I Loved You More Page 17

  “No,” my mouth is saying. “Well, probably. Yes, I’d imagine.”

  One big fucking tear comes rolling down my cheek. As soon as I feel it on my chin, I try to laugh but it doesn’t work. Hank’s big hand, his long fingers, give my knee a squeeze.

  “Hometowns, man,” Hank says. “They always fuck you up.”

  THE BATHROOM IS the bathroom next to the pool hall. Twenty years ago, I’d go into that bathroom just to read the one line of graffiti that maintenance didn’t catch for months. Near where the stanchion is bolted to the wall: suck cock Tues here at 4.

  Tuesdays at four, those months, I always knew where I was.

  Never in that bathroom.

  The day of the book signing, I am in that bathroom. Projectile vomiting eggs and ham and hash browns and tequila. Loud, strange, animal sounds coming from deep inside. It’s forever I’m on my knees holding on to the big white toilet.

  In the mirror, when I can stand, the me who tries to talk to me is trying to talk to me. But I’m nowhere around. All there is to see is the Most Miserable, the naked guy without a dick at the bottom of hell. His finger goes to near where the stanchion is bolted to the wall.

  At the sternum, right in the middle of my chest, a light bulb that you can see the filament flickering.

  Idaho.

  This is what we do in Idaho.

  The Most Miserable of all is everywhere.

  And all we know how to do is run.

  2:55. WHEN I make it back into the bookstore, Betty and Fergi, Margaret’s friends from grade school, are standing at the table. They’re hot and out of breath, not yet used to the air condish. Hank stares up at them. I stare. The Mormon Lady stares.

  “I hope we’re not interrupting anything,” Fergi says.

  “We thought we’d be too late,” Betty says.

  “Are there any books left?”

  Betty and Fergi each buy one of Hank’s books, one of mine. When I go to make my first author signature in Betty’s book, I write thaks instead of thanks. Crooked shaky penmanship. Fuck.

  Fergi’s tall and still has her ratted black hair from the sixties. Betty’s not a bottle-blonde anymore and a mom three times. In her, I can just barely see the girl from my childhood. They talk at the same time and too fast and ask a lot of questions. Life in New York. How it feels to publish a novel. What they want to ask, they don’t. Are you really a homosexual? And: Is Hank your boyfriend? The Great Omniscient Hank watches me, watches them, watches all. I ask about their marriages, their children.

  When Betty and Fergi leave, both of them give me a hug. I try to make my body not stiff. Close my mouth tight, my breath. They hold Hank’s hand a little too long. He looks them back in the eye. Let’s them see they’re being seen.

  OUT ON THE quad, in the bright hot windy day, the wind feels good on my face. In my lungs.

  Idaho.

  In a moment I understand why I’ve always liked the wind. The way it blows on your ears you cannot feel alone.

  Hank’s got his brown faux leather suitcase. I’ve got my powder blue. Two books less each and twenty dollars richer, Hank and I have each sold our first book and Hank’s hungry.

  “I heard you in the bathroom talking to Ralph,” Hank says. “You feeling all right?”

  “Tequila and fried eggs,” I say.

  My mouth moves but I wonder who it is that’s speaking.

  “She’s not a Mormon, you know,” Hank says.

  “Who?”

  “The Mormon Lady back at the bookstore,” Hank says. “She’s not a Mormon. Her name’s Frieda Cooper and she’s studying to be a librarian.”

  Hank’s shadow, my shadow are a little ahead of us east on the perfect grass.

  “She says our books won’t sell because we say motherfucker too much,” Hank says. “You say it once and I say it five times.”

  Laugh, bless Hank’s heart, Hank has made me laugh. I reach over and smack Hank’s shoulder.

  “That makes you five times a better writer than me,” I say.

  “But would she carry our books in her bookstore?”

  “She says she would,” Hank says, “until somebody raised a fuss.”

  “Then what?”

  “She’d take them off the shelf ’til the mishigas was over,” Hank says, “then she’d put them back.”

  “Mishigas?” I say.

  “She said mishigas,” Hank says.

  “They all think you’re gay, you know,” I say.

  “I am,” Hank says. “Whenever I’m in Idaho I’m gay.”

  “Does that mean I can fuck your ass?” I say.

  Hank’s black eyes come around at me. Sooner or later one of us had to say it. The Spike, the last time we were at Auden’s door, those four months we didn’t talk, that pain, it’s there in the Idaho sun on the ISU quad between us.

  What Hank says next and what Hank does next happen together. What he does is grab hold of my shoulder in a way that men don’t grab hold of each other’s shoulder. What he says is:

  “Houston,” Hank says, “I think we have a problem.”

  Hank’s arm stays cupped around my shoulder, his chest pushed into my arm. We’re laughing easy, Hank and I, and that’s good.

  Then: “We’re cool, aren’t we?” Hank says.

  “Of course we’re cool,” I say.

  FIVE O’CLOCK. IN the bar at Buddy’s Pizza. A big part of my college career took place in this smoky room. It’s no bigger than half of Margaret’s double-wide. Crosby, Stills and Nash are singing something’s happening here. On the table, the waitress has just set down an extra large sausage extra cheese pizza and two of Buddy’s salads with the famous salad dressing. I’m drinking a Red Eye, some call it a Montana Mary, which is tomato juice and beer, which Hank can’t imagine. I tell him it’s good for hangovers, but Hank still goes for his draft Bud.

  “Hank,” I say, “I’m sorry about not selling more books.”

  The pizza’s too hot and Hank’s waving the napkin at his mouth. He chews and chews, has to wait to swallow his pizza.

  “Gruney,” Hank says, “just being out of New York is enough.”

  He takes a big sip of beer, burps.

  “Plus all this sun and fresh air,” he says. “And the wind is incredible. If we didn’t sell another book, I’d still be having a great time.”

  Hank jabs a forkful of Buddy’s famous salad into his mouth, wipes his chin. I wish I was hungry too.

  “This salad dressing is incredible,” Hank says. “How do they make it?”

  “It’s Buddy’s big secret,” I say. “What are you reading tonight?”

  “The story of the little girls calling in the cows,” Hank says.

  “You?”

  “The intro pages,” I say. “About the sky and the red pieces of cloth on the fence.”

  “I’ve been looking at that Idaho sky,” Hank says.

  My slice of sausage extra cheese stretches cheese from the pan to my plate all the way across the table. Across the table from us, just then a bald guy starts talking about a big white stretch Cadillac limousine.

  “They plan to hit every bar in town tonight,” he says. “When Margaret and Kevin left here they took half the bar with them.”

  7:30. HANK AN D I haul our suitcases down Pocatello’s dark side. Center Street: the old Block’s Men Store, the Shanghai Café. The Hotel Whitman. And all the bars: Satan’s Cellar, The Office, The Back Door. As we walk, all around our bodies, on our forearms, our necks, on our faces, the wind, the unending Idaho sky with its long sunset that’s peach and gold and rosy pink.

  I expect to see a big white stretch Cadillac limo, but there’s no limo.

  Above the bar at the Blind Lemon is a painting that starts at one end and ends at the other. It’s a painting of a painting of a reclining nude woman whose head is a skull. The painter has painted himself into the painting and he’s looking at the woman sideways as if he doesn’t really trust his invention. The painter looks like a young Wilbur Tucker, but in all
the years I knew Wilbur, he always said it wasn’t him, was his buddy he roomed with in college, who’d bit it in the Korean War.

  When we walk into the Blind Lemon, I expect to see a bar full of old ghosts. High school bullies. Old girlfriends. Or worse, the Most Miserable. But the bar is just the bar, the Blind Lemon, loud and busy and smoky on a Friday night and above the bar that huge painting of the pendulous breasts and the skull. The podium is there, too, just like it’s supposed to be, with the built in microphone. It’s set up between the big dirty window facing Center Street and the curve of oak bar. The fire bell, big and shiny brass, setting right there at the end of the bar.

  No Sis.

  There’s two empty stools at the bar, Hank and I pull them up, set down our suitcases. The bartender is not Wilbur Tucker. He’s a young man. Something about him makes me think: gay. He’s someone I’ve never seen before. Before I speak, I do that thing in my throat I always do in public to make myself be heard.

  “We’re here for the reading,” I say.

  “Starts at eight,” the bartender says.

  He’s mixing margaritas. He’s got one of those pencil mustaches and his hair is a buzzcut. That new look gay men are starting to get into.

  “This is Hank Christian,” I say. “And I’m Ben Grunewald.”

  The bartender looks at Hank, looks at me, puts a wedge of lime onto the salty rims of two frosty rocks glasses. He’s smiling too big. He doesn’t know what to say.

  “We’re the readers tonight,” Hank says.

  “Oh yeah!”

  “Where’s Wilbur Tucker?” I say.

  “He’s running a little late,” the bartender says. “I’ve got you all set up.”

  “Eight sharp,” I say. “Wilbur rings the bell at eight sharp. Who’s going to ring the bell if he isn’t here?”

  “I will,” the bartender says. “Or one of the cocktail waitresses.”

  “But he’ll be here right?” I say. “Wilbur?”

  The bartender’s back is to us. He’s reaching for the top shelf. If he’s heard me, he doesn’t let on. When he’s turned around again, he’s pouring Hennessy into snifters.

  “So what do you boys want to drink tonight?” he asks. “Two drinks are on the house, after that they’re half price.”

  “What about a big white stretch Cadillac limo,” I say.

  “That’s new,” he says. “What’s in it?”

  “No,” I say, “I mean have you seen one tonight?”

  7:45. NO BIG white stretch Cadillac limo. No Wilbur Tucker. No Sis. The bar is a group of drunken children in football jerseys. Hank goes to the rest room first. It’s been a long day after a long night. He comes back with his thick wavy hair wet, his face scrubbed pink. I’m looking forward to a touch-up too. In the bathroom, though, there’s only that same tiny mirror with soap splashes on it, the sharp smell of beer piss, a bar of cracked gray soap, and some paper napkins. The cold water on my face feels good but it only rubs the grease around. The soap helps. When my hair gets wet it just lays down flat on my head. I try rubbing my hands through my hair, but know there’s no way to win at the game I’m playing.

  7:55. NO WILBUR Tucker. No big stretch white Cadillac limo. No Sis. I’m on my second Red Eye when it happens. I’ve been too preoccupied with everything else and it hits me hard: I’ve never really read aloud to a group of people I didn’t know. In the middle of my chest, the lightbulb, flickering. I double over. Running Boy, it’s a panic attack and I can’t breathe.

  To speak aloud the things that are in my heart. The audacity of it.

  I’m off my stool and on my way back to the john. But there’s a commotion at the door. A man in a wheelchair is being wheeled in. A tank of oxygen hooked onto his chair. The man is old, real old, about to die old. That quick, I forget all about the bathroom and walk toward the guy. When I get to his feet sticking out, I go down on one knee. Take his hand in my hand. His good hand. The one with the cigarette in it. The other hand is crooked on his lap. Under the silver comb-over, inside those blue eyes, there he is. Wilbur Tucker. From deep inside and far away he looks at me. One side of the oxygen mask tilts up a smile. The slightest squeeze around my hand. He tries to speak but has to cough. Finally:

  “I read your book, Grunewald,” he says. “It’s a good book.”

  8:00 SHARP. WILBUR Tucker in his chair stays close to the door but far enough he don’t block access. He’s clear across the room, he can’t stand, let alone stand up, let alone get to the bar. No way that hand of Wilbur Tucker’s could ever ring the fire bell.

  Hank and I have flipped and I go first. The bartender takes hold of the clapper, pulls it hard, four times against the brass fire bell. The bell is so loud and so loud for so long it makes you cover your ears.

  The silence after the loud bell.

  When the bartender says my name he says Gruneburg.

  I make my way to the podium, I don’t hear the applause, but Hank says later, man did you hear that applause. My finger is sticking in the page of my book where I’ll start. The podium, the big oak heft of it. To my right is the dirty window and outside it’s Center Street. No big white stretch Cadillac Limo. To my left, the big brass fireman’s bell. On the podium slanting up, my blue and green book, my first novel, reviewed in the New York Times, bought in France by Gallimard, about Idaho, the dreaded place where my heart sings, my home, its endless skies, the wind, the racist motherfuckers who live there. The spotlight is so bright in my eyes. The mic, out of the bright like some big black phallus, just in front of my mouth. But the mic’s tilted too high. When I touch the mic to pull it down, the feedback sound. My lips start trembling and shit. My ass feels like shit spray. In the audience there’s no Margaret, no big sis. No one to be the ears that can hear me. I make myself think of Wilbur, what it took to get himself here. My deep breath. When I hear my voice over the microphone, it’s tiny, it’s shaky, it’s timid.

  Cockless Most Miserable Little Ben at the bottom of hell.

  The Catholic boy with a big apology.

  All of heaven laughing.

  AFTER THE READING, on Center Street, it’s a wild Friday night. Loud music from basement bars. Cop cars flashing red, white, and blue. Hank and I walk with our suitcases, we don’t know really where to. Just glad to be out in the air. On the street, no big white stretch Cadillac limos.

  10:30. In the lobby of the Whitman Hotel it’s finally quiet. The reception desk is white marble. Charles Russell reproductions on the wall. Cowboys and cows and Indians and sunsets. A couple straight-back wooden chairs. A cigarette machine. The night clerk is tall, his bones poke through his short sleeve purple shirt. He is smoking. Behind him is a clock that’s a black cat whose eyes and tail move the seconds in opposite directions. I ask the clerk if we can sit someplace and have some water. Lots of water. The clerk points his long skeleton arm to our left, picks up the phone, dials a number, talks into the phone. The cigarette doesn’t leave his mouth. Hank and I follow to where the clerk has pointed, through a coved archway into a big room, a lobby, that feels like no one ever goes in there. Tables and chairs, we try to find a place where it feels like we can sit. We settle on the table in the corner by the window. Hank and I set our suitcases down, sit our asses down. It’s old, the hotel, kind of creepy. Fake wood paneling on the walls that go up to coved ceilings. Rock and roll somewhere from a back room.

  I’ve never seen Hank so high. For a long moment we just stare at each other and don’t say a word. Then we high slap our hands and start laughing. We are rolling around, trying hard to hold on to the excitement. How are bodies feel heard and seen the way writers are supposed to feel heard and seen. Two little boys, we’re making weird sounds and jumping up and down.

  Hank and I, our readings at the Blind Lemon, we were a hit.

  For me, it took a couple sentences to get my voice calmed down. By the end of the first page, though, I’d hit my stride. The audience, I could feel them. My words and my voice speaking the words were holding the audience up. As
if they were people in deep water, found my little rowboat, crawled on to safety, and were floating.

  Then Hank. I got to watch Hank go to where I’d just been. His voice on his words wasn’t no rowboat. We were all of us in the bar floating on his ocean liner big as the building. Motherfucker motherfucker motherfucker. Gave us all permission. At one point, my eyes were closed and I was listening hard, the sudden awareness that my lips were moving to his words. Lip-synching. I quick opened my eyes to see if anyone had caught me. Thank God all the eyes were on Hank.

  And something else, standing outside looking in like that, at Hank, my friend, behind the podium, his lips at the mic, I saw him in a way I’d never seen him before. I mean I know I’ve always admired Hank. But that night, he was one of King Arthur’s knights or a cousin of Chief Joseph’s. A warrior. Bold, big, full of light. Maybe, just maybe, someday I could see myself a warrior too.

  Afterwards, there was a swarm of people and Hank and I got out our suitcases and sold a shitload of books. Could have sold more but we only took cash. Standing there in the middle of it all, people crowding around us, felt good, felt the way we were supposed to be feeling. People wanted their books signed. They wanted to talk about writing, to talk about New York City. People wanted to talk about the meaning of life. All the while, I’m scribbling away, fucking up my Catholic School penmanship. Still, I kept looking for my sis.

  Two beers into it, talking to a guy from Idaho Falls and a girl from Leadore, I remembered Wilbur Tucker. My eyes went straight to the door where his wheelchair had been.

  Outside on the sidewalk in front of the Blind Lemon, on Center Street, as far as I could see, only street lamps and twenty year olds. No wheelchair, no oxygen tank, no Wilbur Tucker.

  I was going to leave a note for Wilbur with the bartender, but Hank and I got so caught up that night, it wasn’t until way later on the air mattress on Margaret’s living room floor that I remembered.

  Wilbur Tucker. I never got to thank him. To this day, twenty years later, I still remember I forgot. Now, more than ever I know how important a thank you from a student can be.

  Sometimes that’s all you got.