Motherless Brooklyn

“It’s just-A lot of guys, you know, they tell you they understand about giving you space and stuff, they know how to talk about it and that you need to hear it. But they don’t really have any idea what it means. I’ve been through a lot recently, Lionel.”

“When did I say anything about giving you space?”

“I just mean this is a lot of calls in a pretty short period is all.”

“Kimmery, listen. I’m not like other, ah, people you meet. My life is organized around certain compulsions. But it’s different with you, I feel different.”

“That’s good, that’s nice-”

“You have no idea.”

“-but I’m just coming out of something pretty intense. I mean, you swept me off my feet, Lionel. You’re kind of overwhelming, actually, if you don’t already know. I mean, I like talking to you, too, but it isn’t a good idea to call three times right after, you know, spending the night.”

I was silent, unsure how to decode this remarkable speech. “What I mean is, this is exactly the kind of craziness I just got through with, Lionel.”

“Which kind?”

“Like this,” she said in a meek voice. “Like with you.”

“Are you saying Oreo Man had Tourette’s syndrome?” I felt a weird thrill of jealousy. She collected us freaks, I understood now. No wonder she took us in stride, no wonder she damped our symptoms. I was nothing special after all. Or rather my fistlike penis was my only claim.

“Who’s Oreo Man?”

“Your old boyfriend.”

“Oh. But what’s the other thing you said?”

“Never mind.”

We were silent for a while. My brain went, Tourette’s slipdrip stinkjet’s blessdroop mutual-of- overwhelm’s wild kissdoom-

“All I mean is I’m not ready for anything too intense right now,” said Kimmery. “I need space to figure out what I want. I can’t be all overwhelmed and obsessed like the last time.”

“I think I’ve heard enough about that for now.”

“Okay.”

“But-” I gathered myself, made a plunge into territory far stranger to me than Connecticut or Massachusetts. “I think I understand what you mean about space. About leaving it between things so you don’t get too obsessed.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Or is that the kind of talk you don’t want to hear? I guess I’m confused.”

“No, it’s okay. But we can talk about this later.”

“Well, okay.”

“Bye, Lionel.”

Dial and redial were sitting on a fence. Dial fell off. Who was left?

Ring.

Ring.

Ring.

Click. “You’ve reached two-one-two, three-oh-four-”

“HellokimmeryIknowIshouldn’tbecallingbutIjust-”

Clunk. “Lionel?”

“Yes.”

“Stop now.”

“Uh-”

“Just stop calling now. It’s way too much like some really bad things that have happened to me, can you understand? It’s not romantic.”

“Yes.”

“Okay, bye, Lionel, for real now, okay?”

“Yes.”

Redial.

“You’ve reached-”

“Kimmery? Kimmery? Kimmery? Are you there? Kimmery?”

I was my syndrome’s dupe once again. Here I’d imagined I was enjoying a Touretteless morning, yet when the new manifestation appeared, it was hidden in plain sight, the Purloined Tic. Punching that redial I was exhibiting a calling-Kimmery-tic as compulsive as any rude syllable or swipe.

I wanted to hurl the doorman’s cell phone out onto the grassy divider. Instead, in a haze of self-loathing, I dialed another number, one etched in memory though I hadn’t called it in a while.

“Yes?” The voice was weary, encrusted with years, as I remembered it.

“Essrog?” I said.

ut onto tht=”0em” width=”1em” align=”justify”›“Yes.” A pause. “This is the Essrog residence. This is Murray Essrog. Who’s calling, please?”

I was a little while coming to my reply. “Eat me Bailey.”

“Oh, Christ.” The voice moved away from the phone. “Mother. Mother, come here. I want you to listen to this.”

“Essrog Bailey,” I said, almost whispering, but intent on being heard.

There was a shuffling in the background.

“It’s him again, Mother,” said Murray Essrog. “It’s that goddamned Bailey kid. He’s still out there. All these years.”

I was still a kid to him, just as to me he’d been an old man since the first time I called him.

“I don’t know why you care,” came an older woman’s voice, every word a sigh.

“Baileybailey,” I said softly.

“Speak up, kid, do your thing,” said the old man.

I heard the phone change hands, the old woman’s breathing come onto the line.

“Essrog, Essrog, Essrog,” I chanted, like a cricket trapped in a wall.

I’m tightly wound. I’m a loose cannon. Both-I’m a tightly wound loose cannon, a tight loose. My whole life exists in the space between those words, tight, loose, and there isn’t any space there-they should be one word, tightloose. I’m an air bag in a dashboard, packed up layer upon layer in readiness for that moment when I get to explode, expand all over you, fill every available space. Unlike an airbag, though, I’m repacked the moment I’ve exploded, am tensed and ready again to explode-like some safety-film footage cut into a loop, all I do is compress and release, over and over, never saving or satisfying anyone, least myself. Yet the tape plays on pointlessly, obsessive air bag exploding again and again while life itself goes on elsewhere, outside the range of these antic expenditures.

The night before, in Kimmery’s alcove, suddenly seemed very long ago, very far away.

How could phone calls-cell-phone calls, staticky, unlikely, free of charge-how could they alter what real bodies felt? How could ghosts touch the living?

I tried not to think about it.