God Hates Us All

I backpedal as fast as my feet will take me. “Hell, no, lady. I’m just trying to alienate as many people as I can tonight with my piss-poor conversational skills. Congratulations. You’re my thousandth customer.”

Her smile returns. “You’re way too cute to be a drug dealer.”

“I really wish you’d stop calling me that.”

“Drug dealer?”

“Cute. ‘Cute’ is the kiss of death.”

Her eyes are suddenly full of what I hope I’m reading correctly as mischief. “My kisses haven’t killed anybody yet,” she says, sipping her mojito through a straw.

Are we flirting? My heart seems to think so, working double time to keep the blood flowing to my brain. “I guess I’ll have to take your word for it. Though to be honest, I’d like a little bit more to go on.”

Ray sweeps back into the scene, K.’s other friend still in tow. “Tenth yawn,” he says. “I’ve got to get this lady home before I turn into a pumpkin.”

The two women exchange air kisses and K. slides the rest of the blow into the pocket of her friend’s jeans. Ray pulls me close with a smooth combination of handshake and man-hug. “Yeah, boy!” he whispers—loud enough, I’m sure, for K. to hear. But she doesn’t show it.

“So,” she says when they’re gone. “Where were we?”

“I might have been misreading the tea leaves,” I reply, “but it seemed to me like we were negotiating.”

“Negotiating? What were we negotiating?”

“What else? Our first kiss.”

And then it happens—resting one hand against my cheek, she touches her lips to mine. Softly, gently swiping her tongue over mine. ‘See?” she says. “You’re still alive.”

“Could be a fluke. We’re going to have to try that again.” This time I pull her toward me. Our lips lock, then part, tentative tongue-swipes giving way to more enthusiastic exploration. I feel a deep stirring in my loins—the Motorola.

“I think you’re vibrating,” she says.

I pull the pager out of my pocket and put it on the table. Tana’s phone number glows from the alphanumeric display.

“Work?” asks K.

“Not tonight.” I move back in for another kiss.

The table rumbles as the pager vibrates again, startling K. Then she smiles.

“Girlfriend,” she says.

“Not that, either,” I insist, staring at the “911” Tana’s added to the display this time around. “Family. This will only take a minute.”

I sprint toward the bathrooms and find an available pay phone. I hadn’t bothered to equip myself with enough loose change to dial the Island, so I call collect.

“I hope somebody just died,” I say after Tana’s accepted the charges. “Because otherwise this is a cock block of epic proportions.”

“I’m not sure,” Tana says. “Your parents’ house almost burned down. Is that important enough for you?”

“What?!”

“Don’t worry. They’re okay.”

“Well, like I said, if they aren’t dead. What happened? Did Dad pass out with a lit cigarette? One of his whores knock over a lantern?”

“The police think it’s arson.”

“Arson?” I ask, my voice somewhere between anger and disbelief. “My parents tried to burn their own house down?”

“Not your parents. Daphne. That crazy bitch tried to torch your house.”

8

“ARE YOU TRYING TO FUCK MY GIRLFRIEND?”

When you’re confronted with a question from a person, a legitimately crazy person with a proven penchant for violence that is, in the deepest sense of the word, irrational, you really only have two options: engage and hope for the best, or go numb, aka the grizzy bear defense.

I opt for the latter. But the bear keeps pawing. “It’s you,” he says, “isn’t it?” His severe lazy eye makes it possible that he’s not addressing me at all, but a spot on the wall above and beyond my left shoulder. But I’m pretty sure he means me. I squirm in my chair and wait for Daphne to arrive.

“Leave him alone, Vincent,” she says as she drifts into the room.

I’m struck by the urge to laugh: It’s Daphne dressed for Halloween as a crazywoman. An inch of mousy brown hair now separates her peroxide tips from her scalp. Her eyes are glazed. She’s even wearing the requisite puke green hospital gown and slide-on slippers. In a few seconds, she’s going to drop the facade and smile. We’ll smoke a joint and find a place to fuck.

A few seconds come and go. “I know,” Daphne says. “I look like shit.”

“I beg to differ,” I say. “It’s very punk rock.” Adding, when she looks like she’s about to cry, “The gown looks incredibly comfortable. You know where I can score one?”

She tries to laugh but comes up short. “I know a guy,” she says. “Hey, Vincent . . . a little privacy.” The bear runs anguished fingers through greasy Hitler hair and lopes off to a different area of the commons room.

Commons room. Daphne and I had one of our Top 5 Fights (Number 3, to be exact) in a room that looked a lot like this one. I’d blown off a catering gig for a party, or that’s what I told Daphne. The truth was that I’d gone out to dinner with an ex-girlfriend who was passing through Ithaca on her way to Toronto. We’d begun the night talking about how weird it was that we weren’t in high school anymore and ended it with her demonstrating her newfound maturity with a blow job in the front seat of her rental car. Daphne had friends at every restaurant and, once alerted, stormed directly to my dorm room. The floor’s residential adviser, clearly unhappy to be woken at three A.M. by a screaming match in the hallway, threatened to call Campus Security. I dragged Daphne into the commons room, where the fight continued into daylight hours.

That was just over a year ago. It’s been a long year. Today’s Daphne hardly looks primed for a fight. The woman who just last week, according to the police report, splashed gasoline onto my parents’ home as she screamed my name now appears to be a candidate for the world’s longest nap. She’s here at Kings Park, undergoing psychiatric evaluation, thanks to the Herculean efforts of Larry Kirschenbaum, whose connections and savvy kept her out of the general population at Rikers Island when my father refused to drop the charges.

“How are your parents?” she asks.

“Mom’s a little ticked about her rosebushes.”

“I am so sorry.”

“Don’t be. Insurance will cover most of it. The rest can come out of Dad’s hooker fund. But hey… next time you want to get ahold of me?” I hold up the Motorola. “I’ve even got one of these now.”

“Ha,” she says. “What are you, a drug dealer?”

“Funny you should ask….”

I fill her in on the details of my new life, minus the gloomy stretches of loneliness and my recent make-out session with a rising supermodel. Daphne manages a real smile when I tell her about the Chelsea. My words seem to nourish her and I remember why we stayed together long enough to make a list of Top 5 Fights. Sure, she’s done some crazy things, but I wasn’t always an honest boyfriend—if she was nuts, I’d helped to get her there. So I continue for an hour, like a rookie camper trying to make fire from flint; there are a few sparks, but in the end, Daphne’s deadened eyes refuse to ignite. She rests a hand on mine, letting me know that it’s okay to stop trying. I promise her I’ll visit again, that she can call me anytime if she needs something, even if it’s just to talk.

“There is one thing you can do for me,” she says. “I want to find my father.”

Her father left home when she was five. A few years later, he’d completely disappeared from her life. Daphne