new threat, another inevitably more gruesome method for disposing of himself.
I was running out of tricks and feeling increasingly desperate about Jerry’s situation. I was lying awake at night trying to figure out what to tell him.
“There must be something good in your life. Is there anything you like to do? Maybe you can find a way to make your interests work for you somehow—get an entry-level job and start paying back the money.”
“Well, I like history. I’m kind of an amateur historian. Ask me anything you want about the Second World War,” he boasted. “And then there’s sports. I like curling,” he said a bit brightly, but his enthusiasm quickly disappeared. “Jeez, what am I supposed to do—get a job sweeping sidewalks? Oh God, my life is a mess.”
I found myself nodding in agreement. His life was a mess. What the hell was he supposed to do? I decided to ad-lib.
“I’ll give you the money,” I told him.
“What?”
“I’ll pay off the credit cards for you, but you can’t tell anyone.”
“You’ll pay them off? How can you pay them off? Why would you do such a thing for me?”
“Don’t worry about it. It’s not a big deal.”
“Who are you? You must be my guardian angel. Oh God, I can’t believe it. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.” All the while, he was emitting a deep rumbling sound, like a low-grade weather disturbance. Jerry had a few distinguishing personal habits—you could hear every breath he took, and he was always loudly clearing his sinuses, tripping my gag reflex with every snort and honk.
It was embarrassing—all that misplaced gratitude. I came into some money on my twentieth birthday. I used some of it to help dig out Pop and Uncle Tom, temporarily, anyway. If Pop left the house with a million bucks, he’d find a way to come home later that afternoon having spent a million and a half—oh yeah, and he’d be drunk to boot.
The money was from a trust fund established by my maternal grandmother—it was gleefully administered by the Falcon, who could give lessons to the Mossad when it came to interrogation methods. Fortunately, he was hopelessly out of touch—I could have told him that I needed ten thousand dollars to buy a can opener and it wouldn’t have raised an alarm.
There was always more money, more money to come, turn on the faucet and money would fill the sink, the rest of my life was just one big money slide and me buried in it so deeply that no search-and-rescue team would ever find me, so rich that I’m a lost civilization.
I would be ashamed to tell you what I’m worth—financially, anyway.
A few days later—so easy, so solvable—debts paid, Jerry showed up at the clinic to thank me. “Anything you want. Just name it. I’ll do anything. I’m indebted to you for life.”
His face was so close to mine, I could smell an unappetizing combination of churning stomach acids and partially digested hot dog relish on his breath. Jesus, was this the face of charity?
“No. No more debt. You’re free. Just enjoy your life. Go curling,” I managed to joke, walking him to the door, my attempt at a kind of grassroots redemption rapidly coming unmoored, fallen victim to a failed deodorant and neediness so vulgar, it was its own sandwich board.
“I’d love to, but my knees are in pretty rough shape . . . all this extra weight I’m carrying,” he said, patting his stomach. Jerry, at least three or four inches taller than me, was about as big as someone could be without exploding.
“Maybe this would be a good time for you to start making some changes. Lose weight, get in shape, then you’d feel more confident about making friends and getting a job.” I was leaning against the door frame, reluctant to offer advice but feeling as if I should.
“I’ve got the only friend I’ll ever need or want,” he said with such passion that I was afraid the top of his head was going to erupt and start spewing steam and ash.
I looked down. His hand gripped my forearm so tightly, he cut off the circulation. A tiny silent alarm vibrated in my stomach.
His pressing money worries taken care of, Jerry was now free to obsess about me. He was waiting for me after classes, trailing me to the cafeteria, lurking in the library, calling me at the clinic every night and at home during the day, asking me to come with him to