Friend Is Not a Verb (17 page)

Gabriel swallowed. “Of course.”

“Remember how the names the Tainos gave each other were so beautiful? They all spoke to the person’s identity. The one who heals. The one who sows. The one who battles. If you had a Taino name, you know what it would be?” She leaned forward and whispered something in his ear. His face turned bright red.

Now I
really
wanted to gag. Note to self: Never be as insane, secretive, and pretentious as my sister or her friends. Never allow things to get to the point where robbing Emma’s father would seem like the only solution to some invented problem. On the other hand, never be as detached or ironic, either—Jesus, listen to me. I sound like Gabriel freaking—

The intercom rang:
BZZZT!

Everybody winced. Our eyes all flew to Gabriel.

“I bet that’s Madeline and Karl,” Sarah said. Her voice shook slightly. “I told them to meet us here.”

I turned to Emma. I wondered if she was thinking the same thing I was—that to cap off all this insanity, we were about to meet a real-live, eighty-year-old Nazi. It was kind of fitting, in its own fantastical way.

“Well, there’s only one way to find out,” Gabriel said. He stepped over to the door and pressed the button. “Hello?”

“It’s your father, Gabriel,” a tinny voice barked through the static. “I’ve brought the police.”

Uh-oh. A Nazi might have been preferable.

Emma’s grip tightened around my fingers, cutting off the circulation.

“And Sarah Birnbaum’s parents, too!” my mother’s distorted voice cried. “Where the hell are my children?”

My face twisted.
Jesus.

Emma giggled. Sarah shook her head, stricken.

Gabriel, on the other hand, remained calm. “So here it goes. Time to ante up.”

“What do you think will happen?” Sarah asked fearfully.

“I’m not sure,” he said, pressing down on the button to let them in. “But whatever happens, it’ll be the right thing. Even if I have to go to jail…or whatever. But hopefully, my dad will just take the check and let me off the hook.” He grinned. “You know, Sarah, I’ve always wanted to introduce my dad to your parents.”

A tear fell from Sarah’s cheek. “Please don’t joke around right now,” she said.

“It’s not a neat ending, is it?” I whispered as Gabriel opened the door.

He glanced at me with a puzzled smile. “What do you mean, Hen?”

My heart pounded. Footsteps approached. “It’s not a neat ending to your memoir. You said you had to find an ending.”

“Oh, no.” He laughed. “Don’t worry, Hen. This isn’t the ending. How could it be? It’s kind of a screwy story, you know? It’s just what happens next. The story never ends. Not until we all kick the bucket.”

Why the Band Journey Sucks, and What This Says About Life

Gabriel’s evil dad decided not to press charges, thank God. He seemed very happy with the three-million-dollar check Sarah handed him.

So it
was
sort of a neat ending—at least on that front.

Not long after he and the cops and my parents burst in, Emma and I decided to slip out. Gabriel’s East Village crash pad was just a little too crowded with crazy people. Besides, we needed to psych ourselves up for Journey. My first concert ever at Madison Square Garden! With the most heinous possible band! (Okay, okay. Styx would have been more heinous.) My parents let me go without a fight. Honestly, they were still too pissed at Sarah for disappearing again. They were still
yelling at her when we left.

About the concert…

As I later found out, Journey performed with a substitute singer. A
permanent
substitute singer. That’s right: The earnest cheeseball who fronted the band that night was not the same male diva who gave the world such hits as “Lovin’, Touchin’, Squeezin’,” “Don’t Stop Believin’,” and “Any Way You Want It.”

I thought to myself, then why are all these retirement-age people showing him the love? Don’t they see that Journey took the easy way out? Instead of calling it quits like they should have, they hit the road with a fraud. They
cheated
their loyal fans.

See, if I learned anything from Sarah and Gabriel that day, it’s that there
is
no easy way out. Of anything. You can pretend like something is perfect—a crime, a friendship that should be something more, a washed-up band with a fake singer—but sooner or later, the Unseen Hand will come knocking at your door.

But maybe I’m overthinking things. I’ve been doing that a lot lately (Gabriel’s fault). There’s probably no connection at all between Journey and a valuable life lesson. Of course there isn’t. Jesus.

Honestly, as far as the Unseen Hand goes, it should have wrung that guy’s neck. The Journey front man, I mean. It was a terrible, terrible show. I’ve never seen anything more horrendous, not even on VH1 Classic. And in real life there’s no way to change the channel.

But, hey, the fans seemed to enjoy it. Fat bald men and gray-haired women even raised their lighters at one point. (I think the song that prompted the flood of emotion was, in fact, called “Lights.” They’re not big on subtlety, Journey.) Mr. Wood shouted “Disco sucks!” five separate times during this number, one for each beer he drank.

Emma owes me one.

Then again, I owe her one, too. I mean, who knows what would have happened if she hadn’t showed up at my door that morning and kissed me? I might have even given up my fantasy of being a rock star. That is, instead of bugging Mr. Wood all night to agree to listen to our demo until he finally broke down and said, “Fine, goddammit, now shut your pie hole!”

The Document I Received in an Email Attachment a Week Later

Intro: A Surprisingly Lame Thing to Say

My father’s all-time favorite cliché is: “Be careful what you wish for, or it might come true.” He uses it as often as he can (or at least he did back when I was still in touch with him)—when I applied to Columbia, for instance. He’d also said it to my mother when she was still alive, when she told me she wished I would grow up. I never understood why he liked it so much. It’s a surprisingly lame thing to say, even for him.

Phase One

Sarah told me that robbing my father of almost two million dollars would make me feel “tingly”—like the way you feel when you’re about to hook up with someone for the first time. But this is the way I feel when I’m about to pee in my pants. There’s nothing “tingly” about it. Maybe we should wait. It’s the middle of summer. It’s too hot to think straight. We could put it off until Labor Day, until after we move out of the loft. The money will still be there.

7:03
P.M
.

“It’s almost time,” I announce.

The five of us pace the living room. We avoid one another’s eyes.
My T-shirt is soaked with sweat. The air conditioner is broken. We leave a hastily scrawled apology for the owners of our illegal sublet, along with five hundred dollars to buy a new unit. The humidity is stifling. The air in Chinatown is cream-of-homeless soup, uncollected garbage consommé. I’ll have to wash myself down with a prison hose when this is all over….

No, no: Bad idea to think about prison.

“Hey, Mad? Don’t you think you should get going?”

“Relax, Gabriel. The reservation is at eight.”

Madeline has never looked more beautiful. She’s Renée Zellweger in
Jerry Maguire,
decked out in jewelry and evening wear: an exquisite actress, utterly charming.

“Do they serve vegetarian dishes at this place?” Sarah asks. “I’d like to eat a vegetarian dish in honor of Hen. Seeing as I’m never going to see him again.”

“It’s a steak house,” Rich points out.

I’m barely listening. Even after all these years, I still can’t believe that my dad actually dines at Sparks Steak House. It’s almost too fitting. It’s ludicrous. There’s a legacy of foul deeds associated with the place. Mafiosi used to eat there all the time. John Gotti had Paul Castellano rubbed out in front of Sparks. My dad is just as fat and slick and corrupt as both of them. Maybe even more so.

“I bet they serve big salads,” Tony says.

Sarah shrugs. “As long as I get a good meal. I’m hungry.” She is wearing makeup: eyeliner, blush, and lipstick. She never wears makeup. It makes her look clownish and sleazy, like a prostitute. Some men might find it sexy. Older men.

Phase Two

We’re committed. Sarah and Madeline are already on their way to Sparks. Rich and Tony are on their way to my Madison Avenue apartment. My home. Where I spent senior year, alone. Dad and me and ten big rooms.

I gave them the key to the back staircase. Once inside, they will slink into my dad’s study, where Tony will to proceed to hack into the fat pig’s bank accounts on his own computer.

STEAL YOUR PARENTS’ MONEY.

None of us have any concerns about Tony’s capabilities. Only three days ago, he hacked into the New York City mayor’s office, just to show off. He’s more gung ho about this than any of us, even me. He sees it as an intellectual challenge, devoid of any moral implications, like doing the crossword puzzle. Or at least that’s the impression he gives us.

I consider jumping into a cab and chasing them. But I know it’s too late. In essence, we were committed to The Plan yesterday. We were committed the moment Madeline called Dad and suggested that they meet to talk about my future.

Dad goes to Sparks tonight believing that Madeline is trying to help mend his relationship with me.

Dad has always loved Madeline. On several occasions, he told me that Madeline is too good for me, and that I’ll never hook up with her. He thinks that I need to learn some humility.

On the phone, Madeline told him that it breaks her heart to see me cut off from my own flesh and blood. Maybe she can help Dad reach some sort of understanding…if he’s willing to listen.

“Oh, by the way, can Sarah join us? Did Gabriel ever mention to you that Sarah has a thing for older men? Her last boyfriend was a fifty-year-old investment banker. Just like you, Mr. Stern.”

I picture the dinner as Madeline says it will unfold.

Cocktails first, courtesy of Dad. Lots of witty banter and laughs. They settle into their meals. They get comfortable with one another. Dad notices Sarah stealing glances at him. He never paid any attention whenever I introduced them, but thanks to Madeline he suddenly sees that this girl is very attractive. She’s twenty-two—but hey, he messed around with one of his secretaries, and she was twenty-six! What difference does four years make? The girl is still legal, right? Barely, sure—but as a veteran of countless lawsuits, Dad appreciates the difference.

Sarah is starting to get a little tipsy.

They’re all starting to get tipsy.

Madeline finally broaches the subject of my future. She asks Roger (it’s all right if she calls him Roger, isn’t it?) to step back and think of me as a helpless little boy. No, don’t think of him as an adult. Think of him as your son. Your baby. Just look at a picture of him. You have a picture, don’t you?

Yes, he does. In his wallet.

Oh, goody! Madeline wants to see it.

He hands it over, nearly shoving it into her dress.

Under the table, Sarah starts to fondle his knee. Now we’re talking. Things are looking good. Madeline is staring at the photo. It’s Dad’s chance to play Casanova. He turns to Sarah—

Madeline pockets his bankcard. She returns the wallet and excuses herself to go to the bathroom.

9:37 p.m.

I arrive at the corner of Forty-sixth Street and Third Avenue. I’m secretly hoping that Madeline won’t show. I imagine that something went wrong: that Sarah decided to forgo the salad and ate a huge steak and barfed, that Dad stormed out of the restaurant…that Madeline never got the card. I imagine that The Plan failed completely.

But my dad is too predictable, too lecherous. Madeline appears within seconds.

I can’t stand still. The streetlights are very bright. I feel we should be meeting in the dark, even though I know we’re safe. We’re anonymous: two pedestrians in the chaos of midtown. But I can’t keep my eyes from darting at all of the passersby.

“Relax, Gabriel,” she says. “He thinks I’m in the bathroom, remember? Girls take a long time in the bathroom.”

She hands me the card. It’s gold. I can tell by her smile that she appreciates the symbolism. Gold: the color of buried treasure.

For a moment, I stare at it. The printed matter is in Dutch, except for his name and a Visa logo. This is real. This is actually happening. I can feel my heart against my rib cage—a convict’s fists, banging against jailhouse bars.

“Any problems?” I whisper. My voice quavers.

“No,” she says. She is perfectly calm.

“How’s Sarah holding up?”

“She deserves an Oscar for tonight. We owe her, Gabriel. I wish you could see her. That fat slimeball…” She doesn’t finish. “Sorry. I know he’s your dad.”

She kisses me—very quickly—and disappears back down the block.

Phase Three

I’ve finally done it.

I’ve kissed Madeline. I’ve made contact.

After that, my perspective on the evening changes. I’m ready to kick ass. True, the kiss was brief, but it was a historic moment, a harbinger of the thrills to come in our brand-new mansion on the ocean. By this time tomorrow, I’ll be dancing naked in the sand with her. And more.

My perspective on our entire group’s dynamic changes, too. We’re no longer merely five losers who share a love of the nineties. No…we’re a real band now. More than Friends. Even though Sarah and Madeline don’t play instruments, they’re in, too. In fact, I see the five of us now as avatars of Fleetwood Mac.

I’m Mick Fleetwood—the outsider in some ways, yet the glue that holds the band together. Rich and Madeline are Lindsey Buckingham and Stevie Nicks, respectively. They’re the creative force, the shining stars…the lovers who create the music. Tony is John McVie, the utility man (all right, the nerd). And Sarah is Christine McVie: the funny, sensitive iconoclast who blossoms into a dignified beauty. The one Mick Fleetwood should have hooked up with.

The only difference between Fleetwood Mac and us is that Sarah and Tony were never married. Also, I’m a lot shorter than Mick Fleetwood.

But the vital similarities remain. The connections are undeniable. The Plan is our masterpiece: both our
Rumours
and our reunion tour. It’s a sign. I would never have watched
Behind the Music: Fleetwood Mac
if it weren’t. As Lindsey and Stevie, Rich and Madeline must break up. As Mick, I must have a torrid romance with Rich’s soon-to-be former girlfriend.

And then, in a bizarre twist, I will also hook up with Christine McVie: my best friend.

There is no other possible sequence of events.

10:35 p.m.

Tony’s call comes.

“Hello?”

“You get the card?”

“Yup.” My heart is thumping again. I glance around the banking center on East Fifty-first Street: the rows of ATMs, the grubby tile floor littered with receipts, the harsh fluorescent lights. I am alone. It occurs to me that this is the very first time I’ve ever bought a cell phone with my own money (as opposed to Dad’s money). It might be Tony’s first time, too. Two cell phones for a single call: this call. $103.97 split five ways. It represents the only money we spent on The Plan, aside from cab fare and the money to replace the air conditioner.

“I’m putting the card in now,” I announce. I picture Tony and
Rich on the other end, sitting in my dad’s darkened study, their faces lit by the bluish glow of the computer. “It says touch here to proceed in English…”

The image of a keypad appears on the screen, along with the words:
PLEASE ENTER YOUR PERSONAL IDENTIFICATION NUMBER
.

“The code is one zero eight four nine three,” Tony says.

Pulsating blood fills my ears. I can barely hear him. I press the numbers. My fingers leave moist traces on the glass.

PLEASE WAIT A MOMENT WHILE WE PROCESS YOUR INFORMATION
…

“Now it’s asking me what kind of transaction I want to make,” I whisper.

“Withdrawal from savings. It should give you a list of six different accounts.”

Presto: Six rectangles flash on the screen: one on top of the other, each filled with a string of digits. I know a hidden video camera must be taping me right now. I force the thought from my mind. We’ll be long gone before anybody sees the footage.

“Select the top one,” Tony instructs. “It should start with three two eight.”

I obey. Dollar amounts appear, ranging from $20 to $1500.

“How much should I take out?” I ask. My voice is thick and shaky, unrecognizable to myself.

“Fifteen hundred from each account,” Tony says. I can tell from a change in tone that he’s smiling now. “We’re flying first-class tomorrow morning. I want to do some duty-free shopping.”

The machine whirs and hums.

The slot opens.

A crisp pile of bills emerges, like a baby from the womb.

I smile, too, even though I am nauseated. We are committed. The paper feels cool against my hot fingers. I’m tempted to rub it against my forehead. I fight back sickness. I force the righteous venom to course through my veins. My father deserves this. It’s not an impulse that went awry, a whim that snowballed into an atrocity. It’s justice. Divine justice. Like the writing on the wall in the book of Daniel:
MENE, MENE, TEKEL, UPHARSHIN
…

“Got it?” Tony asks.

“Got it,” I say.

He laughs. “We did it, then, didn’t we?”

“We did it.”