The Museum of Heartbreak - Meg Leder Page 0,60
missing some of his front teeth, and the remaining ones were yellow, and his breath was stale and dank, as if all the subway stink was actually coming from the inside of him.
I felt my resolve crumbling, but I forced myself to step forward and gently hand him a dollar.
“My fortune, please.”
He snatched the bill out of my hands and dropped it in the Yankees cap, then pulled out a dirty old tube sock from his side and began digging through it. A bunch of folded-up pieces of paper spilled out—all the colors of the rainbow, like Miles’s Mohawk: a good omen.
I suddenly and desperately missed my subway token, still shoved in the bottom of my purse after my fight with Eph two weekends ago at the Brooklyn Flea.
The man pulled out a neon-green piece of paper and offered it to me, grinning his missing-tooth smile, and I smiled at him, because this was my New York fairy tale, this was my New York fairy godmother in disguise.
But then, as my hand touched his, he opened his mouth and screamed right in my face “Canada is doomed to destruction!”
I yelped, jumping back, my heart in my throat.
“Come on,” Keats said, wrapping his arm hastily around my shoulder.
The man responded by hocking a giant wad of spit near Keats’s oxfords.
“Fuck,” Keats swore, and steered us down the platform.
A few tourists stared our way, trying to suss out who had caused the outburst. The man continued to yell about Canada, throwing in some choice comments about terrorists and amaretto and cats.
“God, I told you I didn’t want to take the subway. I told you not to talk to that guy,” he said.
“I wanted to make things better,” I said.
He rolled his eyes again, and I thought about Grace’s ex-boyfriend, how he’d made her feel bad about herself.
We waited for the train in an awkward silence, one punctuated only by periodic bursts of 9/11 hollering from the other end of the platform.
“Maybe we should head home?” I offered after a few minutes, waiting for him to disagree.
“Good idea.”
But I just stood there, not leaving, wondering how to fix this.
“You’re coming to the Nevermore launch party on Sunday?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he said, glancing anxiously down the tunnel for the train lights.
I tried to remind myself that he was having a bad day. That liking Keats meant liking all of him—good and bad—and that he just needed some space.
But my stomach hurt, and I felt sick, even though we hadn’t taken a cab.
While he paced the platform, I unfolded the green piece of paper, my hands shaking.
JESUS IS THE WAY THE MOON IS AT COLUMBUS CIRCLE 59TH STREET MOON LANDING FAKE 9/11!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I wanted my dollar back. I wanted my afternoon back. I wanted my fairy tale back.
I felt so embarrassed, and as I watched Keats get onto the arriving train, barely waving at all, I bit my lip so hard I tasted blood—all to keep from crying.
Nevermore, literary journal
Nevermore, acta litterarum
Cafe Grumpy
New York, New York
Cat. No. 201X-18
KEATS AND I HUNG OUT the day after the subway incident, a sunny Wednesday, and everything seemed normal again. We made it to the Strand that time, and even though I felt tentative from the day before, he was übercharming, buying me an amazing illustrated edition of Moby Dick, finding us a secluded corner in the poetry section to make out.
To be honest, it scared me a little, how normal he seemed, as if the day before had never happened. But maybe that was okay. The subway incident had really sucked.
That afternoon, as we made out amid the comforting smell of musty old books, I felt myself relax into him again, my body ease into the shape of him. The way he kissed the spot under my ear, I felt a little dizzy.
Maybe this was his gift, to make it all go away.
My gift to him: never telling him or anyone about reading his “Wonder Wheel” story.
• • •
By the time the weekend rolled around, I was wound up with energy and practically jumping with excitement about the Nevermore release party, like Beaker from the Muppets.
Mr. Garfield had arranged for us to take over the back room at a coffee shop on Sunday evening. When I showed up with several bags of cookies from a Little Italy bakeshop in hand, I gasped. Grace and May (the decorating committee) had transformed the place. There were a few rows of seats set up for the reading and small white fairy lights