Fly Already Page 2

  “Complicated” is not what I need right now. And from what I remember back in high school, Avri’s “complicateds” are complicated indeed. All in all, I’m just after a single bud, even just one joint, to smoke with a pretty girl who laughs at my jokes. I don’t have the headspace right now for a meeting with hardened criminals or whoever it is that lives over on Carlebach. Avri’s tone on the telephone is enough to stress me out, and also he said “complicated” twice. When I get to the address, he’s already waiting. And he’s still got the helmet from his scooter sitting on his head. “This guy,” he says to me, panting on the stairs, “the one we’re headed up to now, he’s a lawyer. My friend cleans his house every week, but not for money—she does it for medical marijuana. He’s got a bad cancer of the something—I’m not sure which part—and he’s got a prescription for forty grams a month but can barely smoke it. I asked her to ask him if he maybe wants to lighten his load a little, and he said he’d discuss it but insisted that two people come, I don’t know why. So I picked up the phone and called you.” “Avri,” I say to him, “I asked for a bud, I don’t want to go to some drug deal with a lawyer you’ve never met before in your life.” “It’s not a deal,” Avri says to me, “it’s just a person who requested that two of us stop by his apartment to talk. If he says something to us that doesn’t sit right, we say good-bye immediately and cut loose. In any case, there won’t be a deal today. I don’t have a shekel on me. At most, we’ll know we’ve got things rolling.”

  I still don’t feel good about it. Not because I think it’ll be dangerous. But because I’m afraid it’ll be unpleasant. I just can’t handle unpleasant. To sit with unfamiliar people in unfamiliar houses, with that kind of heavy atmosphere looming. It does me bad. “Nu,” Avri says, “just go up, and after two minutes make like you got a text and have to run. Don’t leave me hanging. He asked that two people show up. So walk into the house with me so I don’t come off like an idiot, and one minute after that, just split.” It still won’t sit right, but when Avri puts it that way, it’s hard for me to say no without coming off like a dick.

  The lawyer’s last name is Corman, or at the least that’s what’s written on the door. And the guy’s actually all right. He offers us Cokes and puts a lemon wedge in each glass with some ice, like we’re in the lobby of a hotel. And his apartment’s all right, too: bright, and it even smells good. “Look,” he says, “I’ve got to be in court in an hour. A civil suit over a hit-and-run involving a ten-year-old girl. The driver barely did a year in jail, and now I’m representing the parents, who are suing him for two million. He’s an Arab, the one that hit her, but from a rich family.” “Wow,” Avri says, as if he has any idea what this Corman is actually talking about, “but we’re here about a completely different matter. We’re Tina’s friends. The subject we came to discuss is weed.” “It’s the same subject,” Corman says, impatient. “If you give me a chance to finish, you’ll understand. In this case, the family of the driver is going to come out in numbers to show their support. On the side of the dead girl, outside of her parents, not another soul is going to show. And the parents are just going to sit there silently with their heads bowed, not saying a word.” Avri nods and goes quiet. He still doesn’t understand but doesn’t want to aggravate Corman. “I want you and your friend here to come to court, acting like you’re related to the victim, and make a ruckus. Make some noise. Scream at the defendant, call him a murderer. Maybe cry, curse a bit, but nothing racist, just, ‘You piece of shit’ and things of that nature. In short, they should feel your presence. They need to understand that there are people in this city who feel he’s getting off cheap. It may sound stupid to you, but things like that affect judges deeply. It shakes them up a little, shakes the mothballs from those old, dry laws, rubs the judges up against the real world.” “About the weed?” Avri tries. “I’m getting to that just now,” Corman cuts him off. “Give me that half hour in court and I’ll give each of you ten grams. If you scream loud enough, maybe even fifteen. What do you say?” “I just need a gram,” I tell him. “How about you sell it to me, and we call it a day? After that, you and Avri . . .” “Sell?” Corman laughs. “For money? What am I, a dealer? I may give a baggie to a friend here and there as a little present.” “So give me a present,” I beg. “It’s a fucking gram!” “But what did I just say a second ago?” Corman smiles an unpleasant smile. “I’ll give. First, just prove to me that you’re really a friend.”

  If it wasn’t Avri, I’d never agree, but he keeps telling me that this is our chance and that it’s not like we were doing something dangerous or breaking the law. Smoking dope is against the law, but screaming at someone who ran over a little girl—that’s not only legal, it’s downright normative. “Who knows,” he says, “if there are cameras there, they might even see us on the nightly news.” “But what’s the deal with pretending like we’re family?” I keep saying. “I mean, the girl’s parents will know we’re not related.” “He didn’t tell us to say we’re related,” Avri says, in defense of Corman. “He just said that we should scream. If anyone asks, we can always tell them that we read it in the paper and we’re just citizens who are truly engaged.”

  We’re having this conversation in the courthouse lobby, even though it’s sunny outside. Inside it’s dark and smells like some mix of sewage and mildew. And even though Avri and I keep on arguing, it’s long been clear to both of us that I’m already in. If I weren’t, I wouldn’t have come here with him on the back of the scooter. “Don’t worry,” he says to me, “I’ll scream for us both. You don’t have to do anything, just act like you’re a friend that’s trying hard to calm me down. Just so they feel that you’re with me.” The reason Avri tells me that I don’t have to scream is because half the driver’s family is already there, staring us down in the lobby. The driver himself is chubby and looks really young, and he talks to every new person who arrives, kissing them all, like it’s a wedding. At the plaintiff’s table, next to Corman and another young lawyer with a beard, sit the parents of the girl. They don’t look like they’re at a wedding. They look wiped out. The mother is maybe fifty or older but small, like a tiny bird. She has short gray hair and looks completely neurotic. The father sits there with his eyes closed. Every once in a while he opens them, and after a second closes them again.

  The proceedings begin, and it looks like we’ve come at the end of some complicated process, and everything sounds kind of technical and fragmented. They just keep murmuring the numbers of different sections and articles. I try to picture Shikma and me sitting here in court, after our daughter has been run over. We’re destroyed, but we’re supporting each other, and then she whispers in my ear, “I want that fucking murderer to pay.” It’s not fun to imagine, so I stop and instead start to imagine the two of us in my apartment, smoking something and watching some National Geographic documentary about animals, with the TV on mute. Somehow we suddenly start making out, and when she clings to me with a kiss, I feel her chest crushed up against mine . . . “Hyena!” Avri jumps up in the gallery and starts yelling. “What are you smiling at? You killed a little girl. Standing there in your polo shirt like you’re on a cruise—they should let you rot behind bars.”

  Some of the relatives from the driver’s family start coming in our direction, and I stand up and act like I’m trying to calm Avri down. Actually, I’m trying to calm Avri down. The judge bangs his gavel and calls on Avri to come to order. He says that if Avri doesn’t stop screaming, the court officers will toss him out by force, which at the moment sounds like a far more pleasant option than interacting with the driver’s entire family, a few of whom are now standing an inch from my face and cursing, and shoving Avri.

  “Terrorist!” Avri shrieks. “You deserve the death penalty.” I’ve got no idea why he says that. But one guy, with a huge mustache, slaps him. I try to separate them, to get between him and Avri, and catch a head butt to the face. The court officers drag Avri out. On the way, he gets in o
ne last “You killed a little girl. You plucked a flower. If only they’d murder your daughter, too.” By the time he says that, I’m already on the floor, on all fours. Blood runs from my nose or from my forehead, I’m not exactly sure where it’s dripping from. Right when Avri is delivering the bit about the driver’s daughter being killed as well, someone lands a real good, solid kick to my ribs.

  As soon as we get back to Corman’s house, he opens the freezer and gives me a bag of frozen peas and tells me to press hard. Avri doesn’t say a thing to him or to me, just asks where the weed is. “Why did you say terrorist?” Corman asks. “I told you specifically not to mention that he’s an Arab.” “‘Terrorist’ is not anti-Arab,” Avri says, defensive. “It’s like ‘murderer.’ The settlers also have terrorists.” Corman doesn’t say anything to him, he just goes into the bathroom and comes out with two little plastic bags. He hands me one and throws the other to Avri, who nearly fumbles the catch. “There’s twenty in each one,” Corman says to me as he opens the front door. “You can take the peas with you.”

  The next morning at the café, Shikma asks what happened to my face. I tell her it was an accident. I went to visit a married friend and slipped on his kid’s toy on the living room floor. “And I was already thinking that you got beat up over a girl,” Shikma says, laughing, and brings me my espresso. “That also happens sometimes.” I try to smile back. “Hang around with me long enough and you’ll see me get beat up over girls and over friends and defending kittens. But it’ll always be me getting beat up, never doing the beating.” “You’re just like my brother,” Shikma says, and continues to laugh. “The kind of guy who breaks up the fight and ends up getting hit.” I can feel the plastic bag with the twenty grams rustling in my coat pocket. But instead of paying attention to it, I ask her if she’s had a chance to see that new movie about the astronaut whose satellite blows up, leaving her stranded in outer space with George Clooney. She says no and asks me what that has to do with what we’re talking about. “Nothing,” I confess, “but it sounds pretty awesome. It’s three-D, with the glasses and everything. Do you maybe want to go see it with me?”

  There’s a moment of silence, and I know that after it passes, the yes or the no will come. In that moment, the image pops back into my head. Shikma crying. The two of us in court, holding hands. I try to change channels, to switch to the other image, the two of us, together, kissing on my torn living room couch. Try, and fail. That picture, I just can’t shake it.

  THE NEXT-TO-LAST TIME I WAS SHOT OUT OF A CANNON

  The next-to-last time I was shot out of a cannon was when Odelia left with the kid. I was working as a cage cleaner for the Romanian Circus, which was in town. I finished the lions’ cages in half an hour, and also the bears’ cages, but the elephants’ cages were really a killer. My back hurt and the whole world smelled of shit. My life was ruined and the smell of shit fit perfectly. I needed a break, so I grabbed myself a corner outside the cage and rolled a cigarette. I didn’t even wash my hands before doing it.

  After a couple of drags, I heard a small, fake cough behind me. It was the circus manager. His name was Roman, and he had won the circus in a card game. The old Romanian who originally owned the circus was holding three queens, but Roman had four of a kind. He told me the story the day he hired me. “Who needs luck,” he said with a wink, “when you know how to cheat.” I was sure Roman would make a scene because I was taking a break in the middle of work, but he didn’t even look angry. “Tell me,” he said, “you want to make an easy thousand?” I nodded, and he went on, “I just saw Ishtevan, our human cannonball, in his caravan. He’s completely smashed. I couldn’t wake him up and his show’s supposed to start in fifteen minutes . . .” Roman’s open hand drew the route of a cannonball in the air, ending with his squat fingers banging against my forehead, “I give you a thousand in cash if you take his place.”

  “I’ve never been shot out of a cannon,” I said and took another drag of my cigarette. “Sure you have,” Roman said, “when your ex left you, when your son told you he hates you, when your fat cat ran away. Listen, to be a human cannonball, you don’t need to be flexible or fast or strong, just lonely and miserable as hell.”

  “I’m not lonely,” I protested. “Really?” Roman laughed. “So tell me—never mind sex, when was the last time someone even smiled at you?”

  Before the show, they dressed me in silver overalls. I asked an old clown with a giant red nose if I didn’t need some instruction before they shot me. “The important thing,” he mumbled, “is to relax your body. Or contract it, one or the other. I don’t remember exactly. And you have to make sure the cannon is pointed straight ahead so it doesn’t miss the target.”

  “And that’s it?” I asked. Even in the silver overalls, I still stank of elephant shit. The circus manager came over and slapped me on the back. “Remember,” he said, “after they shoot you at the target, you get straight back to the stage, smile, and bow. And if, God forbid, something hurts or even if you break something, you have to keep it in, you have to hide it so the audience doesn’t see.”

  The people in the audience looked really happy. They cheered for the clowns that pushed me into the mouth of the cannon, and a second before the fuse was lit, the fat clown with the flower that sprayed water asked me, “You’re sure you want to do this? It’s the last chance to change your mind.” I nodded, and he said, “You know that Ishtevan, the last human cannonball, is in the hospital now with ten broken ribs?”

  “He isn’t,” I said, “he’s just a little drunk. He’s sleeping in his caravan now.”

  “Whatever you say,” the fat clown sighed, and struck the match.

  Looking back, I have to admit that the angle of the cannon was too sharp. Instead of hitting the target, I flew upward, made a hole in the top of the tent, and continued flying to the sky, way up high. I flew over the abandoned drive-in theater where Odelia and I once used to go to see movies. I flew over the playground where a few dog owners walked around with rustling plastic bags. Little Max was there too, playing ball, and when I flew over him, he looked up, smiled, and waved hello. On Yarkon Street, behind the place where the American embassy keeps its dumpsters, I saw Tiger, my fat cat, trying to catch a pigeon. A few seconds later, when I landed in the water, the handful of people on the beach stood up and applauded for me, and when I came out of the water, a tall girl with a nose ring handed me her towel and smiled.

  When I came back to the circus, my clothes were still wet and everything was dark. The tent was empty, and in the middle of it, near the cannon I was shot out of, Roman was counting the day’s take. “You missed the target,” he grumbled, “and you didn’t come back to bow like we agreed. I’m deducting four hundred for that.” He handed me a few wrinkled bills, and when he saw I wasn’t taking them, he gave me a tough East European look and said, “If I were you, I’d take it.”

  “Forget the money, Roman,” I said, and walked over to the mouth of the cannon, “Do a friend a favor and shoot me out again.”

  TODD

  My friend Todd wants me to write him a story that will help him get girls into bed.

  “You’ve already written stories that make girls cry,” he says. “And ones that make them laugh. So now write one that’ll make them jump into bed with me.”

  I try to explain to him that it doesn’t work that way. True, there are some girls who cry when they read my stories, and there are some guys who—

  “Forget guys,” Todd interrupts. “Guys don’t do it for me. I’m telling you this up front, so you won’t write a story that’ll get anyone who reads it into my bed, just girls. I’m telling you this to avoid unpleasantness.”

  So I explain to him again, in my patient tone, that it doesn’t work that way. A story isn’t a magic spell or hypnotherapy; a story is just a way to share with other people something you feel, something intimate, sometimes even embarrassing, that—

  “Great,” Todd
interrupts again, “so let’s share something embarrassing with your readers that’ll make the girls jump into bed with me.” Todd just won’t listen. He never does, at least not to me.

  I met Todd at a reading he organized in Denver. That evening, when he talked about the stories he loved, he became so excited that he began to stammer. He has a lot of passion, that Todd, and a lot of energy, and it’s obvious that he doesn’t really know where to channel it all. We didn’t get to talk a lot, but I saw right away that he was a smart person and a mensch. Someone you could depend on. Todd is the kind of person you want beside you in a burning house or on a sinking ship. The kind of guy you know won’t jump into a lifeboat and leave you behind.

  But at the moment, we’re not in a burning house or on a sinking ship, we’re just drinking organic soy milk lattes in a funky natural café in Williamsburg. And that makes me a little sad. Because if there were something burning or sinking in the area, I could remind myself why I like him, but when Todd starts hammering away at me to write him a story, he’s hard to stomach.

  “Title the story ‘Todd the Man,’” he tells me. “Or even just ‘Todd.’ You know what? Just ‘Todd’ is better. That way, girls who read it are less likely to figure out where it’s heading, and then, at the end, when it comes—bam! They won’t know what hit them. All of a sudden, they’ll look at me differently. All of a sudden, they’ll feel their pulse start to pound in their temples, and they’ll swallow and say, ‘Tell me, Todd, do you happen to live close by?’ or ‘Stop, don’t look at me like that,’ but in a tone that actually says the opposite: ‘Please, please, keep looking at me like that,’ and I’ll look at them and then it’ll happen, as if spontaneously, as if it has nothing to do with the story you wrote. That’s it. That’s the kind of story I want you to write for me. Understand?”