optimism, determination, confidence, altruism. Some of us have one of those big, red, shiny ones, like you find in the pit stop area of NASCAR races. And some have a good-sized household one. You have a little one, like a child might have. And inside there’s almost nothing. Maybe just like a ball-peen hammer and a broken measuring tape. But it’s not your fault, sweetie.”
I have giant words in my head when I think of certain people. For Ian it’s SECURE. For Martin it’s CONFIDENT. For Phoebe it’s LOVELY. With Amy the word KIND appears in big letters, maybe a strong, clean Helvetica. And I threw that away. And in this moment, like so many others, I regret everything and in the exact same moment wonder if maybe we could get back together, if only for tonight. And the mere thought of that floods me with a comfort that is palpable. My mood lifts. I can see her bright, warm, clean apartment, the working fireplace, the big bed with far too many pillows. Her tidy kitchen filled with All-Clad pots and pans and complete sets of dishes, glasses that match, place settings. A refrigerator with food in it. She buys flowers for no other reason than they look pretty on the table. And I think yes, perhaps we could talk all night in front of the fireplace and drink wine and order food. I could tell her the whole story, the story even I don’t understand, about how I’ve gotten here, to this distant, empty, emotionless place. I would purge my soul to her and she would listen, nod, comfort and affirm me. “Life is a process, Fin,” she would say, slowly, nodding. “You’re doing fine. Just a little slower than most.” And later, after much sex, we would sleep for many hours. And then I would leave, run screaming into the morning, wanting nothing more than to escape again.
“I wanted to call because . . . this is a bit awkward . . .”
I knew it. She wants to get together. I could be on a shuttle flight at five and in her apartment by seven.
She says, “I wanted to call because my boyfriend proposed to me New Year’s Eve and we’re getting married in a month. We’re flying to Paris. He’s rented the restaurant at the Crillon. He’s bringing my family and his family, some of whom live over there and . . . I’m rambling, I know, but I’m just so happy. And I wanted you to know that because I know how upset it made you to make me as unhappy as you did. I was really angry at you for a while, but I’m over that now. I wanted you to not feel bad about it anymore because looking back, not marrying you was the best thing that ever happened to me. And I wanted to thank you for that.”
It’s as if someone has just handed me a different script to my life. As if the one I was working from was the wrong one. In the old one I was someone with time, with a great job, with possibility ahead of him. It was a rollicking good comedy. This new one is a sad drama. The hero is almost forty, which means he’s almost fifty, which means his life is basically over and any chance of success long gone. And the truly sad part is that it’s his own fault. He thought he could live a life where you blamed fate for your lot. Father left. Mother died. Poor me. What he failed to realize is that there is no fate. There is only how hard you are willing to work to be happy. And in this new script, he’s a fool.
In the end all I can manage is, “I’m very happy for you, Aim. Honest.”
We hang up and I stand there, thinking I may shit myself. I see a door that says TOILET but underneath is a sign that says OUT OF ORDER.
I turn to see the old woman staring at me. She squints and says, “Did you hear the one about the most optimistic man in the world? He jumped off the Empire State Building and halfway down the window washers hear him say, ‘So far, so good.’”
She cackles and turns away.
• • •
We are in a small conference room at the law office. Sullivan, O’Neil & Levy is a working man’s law firm. From the looks of it the offices haven’t