Miss Misery (39 page)

I took the stairs three at a time, my heart in a brutal race with my lungs. The second floor was full near the stairs and then thinned out toward the ramp up to the roof. I saw the doppelgänger almost get mowed down by a Jeep that was backing out in a hurry and then watched him take off toward the ramp. He was running the way I was taught in gym class: knees high, arms steadily swinging at the sides. I shouted out to him to stop, but my voice echoed off the low ceiling, and what ricocheted back into my ears sounded tinny and hollow. I saw him break into the sunlight of the ramp and ran after him, knowing that this time
for sure
I would join that gym.

I caught up to him on the roof, which was empty save for an unoccupied police van and a gang of pigeons snacking on a smashed bag of Herr's potato chips in the shade of the far wall. The sounds of jet planes were everywhere, and the sun beat down bluntly on the exposed asphalt, making the air shiny and sticky with reflected light and heat. He stood in the middle of the roof, hands on knees, catching his breath. I felt for him—I wanted to do the exact same thing. There was a burn in my throat from breathing so hard, and my feet ached.

He watched me approach but didn't make any effort to escape; he just slowly regained his breath and uncurled his back to stand straight and face me. We stared at each other for a time, through the looking glass that wasn't there, until he spoke first. “You look different,” he said.

“Yeah,” I said. “I know.”

“So you made up your mind after all.”

“That's right.”

“What was it? The party? The plane ticket?”

“The phone call,” I said.

The doppelgänger snapped his fingers. “Right! Right. The phone call. She was very sweet, you know. She was very excited to see…well, one of us. She said we were finally making an effort. Finally ready to move on to the next stage.”

I nodded. “She's right. I am.”

He looked forlorn. “Yeah. She's always right, isn't she?”

“That she is.”

“Oh, well.” He reached into his pocket and handed me my passport. “You'd better hurry,” he said. “You've got about ten minutes left to check in.”

“Thanks. The rest of it?”

The doppelgänger chuckled. “Can't blame me for trying.” He dug around in his back pocket and produced the extra keys, my wallet, and finally the folded-over photo of Amy. “I wouldn't use the Visa for a while if I were you. I think it's, ah…overdrawn.”

“I'll keep it in mind.”

The doppelgänger flickered a little, like a television during a thunderstorm. “You know, I really thought there was a chance for both of us.”

I shook my head. “Come on, now. ‘A house divided against itself' and all that.”

He nodded, blinking on and off like a light switch. “You're right, you're right. Can't be all one thing all the time, I guess. Oh, well.” He turned and started to walk toward the far part of the wall where the pigeons were feasting, the only part darkened by shadows. Then he stopped and turned back to me, a wistful look on his face. “Don't forget about me, now.”

I laughed. “How could I?”

He flashed me the shit-eating grin of old. “There's no way in hell you could.” Then he walked, diminishing with every step, into the shadows.

 

When I got back to where I'd left her, Cath was smoking a cigarette and flirting with a meaty skycap who looked like an extra from the Gotti crime-family picnic. She was wearing his hat, and her face was twisted up and her hands dancing, the way she always was when she was telling a particularly juicy story. I smiled at the sight of it.

“Hey!” she shouted when she saw me walking across the street. She snapped the cap back on her new friend's prodigious head, crushed the cigarette under her foot, and ran over to me, grabbing at my arms the way one would a long-lost relative. “Are you OK? What happened?”

“I'm great,” I said, throwing my arm around her shoulders and walking her back up onto the curb. “I'm better than I've been in a long, long time.”

“Yeah?” She squinted up at my face. “Yeah. You look it. But what happened to
him
?”

“We don't need to worry about him anymore.”

“Jesus, that sounds ominous! What, did you kill him? Has he been officially ‘disappeared'?”

I smiled. “He can't disappear. He's right here. I just…what's the phrase? Pulled myself together.”

Cath smiled back. “Wild. That was like a
kumate.
”

“A what, now?”

She gave me a playful shove. “You know—a
kumate.
Like in those Asian kickboxing movies? ‘Two men enter…one man leave!'”

I laughed. “I think that actually does pretty much sum it up.”

“So now what? You sweep me off my feet? Now that you've vanquished your ne'er-do-well rival, we ride off together into the sunset?”

I looked at the ground. “Actually,” I said, “what happens now is I get on a plane.”

The words hung in the air between us for an extra moment, and then Cath simply shrugged. “Yeah, I figured as much. What was it my mom told me when I was a little girl? ‘Never fall for the nerdy sweet guys with girlfriends and raging, externalized ids'?”

I looked up at her. “She was a wise lady.”

“Yup. She was.” Cath tweaked my nose with her thumb and forefinger. “So you're just going to fly off to Europe now with no baggage?”

“That's the idea.”

She nodded. “I hope you fix things up with Annie.”

“Amy.”

“Riiiiiight. Her. I bet you will.”

“Thanks. I hope so. You know what? I bet she'd like you.”

Cath's eyebrows shot up. “Really?”

“Well, maybe. Eventually. Once she got to know you. After a few drinks, perhaps.”

Cath gave my chest a last hearty smack. “One to grow on, creepo. So you're really going to tell her all about this? All about me?”

“You know it,” I said. “I'm not making the same mistake again. From now on, I'm an open book.” I spread my arms out wide.

“It's funny,” said Cath, turning thoughtful. “If you were ever to write this all down, I bet it'd be just as crazy and exciting and wild as all the diaries you used to spend all your time reading.”

I nodded. “Probably more so.”

“Well, then, you finally get it. What's been a total clusterfuck of an emotional nightmare for you can always be exciting and, like,
other
ing for somebody else. These things that people write, the stories they tell…they're never just entertainment.”

“Oh, no? Then why are you smiling like that?”

“Well,
I've
been pretty fucking entertained.” She raised her arms to my shoulders, like we were slow-dancing in middle school. “I'm going to miss you, creepo. You're something else.”

I kissed her cheek and held her close. “
You're
something else, Cath Kennedy.” When she pulled away, my arms lingered around her waist. “I spent all that time being obsessed with Miss Misery, but she's got nothing on you.”

Cath blushed. “Thanks. Don't you dare be a stranger.”

“Never again.” I held her stare for a moment longer, then smiled and started to walk away. “Oh,” I said, turning back. “One last thing.” I handed her the extra set of keys. “Would you hold on to these and maybe check in on the place for me? I might have left some lights on, and I don't know how long I'll be gone.”

She looked unsure. “You trust me that much?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I really do.”

 

As I walked through the air-conditioned airport, I held my head high, my shoulders straight. I felt strong. I felt sure. And I liked it. Once again I got some funny looks from the security staff when they noticed I had no luggage, and I laughed to myself about how unlike me all this spontaneity was.

But when it was time to board, I thought of all that had happened and all that had ended on that roof, and I came to the realization that it
was
like me after all.

I had been wrong, you see. My life hadn't been lived as an exercise in responsibility. What it had been was an exercise in convenience: Everything worked perfectly, so being responsible wasn't a test; it was a given. Until the day that Amy left, shattering my plans, upsetting my routine. Then, faced with a deviation from whatever path my subconscious had set out for me, I resisted. All of the demons I had sat on for years came bubbling to the surface, and I backslid into immaturity. Into peevish selfishness. Into no one but myself.

But no longer. Flying to Europe on a moment's notice wasn't to right some wrong or aid some damsel in distress. It had nothing to do with lives outside my own. It was about me and it was about my life. It was about living it instead of fearing it for a change. It was about going out instead of staying in. It wasn't about dealing or fighting or any of the convenient buzzwords I had placated my subconscious with over the past few hectic days—it was about accepting.

I had just made it to the start of the jetway, and the smiling stewardess held out her hand to take my ticket and send me on my way. But instead I hesitated and took myself out of the line. There was one last thing to do before I boarded.

I pulled my cell phone from my pocket and dialed a number I hadn't dialed in a very long time. It rang once. Then twice. Three times.

“Hello, you've reached the office of Thom Watkins at Pendant Publishing. Please leave a message after the tone.”

Voice mail. How appropriate.

“Hi, Thom,” I said as I reentered the line and handed my ticket to the attendant. “It's your long-lost writer, David Gould. Just wanted to check in with you now that I've been found. Listen, Thom, the book is going to be a little bit different than I imagined. Hope that's OK. It turns out it's going to be a novel.”

I had reached the end of the jetway, and I ran my fingers along the cold hull of the airplane for luck. Then I stepped aboard, ready for whatever would come next.

“You see, Thom, I've realized something about these diaries. They may be true, but they don't always tell the truth. Because reality can be much crazier than fiction. And fiction, well…sometimes it can just end up being a whole lot more accurate than the truth.”

 

The day I left was perfect—at least in terms of weather. When night fell, all of the windows in my apartment were still open. And I was gone.

This book, like everything I endeavor to do, would have been impossible without the constant support, love, wit, and inspiration of my friends and family. There are a select few, though, to whom I am especially indebted.

First and foremost, thanks are due to my steadfast agent, Jim Fitzgerald, and to my new editor and friend, Ryan Fischer-Harbage, for believing in this far-fetched project from the beginning and for nurturing it (and me) every step along the way. Thanks also to everyone at Simon Spotlight Entertainment for taking a chance on a first novel and for making me feel so welcome within the company.

My parents, Anne and Michael Greenwald, acted as my best friends and fans during the writing of this book, and I truly couldn't accomplish anything without them. Loving thanks to my grandmother, Sylvia Greenwald, for being a constant believer and my de facto publicist for Northeastern Pennsylvania.

More love, gratitude, and cocktails need to be showered on: Matt Jolly, Chris Ryan, Lara Cohen, Sean Howe, Allan Heinberg, Chris Baty, Marc Spitz, and Chuck Klosterman.

Thanks and a big shout-out to all of the kids who have reached out to me since the publication of
Nothing Feels Good
and especially to all of those who keep me company (and keep me honest) on the andygreenwald.com message board.

I'm extremely grateful to the Brooklyn Writers Space for providing me with a quiet place to type away at this beast—as well as for keeping me away from my Ethernet connection long enough to actually finish the damn thing.

And finally, the biggest thank-you goes to Rachel Bien, for everything you have put up with and everything you have pushed me to do. This book isn't about you, but in every way it exists because of you. I love you.

Thank you, New York City. Good night!