car that had to skid to keep from hitting me. Watch as I run to the driver’s-side door, try to open it. Watch as I stick my head in the opening of the shattered glass. Watch as I say . . . no . . . as I screamed Mum, Mum, Mum! Watch as I pull my head out fast, the small cut, the drops of blood, the woman with her hands over her mouth and nose. The cars stopping. The men running. The sirens. I wait for reality to begin again. But it is already far ahead of me. It’s not all right. I won’t beat her home.
I open my eyes and see a black woman pushing an older man in a wheelchair. He smiles at me. A toddler waddles past, looking like he will fall with every step, his mother a step behind him, arms wide, just in case. Two teenagers, maybe sixteen, a boy and a girl, sit a bench away, talking closely, making out.
This is it, then. Right here. This moment.
Let me go, Finny. Let us go.
I call Phoebe. She lives across the park, on the Upper West Side.
“Hi,” she says.
“Hi.”
“You’re back.”
“I’m back.”
“How’s the spot?”
“Have you ever been to the petting zoo?”
“What?”
“The petting zoo. In the park. They have a petting zoo. You can feed the animals. I was wondering, if you’re not doing anything, if you wanted to go to the zoo.”
“It’s thirty-nine degrees outside.”
“Wear a warm coat.”
She meets me at the entrance to the children’s zoo and we feed quarters into a gumball machine that dispenses pellet food for goats. If you lay your hand flat, the goats lick the pellet off your hand. There’s also a Purell dispenser.
We look at the pigs, the llama, the cow. The goats are the only ones that seem happy.
We leave and walk through the park, wander past frozen ball fields, bundled joggers. I tell her about the meeting, about blowing up. I tell her they’ll probably fire me later today, when I go back. Near the Great Lawn there’s a café and I buy two coffees. We keep walking.
“What are you going to do?” she asks.
“No idea.”
“Does Martin know? About your father?”
I say, “No.”
She nods.
“You seem okay,” she says.
“Could be sleep deprivation. I’ll probably wake up in a massive panic attack tonight. I’ve got enough money to live for about a year. If I move to Angola.”
“Why are you smiling?”
“I don’t know. I feel good.”
She nods.
I say, “I’m sorry.”
“You already apologized.”
“I know. But I’m sorry.”
“You scared me.”
“I know.”
Clouds have moved in and covered the sun. It’s getting colder.
Phoebe says, “Anyway. I think I’m going to head back now.”
I say, “Do you want to come on vacation with me?”
“Fin.”
“We could go someplace.”
She looks at me.
She says, “Give me a reason.”
I say, “Because I’ve got these two tickets. These two first-class tickets.”
“Not good enough.”
Two kids on skateboards go by. On the road, a hansom carriage pulled by a sad old horse clops along. I take a deep breath. It’s not that I don’t have the words. I do. I’ve had them for a long time. I just couldn’t quite bring myself to say them.
Finally I say, “Because there’s only you. Because I want to make you happy. Because I want to show you that I’m worthy of you.”
I’m looking at a tree and Phoebe is looking at me. I look at her now.
Phoebe, her voice different, says, “Why couldn’t you have just said that in the first place?”
I step closer and take my glove off and put my hand on her face, her cheek. I lean in farther, put my face against hers.
I say, “I thought you knew.”
• • •
Time to get fired.
I walk back into the office, going through the revolving doors as others are leaving. I need my bag. There is a FedEx package on my desk. I am instantly unnerved. I open it and inside there is a small box and a note.
Fin. Time is what you make of it. I hope what I mean is coming out with my words. Also, I bought one for myself so we both have the same one. Like brothers. Your tomodachi.