Vacation Read online

  In fact Gray had been the most unremarkable student the town had ever seen, and he went that way, unremarked on, through four years of auto-replay days of college and then two more for some other forgettable degree, a brief marriage, a quiet divorce. Myers had found all this out from his own unremarkable seat in front of the computer screen.

  Myers hadn’t been spectacular either. He did what he was best at: sat toward the front and took notes. He managed to secure a degree in two pointless subjects (Spanish, design), pointless because, well, he’d never spoken to an actual Spanish-speaking person who wasn’t being paid for the pleasure. But he took care of his library fines, sleeved his degree in plastic, slogged away. That was the last he’d seen of Syracuse. He moved to Brooklyn, rode around on the train in a suit along with everybody else. Took one job, then another. Felt the panic of empty repetitive motion. Then one day he felt like he’d finally found a way to make it all worth waking up for, had met this amazing woman.

  Myers might try this tack: Gray, I’ll remove the shotgun from your mouth but you have to tell me what happened. I may not know you well but I’ve known you longer than I’ve known most humans alive. Longer than I’ve known my own beloved wife. She’s left me at last. I mean, I’ve left her. I’ve agreed to go quietly or at least I’ve agreed to go. May as well, she’s already left, in her way.

  She had amazed him, all right, first by her sheer existence, then by agreeing to marry him, and then she kept amazing him further, he could never quite get over anything she did, he just stood there, stunned, until this very morning when he’d left, and she would probably amaze him more before it was done, yep.

  It was night now. Outside, a car dome light spotlit a final woman tugging a grocery bag from a backseat and out into the pour. The color ran over the cement, the scrap of red purse, mud-yellow hair, bluish coat. Was that someone coming down the sidewalk? Too dark to see.

  Other tiny college memories: Gray staring out the window of the library. Gray working the town video counter for a while. Had no car back then, could be seen walking, his head above the snowdrifts.

  The cabman turned around in his seat, the headrest between them.

  Is your wife really friends with this guy?

  Oh, they have a special bond, all right.

  You better not go near this guy, said the cabman, arm hooked over the seat. Whatever he did with your wife, it’s over.

  I don’t want your advice.

  It’s not advice.

  Just take me to a hotel.

  My shift is over. Get out.

  Hotel.

  Out of the cab, buddy.

  I’ll need my suitcase.

  He walked.

  The hotel, the situation of the hotel, the predicament of it, out there on the outskirts of town, couldn’t have been worse. All the hollow blocks, all the horizontal landscapes of his dreams. Somebody had come and flattened the earth down like this, as an intentional act, and then swept it clean of debris, put in these space-age cartons. This series of low-gravity chambers, a cheap trial run, a sample of the final made from chrome. It was the ugliest building of his life, a cluster of antennae and plates sticking off the roof, a few bleak balconies looking out over a wash rack of highways, a breeze chilling through. Strings of parked cars receded away into a dense thicket of lots.

  So Gray hadn’t come home. The lesson learned here was to not ever, ever look forward to anything, ever. Crush expectation. Count on nothing but your own grave. The only thing to do now was to check into this crap hotel, put his crap down, and emerge with a grimmer outlook.

  His own smallness, his solitude, the cul-de-sac of his mind.

  He’d asked her to marry him almost immediately on meeting her. He knew right away he would love her.

  Places Gray might be: He might be standing on linoleum or carpet, his shoes in contact with it. Or he might not be standing. He might be lying down on soft sheets at this time of day, as in sleep, love, or illness. He might be next to a table, sitting at it. He might have his elbows on it. Or he might be in water, or falling through air toward it, diving. Pool, lake, ocean. Or it might have nothing to do with water, but there might be grass or trees or other markers suggesting nature.

  Who could even imagine all the places Gray might be right now?

  Not that the man had that much to leave. Look at this town. Myers had just walked through it in the rain. To get to this hotel.

  But that’s the way humans and objects roll over the earth, like water displacing other water. One human going this way with a few personal items in tow while another scoots off another way, and meanwhile the rain and the birds and the mountains falling to the ground, the pull of gravity tugging it all in, while things try to slide around to the left or right without banging into anything so hard that it might be smashed, or so softly that it might not be noticed.

  The fact was that he was finding himself here and not where he had wanted.

  The hotel rose overhead, a structure of plaster and dust, a few pieces of it torn away like an abandoned site. Strips of yellowing grass between parking lots. Above, the pinkish sky. Myers could be anywhere right now. Further proof of the great lack of imagination on the part of humanity: to look at the land and see the sameness that one sees in one’s heart. No one should spend their life going through places like this. One’s mind and soul may look like this, but to have to see it outside oneself was really just too much.

  I’ll need a room and a car, said Myers at the desk.

  That’s fine.

  I’ll need the car tonight.

  He rolled his suitcase down the corridor. Would go back tonight and wait Gray out. The guy would have to show up sometime. At least in the morning. Sometime he would have to come home and brush his teeth.

  Suitcase. It contained belongings like all belongings, removed from the premises of his home, placed in a trunk, and then that rode on the rack across the state. Just pieces of cloth, cut, dyed, arranged, and sealed together with thread to approximate the shape of his body. Folded and stapled papers, such as his passport (in case of a trip to Niagara Falls—look out, Gray! don’t lean over the edge), laptop…

  I’m checking in. I’ve checked in, Myers said. I’m in a hotel. Like a vacation.

  A vacation, his wife said.

  Yes. Of sorts.

  (She made a sound.)

  What was that?

  What?

  That noise.

  That was laughter. It expresses mirth.

  What is so goddamn funny?

  You on vacation.

  Why is that funny?

  You never take vacations.

  Yes, I do. I do all the time.

  You go see your parents twice a year.

  Wife. Here is an index of all the words he had read aloud to her from letters, books, menus during their year of courtship and nearly three years of marriage. Here is an abridged list of random thoughts he’d had before drifting off to sleep any old night during these four years they’d spent together. Here is a list of the trips they’d taken, together or apart, the number of nights each of them had spent outside the New York metro area since meeting. Here is a list of items purchased. Here is a list of the gifts they’d given each other on holidays, in chronological order, then in order of most appreciated, least disliked. Here is a list of the times each had said the other’s name, and the times they’d had sex, arranged into groups by position, then entered into a ledger in order of duration, in order of urgency, first to last, best to worst.

  She slipped through crowds, spoke softly, never screeched, but somehow could always be heard. He loved that about her. Even her applause was understated. She had thin hands.

  The hotel room itself was worse, some sort of misunderstanding between human and machine, a mistake about the meaning of the word “clean.” A “fresh” smell like poison gas, or a scent intended to lure and trap and kill. Or about the meaning of “convenient,” contraptions bolted into walls and tables as if built by an alien tribe based on des
criptions read from dictionaries—lamp, remote control, pencil cup—so that it looked like a reconstruction by someone who had never seen the original. It looked like the entire container could be picked up and carried off at any moment without rattle or disarray, could be tossed into the trash without any pieces flying out. A habitat for the human creature, a replica, a “house” that could be hosed down and ready in a minute should the human die off and need replacement.

  I take vacations.

  You don’t like going anywhere.

  I’m on vacation right now.

  No, you’re not.

  I’m in a hotel room, aren’t I? You don’t believe me? Call the front desk and ask.

  Being in a hotel room does not mean you’re on vacation. I can think of plenty of reasons why someone might be in a hotel room and not on vacation.

  Like what?

  Funeral.

  Oh sure, blame it on the dead.

  Divorce.

  That could count as a vacation.

  Divorce does not count.

  It could.

  It does not.

  The business center downstairs was another insult to recover from, another bland cage he thrust himself into, a place based on a belief in beige. As if the inhabitants were insane and needed soothing, or as if they had underdeveloped brains and could only register simple images, stick figures in place of words. Remain calm. Go this way in case of sudden, violent emergency. And perhaps he was such an inhabitant. Perhaps so.

  I could take a vacation if I goddamn well felt like it.

  You’re not on one now.

  Damn well could be.

  But you’re not. And what happened to your—what did you call him? oh, yes—your “friend”?

  He’s, well, he’s…

  I have to go. I have a meeting in the morning.

  I bet you do.

  He sat down at a terminal. His email lit up the screen, mass-market mud filled his box. Amid it he noticed, suddenly, one in particular. A message floated up from its waterlogged porthole, shed of its cellophane.

  A miracle.

  He had an email from Gray.

  Myers! What a surprise. In from the city? Of course I remember you. How could I forget a man with a head like yours? Sorry to have missed you. You should have called first. I’m on vacation, my friend, in the land of my dreams, the most beautiful country in the world—Nicaragua, of all spots to see the sun. I had to get out of there. That town is a saddle on a wild stag. Have fun in Syracuse. Decay away! If you can break a window and crawl over glass, my place is yours.

  Gray

  Myers walked to reception.

  You can cancel the car, he said.

  Chapter Three

  Myers woke alone on the sofa.

  This had been early that morning.

  His wife was moving around in the kitchen. She had become the most efficient human being he’d ever known. She’d developed into this in the past few years, from someone who once could barely bother to open a bill.

  The day was invading through the windows and under the doors. Dust floated in on a slant. He tugged at the couch cushion under his head.

  She called to him. I think I’m going to go stay with Anita for a few days while I look for a place, she said.

  He suddenly remembered the night before.

  God, fucking Anita! he thought.

  No, you are not going to go stay with fucking Anita, he called back.

  (Anita, the high school friend, now nearly neighbor.)

  (The takeout was still in the warmer.)

  From the kitchen: I’m going to phone her and ask.

  He went into the kitchen.

  You are not going to go stay with Anita or whoever else.

  I see you got takeout.

  Yes.

  You left it to burn in the warmer. You could have told me last night you bought dinner. Telling me in the morning is buying breakfast, burned breakfast.

  I never liked that woman.

  Failing that, you could have put it in the fridge.

  She was standing there in a nightgown he’d always found appealing, a straight black affair with a bit of fringe at the bottom.

  Failing that, you could have tossed it out, she said.

  It doesn’t matter. I’m leaving. You can stay.

  Failing that, you could have not bought it.

  He threw the takeout in the garbage. A substance like tar spilled from the carton.

  Sleeveless, ribboned, stubborn. His wife.

  Fine, leave, she said. Where are you going to go, by the way?

  Yes, the night before they had finally agreed on a separation after he didn’t know how many times they’d discussed it. It seemed like they’d been discussing it for years.

  Her moving out was the best thing she could do for their marriage, they’d decided.

  Can anybody imagine what that might mean? Does that make any sense whatsoever? No.

  It was the best possible course of action, considering, they’d agreed. They’d each be fine once they settled in. Almost nothing would change. They’d each keep taking the subway in their triangles or squares or walking in them. Leaving would be hard, no question. Leaving is a large dog blocking the way of the exit. But it would all work out. They were joined, after all, just by paper, mostly, and by awkwardly shaped pieces of wood, porcelain, glass, metal, bits of cloth, ideas about soap, beliefs about historical events, sleeping habits, memories of rainfalls and other watery things (oceans, ponds, faucets) that they had visited or seen together in pictures.

  She leaned in. I see you’ve made it all the way to a suitcase, she said.

  He had a pile of shirts there.

  Do you have a destination or are you just going to flap your arms and hope you hit something safe?

  I’m going to see someone. Don’t look for an apartment.

  Who?

  A friend.

  What friend?

  You’ve never met him. (This was true, technically.)

  What friend of yours haven’t I met?

  From college.

  What friend do you have from college?

  One you’ve never met.

  Don’t you have to work?

  I’m taking vacation time.

  You’re not eligible for vacation time yet.

  The suitcase was open on the bed. A brown zipper carry-on.

  Socks and so forth. Two-ply.

  Yes, the job was new and an issue.

  Gray was—who knows—lifting and lowering a cup, tying on a shoe for another unhappy contention with the outdoors. Gray, upright, at home (also gray, perhaps).

  Don’t you think you need a plane ticket to go somewhere? she said.

  Don’t you think you need to let your boss know that you’re planning to not show up?

  Don’t you think you need to let this “friend” know you’re coming?

  You’re not taking the car, she said. If you had any ideas like that.

  She stood there, tapping her foot.

  You could take the train, she said.

  Items to divide, clutch, abandon, or destroy: Items that looked like animals but weren’t—the duck pitcher, the turtle placemats. Flat items or items with flat sides—bookshelves, nightstands. She would just move over a little, that’s all, to a new spot, her spot.

  (…had agreed at last and then he had spent the night at the window, his wife gone to bed…)

  And no, he was not going to take the car. What did she think, he was going to drive to his vacation? What sort of holiday is that, dealing with traffic tickets and gas stations and flats? No, he’d dropped the friend an email. The friend would pick him up at the train.

  He’d sent this friend an email?

  Sidekicked it. Into his box.

  He’d written the email, sent it, received an email back, and he was now telling her the accurate information contained in it?

  He was going to do it. He was about to.

  So he hadn’t actually sent an email.

&nb
sp; He hadn’t gotten to it. What with this suitcase all over the place.

  Oh, she sees.

  He’ll do it, he’ll do it.

  Her, with her eyebrow. Skirt, hem.

  All right, all right. He left the suitcase sitting there all over the place.

  The way that man went (he could see it, Gray, walking over a vast expanse, past piles of bricks and under bridges, over cracked earth and broken stems and shingles)…

  Or Gray, clothed, indoors, a frozen likeness.

  Hey Gray, he typed. Yes, he had the email address. Haven’t seen you forever. Remember me, from undergrad? Thought it time for a talk. I’m headed your way. Taxi, train, taxi, that’s the plan. Arrival at your place with a suitcase. That sort of day. Nothing to worry about. A few days off. Rest. Old friend, new conversation. I’ll explain when I get there.

  Myers

  He looked at it. He heard her back in the kitchen. He sent it.

  There were also the mirrors, the photos, and other inaccurate reflections. The razor, the bathtub. The kids and the dog, although they had none. The idea of dog, that. The possibility of dog that now would not be possible. Her mother, or her mother’s dislike of him, who would get that? Surely that would come with him. Along with the rooster clock that she loved, that he hated, that she bought when she started to hate him.

  He could admit to being difficult in this last hour. The clutter on the bed and in his mind was like a pile of timber, shaved planks. But she was worse. She really made the thing impossible:

  1. arguing with him when he asked for a ride to the train (couldn’t be bothered to drive her husband to the train, he said, well, maybe he couldn’t be bothered to go) and, after her finally agreeing,