561: “I—I’ve seen . . .”
Reservations Recommended, Chapter 7 continues
“I — I’ve seen a lot of your writings.”
Oh, this is wonderful. This is a fine thing. This is great. Get chummy. Maybe he’ll take you on as an apprentice. Invite him up to the apartment. Show him your own work on your own walls. You can drive each other nuts. Is that what you want? God, he stinks.
You smell him? Why do you smell him all of a sudden? Why can’t you smell that stink at home?
Matthew drops the bar and pulls out his wallet. The Graffitist watches every move, apparently terrified. Matthew looks into his wallet.
Twenty? he thinks.
Twenty? says BW. Nothing! Let’s get out of here.
You know, I never made good on that promise I made the night I lied to Effie. I never gave anything to the guy who mumbles, the one outside the health club every morning.
I knew that was rattling around in the back of your mind. So what? Come on.
Matthew takes all the bills from his wallet, folds them once, and holds them out to the Graffitist.
The Graffitist makes no move to take the money, so Matthew presses the wad into his hand.
“Keep up the good work,” Matthew says.
What are you doing? How much did you give him? asks BW. You must have given him a hundred dollars. You’re crazy, you know that?
The Graffitist holds the money without looking at it, looking at Matthew.
Look. Look around you. You are standing in the middle of nowhere. You are alone. Do you get the message? Listen, will you? Do you hear that wind? Do you hear that damn wind moan? What else do you hear? What do you hear besides that wind? Nothing.
The Graffitist clears his throat.
Nothing but this asshole. Don’t you get the message? Nobody gives a shit about you, Matthew. The world doesn’t care what you do. The universe doesn’t care what you do. You are alone. Your only friend is me.
The Graffitist says, “Listen. I want to tell you something.”
I’m right, says BW. Stick with me and things are going to work out. I’m much healthier than you are, Matthew. I’m not going to kill myself. I’m not going to become an alcoholic. I’m not going to give up. I’m going to get what you’ve always wanted.
“Let me tell you something,” says the Graffitist. He’s still holding the money in front of him, as if it means nothing to him.
I see a great future for us. I am going to keep you from falling apart. You don’t have to worry. Trust me. I am your better self.
The Graffitist, still wary, straightens up.
Come on, says BW. There’s a wonderful world out there, Matthew. It belongs to guys like me. Not to guys like — this.
The Graffitist says, “I’ve learned that — ”
Matthew snatches the money from him and begins to walk away.
The Graffitist is stunned. He hadn’t expected this. “Wait!” he calls.
Matthew stops and turns around. He looks at the Graffitist and his shoulders drop. “I’m sorry,” he says, but he turns away and trudges on for a few more steps.
“Wait!” the Graffitist calls. “Listen to me.”
Matthew stops again, turns, and stares at the Graffitist with a puzzled expression. For a moment he seems about to return, but then he looks at the money in his hand, shoves it into his pocket, and shouts, “Fuck you, you asshole!” He spins around and begins to walk with something like conviction, begins in fact to stride, like someone with things to do, someone who knows where he’s going.
The Graffitist, hurt, furious, glances around for something to throw at Matthew, sees the bar, grabs it, hefts it, but thinks better of it. He’s not the sort who would do something like that. He drops the bar, gathers his trash bags, and goes off in search of shelter from the wind.
[to be continued]
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