Bad Behavior: Stories (4 page)

“I don’t want to medicate.” She pulled the sticky, coffee-stained wastebasket out from under her desk and showered the mouse turds into it with a deft swish of cardboard.

Daisy had never been to an opera. “Will there be people in breastplates and headdresses with horns?” she asked. “Will there be a papier-mâché dragon and things flying through the air?” She looked hard at the curtained stage.

“Probably not,” he said. “I think this production is coming from a German Impressionist influence, which means they’ll eschew costumes and scenery as much as possible. They’re coming from
an emphasis on symbolism and minimal design. It was a reaction against the earlier period when—”

“I want to see a dragon flying through the air.” She took a pink mint from the box of opera mints he’d bought, popped it into her mouth and audibly sucked it. She shifted it to her cheek and asked, “Why do you like the opera?”

“I don’t know, I like the music sometimes, I like to see how they put productions together. I like to watch the people.”

“So do I.”

“Sometimes I have this fantasy that the opera house is suddenly taken over by psychos or terrorists or something, and that I save everybody.”

She stopped sucking her mint and turned to look at him. “How?”

“I jump from the balcony railing and scale down the curtain until I’m parallel with the cord. Then I jump for the cord, swing through the air—”

“That’s impossible.”

“Well, yes, I know. It’s a fantasy.”

“Why would you have a fantasy like that?” She looked disturbed.

“I don’t know. It’s not important.”

She continued to stare at him, almost stricken. “I think it’s because you feel estranged from people. You want something extreme to happen so you can show that you love them, and that you deserve love from them.”

He pulled her head against his shoulder and kissed it. He said, “Sometimes I just want to tear you apart.”

She put her box of mints in her lap and grabbed him tightly around the waist.

It was after midnight when they left the opera. They went to a neon-lit deli manned by aging waiters wearing red jackets, several of whom had violent tics in their jaws. Daisy persuaded him to order a salad and a milk shake; she was worried that he didn’t eat enough. He sipped his shake uncomfortably and watched her eat cream cheese and salmon. She talked about her unhappy relationship
with her father, pausing to bend her head so she could nip up the fallen croissant flakes with her tongue. Waiters ran around the table, some of them bearing three food-loaded plates in each hairy hand.

He tried to make her take some pills and stay out with him longer, but she said she felt too guilty about David. There was also some art work she wanted to do. She sighed and looked at the ground. She pulled away from him four times before he let her go. He watched her walk away and thought, “Now it’s too late to buy jelly beans.”

When he opened the door to his apartment, Diane hit him in the face. He was so startled, he stood there and let her hit him three more times before he grabbed her wrist.

“You filthy bastard!” she screamed. “You went to the opera with her! We always go to the opera together and you went with that cunt!”

“I hardly thought you wanted to go.”

“Well, I did. I waited for you to come home from work.” Her voice hobbled tearfully. “I never thought you would go with that cunt.”

“She’s not a cunt.”

She swung her free hand, catching his ear. She yanked at the lobe, tearing out his tiny blue earring. It pinged on the floor, sparkled and rolled away. “Shit!” he screamed. He dropped to his knees and felt the floor with his palms. “Don’t you have any self-control?”

“I don’t give a shit about self-control. Get the fuck out.”

“Will you just wait until I find my earring?”

“I don’t care about your fucking earring. Get out before I kill you.”

“God, you’re so irrational.”

He listened for sobbing from outside the slammed door. There was none. His ear was bleeding and his face burned, but he was oddly exhilarated. He was sorry Diane was so upset, but there was something stirring about a violent tantrum. It was the sort of thing he liked to tell stories about.

The street was buzzing with junkies and kids with big radios. They stood in a jumbled line against buildings and crawled out of holes in the walls and fences. They mumbled at him as he walked past. “I got the blues, I got the reds, I got the greens and blacks, the ones from last week.”

He walked three blocks to Eliot’s apartment; he didn’t expect Eliot to answer the door, but he buzzed anyway. He was startled when Eliot’s suspicious voice darted from the cluster of tiny holes that served as an intercom.

“It’s the F.B.I.,” said Joey.

There was a grudging silence before the buzzer squawked. When Joey reached the apartment door, Eliot poked his head out, one finger to his lips. His wispy brown hair stuck out in a ratty halo; his round, thin-lashed eyes were hysterically wide and moist. “Whatever you do, don’t mention drugs,” he whispered. “If you have to refer to them at all, say ‘gum’ or something. Only don’t be conspicuous.”

“All right,” said Joey.

“They’ve got the place wired,” explained Eliot. “We tore the apartment apart and we still can’t find the bug. Are you sure you weren’t followed?”

Joey nodded. Eliot stretched his neck and stared into the empty hall, blinking his damp eyes hard. Satisfied, he let Joey in.

Rita was lying on the couch in front of a partially dismantled TV screen with a soundless picture on it. Her large feet hung over the edge of the couch, her hands were limp at the ends of her thin, prominently veined wrists. Her head drooped sideways on her slender, listless neck, almost falling off the couch. When she saw Joey she lifted her head, and her dark eyes lighted.

He flapped his hand at her and sat on a hard-backed chair. “Diane threw me out of the house,” he said.

“Yeah?” said Eliot. He got on his knees and began looking through the records scattered on the floor.

“It doesn’t matter. I wanted to move anyway. I’m in love. It’s all over between Diane and me.”

“You should’ve made that decision five years ago,” said Rita.

Eliot whirled around, waving a record. “You’ve got to hear this. It’s the most incredible thing.”

“Oh, Jesus Christ, that record came out ten years ago,” said Rita. “Just because you’ve only heard it for the first time.”

Eliot tore the record from its jacket, tossed the jacket across the room and knelt before the turntable. He lifted the needle and examined it, blowing delicately.

Rita threw her long legs up and sat with her small bony knees together, her feet toeing in. “Who are you in love with?”

“You know, she’s still showing those stupid home movies of you in the bathtub,” said Eliot. “She watches them and masturbates. It’s hilarious. She shows them to everybody.”

“Who is it?” asked Rita.

“This girl at the store named Daisy.”

“Oh. I guess it figures.” She leaned forward to the cluttered table for a match. Her dark hair fell across her face with the graceful motion of a folding wing. She leaned back, exposing her face again. The lines under her eyes were deep and black with smeared makeup. “Got any pills, Joe?”

Eliot jumped up. “Don’t say that!” he screamed.

“Oh, you asshole,” said Rita. “Got any … socks?”

“Sure.” Joey poured a colorful tumble into her palm.

“What are you trying to do to me?” said Eliot through his teeth. “Are you working for them or what?”

Joey looked around; they really had torn up the apartment. Dead plants were turned over in their broken pots, slashed pillows spilled yellow foam out onto the floor, cardboard boxes lay with their lids yanked open, their contents exposed and strewn. The filing cabinet was tipped over, its open drawers freeing a white dance of paper. At least the broken bottles had been swept safely into piles.

Eliot’s rare book collection was preserved in a prim stack beside the couch. Joey could see the three Bartolovs he’d sold him. Eliot had been awed when he’d discovered that Joey’s pill connection was Alexander Bartolov, the famous poet.

“Oh, come on Rita, just a little blow job,” said Eliot. “I won’t come or anything.”

“Forget it,” said Rita. She lay back into the couch, her spidery white hand over her eyes. Her long limp legs recalled the flying grasshopper on Daisy’s valentine.

“She’s still hot for you, you know,” said Eliot. “I still have to hear about the times you tied her up and spanked her.”

“Can’t we change the subject?” said Joey.

“Okay,” said Eliot cheerfully. “I’m going to the bathroom anyway. I’m nauseous.”

“Don’t relax,” said Rita. “He’ll be back in a minute.”

“It’s all right with me,” said Joey. He took a magazine off the table. It was open to a picture of a masked woman dressed in a red rubber suit that a man was inflating with a pump. On the next page, a naked girl was tied with belts in a kneeling position on a bathroom floor. An ornery-looking young fellow approached her from behind with a rubber hose; she looked over her shoulder, her lips parted in a look of coy fear. He was surprised at how pretty she was. Her cheekbones and shoulders were like Daisy’s.

Daisy and Joey emerged from the movie theater holding hands. “We have no place to go,” said Daisy. “It’s been a month since we’ve been alone in a room. And David won’t leave.” They walked, still holding hands.

“I feel so terrible about David,” she said. “He’s such a lovely, innocent person. He’s the purest person I know.”

“There are no pure people.”

“You haven’t seen David. He has such naked eyes. When you touch him, it’s like there’s nothing between you and him.” She looked at him quizzically. “You’re not like that. When I touch you, I don’t feel you at all.”

“There’s nothing to feel.”

“Don’t say that about yourself.” She dropped his hand and rubbed his back with her mittened hand. “Anyway, it’s good you’re not like David. Even as you are, I worry about you being too nice to me.”

He put his hand around her neck. “I don’t know what makes you think I have any intention of being nice to you.”

She turned and kissed him. He took a handful of her hair in his fist and pulled her head tautly back while he kissed her.

They sat on the cold stone steps of an apartment building. They unbuttoned their jackets and huddled together, his hands on either side of her softly sweatered body.

“You’re so strange,” she said. “It’s hard to talk to you.”

“How so?”

“You’re always talking at me. You don’t listen to what I say.”

“I seem strange because I’m special.”

“I think it’s because you take so many pills.”

“You should start taking them. Did you know the government gives them to soldiers who are about to go into combat? They sharpen the reflexes, senses, everything.”

“I’m not going into combat.”

There was a sound from above. They turned and saw a handsome, well-dressed middle-aged couple at the head of the steps. Joey saw a flicker of admiration in Daisy’s face as she looked at the tall blond lady in her evening dress. The couple began to descend. Daisy and Joey stood and squeezed into a stony corner to let them pass. The man’s shoulder scratched against Joey. The man coughed, quite unnecessarily.

“Excuse me,” said the woman. “We only live here.”

“You have plenty of room,” said Daisy sharply.

“You have no business being here,” said the man. The couple stood on the sidewalk and frowned, their shoulders indignant.

“Why do you care?” said Daisy. “We aren’t in your way.” Her voice quivered oddly.

“Ssssh,” said Joey. “Let them live their lives.”

“You are very rude,” said the woman. “If you’re here when we get back, we’re going to call the police.” She swept away, sweeping her husband with her. They were probably in a hurry.

Joey watched the woman’s dress fluttering along the pavement. “That was strange,” he said. “I’ve sat on lots of steps before and that’s never happened.”

Daisy didn’t answer.

“I guess it’s different in the East Village.”

Daisy sniffed wetly.

He reached into his pocket and got out his bag of jelly beans. He offered some to Daisy, but she ignored him. Her head was down, and slow, quiet tears ran singly down her nose. He put his arms around her. “Hey, come on,” he said. He felt no response from her. She didn’t move or look at him.

He dropped his arm and looked away, confused. He ate his jelly beans and looked at the pool of lamplight in the black street.

S
HE WAS MEETING
a man she had recently and abruptly fallen in love with. She was in a state of ghastly anxiety. He was married, for one thing, to a Korean woman whom he described as the embodiment of all that was feminine and elegant. Not only that, but a psychic had told her that a relationship with him could cripple her emotionally for the rest of her life. On top of this, she was tormented by the feeling that she looked inadequate. Perhaps her body tilted too far forward as she walked, perhaps her jacket made her torso look bulky in contrast to her calves and ankles, which were probably skinny. She felt like an object unraveling in every direction. In anticipation of their meeting, she had not been able to sleep the night before; she had therefore eaten some amphetamines and these had heightened her feeling of disintegration.

When she arrived at the corner he wasn’t there. She stood against a building, trying to arrange her body in the least repulsive configuration possible. Her discomfort mounted. She crossed the street and stood on the other corner. It seemed as though everyone who walked by was eating. A large, distracted businessman went by holding a half-eaten hot dog. Two girls passed, sharing cashews from a white bag. The eating added to her sense that the world was disorderly and unbeautiful. She became acutely aware of the garbage on the street. The wind stirred it; a candy wrapper waved forlornly from its trapped position in the mesh of a jammed public wastebasket. This was all wrong, all horrible. Her meeting with him should be perfect and scrap-free. She couldn’t bear the thought of flapping trash. Why wasn’t he there to meet her? Minutes passed. Her shoulders drew together.