Sparta (45 page)

Actually, school was not going well.

He had to keep going, as he'd told Anderson to do.

He set the cereal bowl on the floor. He could study just as well on the bed, in his underwear. He'd get up later, take a shower, get dressed, turn the bed back into a sofa. Right now there was no point, and he was whacked.

That afternoon in class the headache began to hover just over his right eye as soon as he sat down. It was disturbing to have the headache when he was in class. It usually came while he was studying at home, when he was tired or trying to figure out something complex. When it happened at home, he could close the book and wait until it went away. But in class he couldn't wait, and he had to cover his eye with his hand. He tried to make it look as though he were just leaning his head in his hand. By the end of class his whole head was throbbing, and he walked home with his hand over his eye, as though he'd gotten something stuck in it.

*   *   *

Jock came over for dinner one night. When he arrived, Conrad was studying in the living room. His books and notebooks were spread out on the sofa.

Conrad looked up. “Hey, there.” His head was pounding. He'd had a headache all day.

“My man,” Jock said. “The scholar.”

Conrad stared at him. Was that condescending? Did Jock think he, the doctor, was in the real world, and Conrad, the scholar, was in some inferior place?

“Aren't you studying, too?” Conrad asked.

“Am I not,” Jock said. “Am I not. Though it's more like boot camp, at this point, than graduate school.”

“Yeah,” Conrad said. “But of course boot camp's different. In boot camp you're learning to kill people on purpose.”

Jock laughed uncomfortably. He took out his wallet.

“By the way,” he said, “I've got something for you.” He opened his wallet and handed Conrad a prescription.

“For me? You've already got doctor's handwriting,” Conrad said, squinting. “I can't read it. What is it?”

“Zolpidem,” said Jock.

“What is that?”

“Sleepmaster,” Jock said. “Ambien. The most widely prescribed drug there is. I give you the gift of sleep.”

Conrad raised his eyebrows. “Whoa! Thank you, my man.”

Jock shook his head. “Glad to help. But this is only for three months.”

“I will be happy for three months.” Conrad shook his head. “Man. Okay, I'm just going to step outside for a few moments. That drugstore on Broadway is open till ten.”

Outside it was dark, and the streetlights were on. He headed up the block toward Broadway. The woman from next door was on the sidewalk, taking slow, patient steps as her dog explored a little patch of grass. Conrad nodded and she nodded back.

The slip of paper was like money. Sleep was like money.

He reached Broadway just as the light was changing, and he ran across, dodging the traffic. A Duane Reade was on the corner, its window crammed with stuff, stacked with boxes of diapers and mouthwash. He went inside and was hit by the heavy smell of synthetic plastics. He went up the narrow aisle to the back, where a heavyset black woman, her hair in cornrows, stood behind the low counter. He handed her his slip. She took it disapprovingly, without meeting his eyes. She turned and handed the slip to the druggist behind the high counter. Without speaking to Conrad, she looked past him at the person next in line, a girl with dyed orange hair and black-ringed eyes.

The white-haired druggist peered at the paper through his glasses, then looked at Conrad.

“Fifteen or twenty minutes,” he said.

“That's fine,” Conrad said. He felt euphoric. “I'll wait.” He walked up and down the rows, cans of deodorant, boxes of gauze bandages, bottles of shampoo. Racks of candy, soda, potato chips: so much food. He should bring something back for Jenny, the household, he thought. Everything was processed, plastic-wrapped. He thought of buying something for Jock in appreciation, but nothing seemed right. Toothpaste was not a present, and deodorant was an insult. The thought of sliding down into sleep made him feel rich and happy. He walked around, cruising, until fifteen minutes were up. He came back and stood by the counter, waiting. The black woman frowned as she handed him the package.

Conrad smiled at her. “Thank you.”

He felt a surge of goodwill. She was saving his life, in a way.

Walking back to the apartment, the little plastic bottle in his pocket, he felt unfathomably rich. Before him were nights of sleep, spreading out before him like miles of treasure.

He stood waiting at the light while cars slid past in an endless current. A homeless man came up to the corner. He was in his sixties, long-haired and bearded. His face was seamed and tanned. He wore a grimy woven tunic and gray institutional pants. He looked like Tolstoy, broad-browed, intent, handsome, his face surrounded by a bushy mass of hair.

Conrad was thinking of Jock reaching for his wallet.
I've got something for you.
The smile on Jock's face, wasn't it a bit self-satisfied? That little turndown at the corners. But Jock was always like that, a bit self-satisfied. Like he was the Man.

Tolstoy moved next to Conrad and leaned over the metal trash can. He put his hand into it and began pawing gently. Conrad heard the rustle of paper.

He wondered if that was actually how Jock felt. As if he were in charge of doling things out. Had Jock been patronizing him? Like,
Here you are, my good man
.

Tolstoy looked up at him, holding an empty bottle.

“Hey, man,” Tolstoy said.

Conrad nodded to him. “Hey.”

“I think this is the only bottle in this whole fucking trash can,” Tolstoy said.

“Could be,” said Conrad.

“I have to go all the way down, though,” Tolstoy said. “You gotta go all the way down.”

“Right,” Conrad said.

Tolstoy stared at him. He had narrow blue eyes, and his mouth was surrounded by the streaming beard. His teeth were surprisingly white against his dark skin. “You ever done this?” he asked. “You know what I'm talking about?”

“Not exactly,” Conrad said. “But close enough.”

Tolstoy wet his mouth, running his red tongue over his lips, staring. “So you know what it's like,” he said. “It's for shit.”

He stared straight into Conrad's eyes.

“What I do,” he repeated. “It's for shit.”

He was old. He smelled bad, a rank mix of body and dirt, some kind of animal scent. He was old and he had nowhere to be. On his feet he wore thick sandals, no socks. His life—wounded, shattered—stood around him like an aura. Conrad wondered where he had been when he was twenty-six, in what city, with what plans. This, now, wasn't what he'd wanted, but it was where he'd turned up. Somehow his whole life had miscarried, veered off onto this faint, wandering line. It was a mystery, a loss. He'd lost his own life.

“I know,” Conrad said. “I'm sorry.” He raised one hand, as though to touch him, but made the gesture into a wave/salute. Probably touching the guy was not a good idea.

Tolstoy stared, holding him in his blue beam, the bottle still high in one hand. “It's better than being inside,” he said. “That's where they fuck you.”

The light changed. “Yeah,” Conrad said. “Good luck.”

He walked across the avenue, now starting to feel angry. What was the point of things if people ended up like this, old and homeless and destitute? No socks, and pawing through the filthy trash. What was the matter here? What was he supposed to do?

He headed down Jenny's block. The dog woman was gone. The sidewalk was empty, just the streetlight's cone of light. A car drove slowly past, blasting out a dull, booming bass line.

He wondered again about Jock, if he had been patronizing. The more he thought about it, the more he thought it was condescending. He didn't want charity from Jock. If he wanted prescription drugs, he could fucking well get them from his own doctor. He didn't need to get his little sister's boyfriend to sneak something out to him. Jock was treating him like some kind of charity case. Opening up his wallet, as if this were a birthday treat. The tone of his voice.

Now he owed Jock something. Was that it? Jock had put Conrad in his debt.

When he came in, he was no longer smiling. Jock and Jenny were already sitting at the table. Jenny waved her fork at him.

“Your plate's in the kitchen,” she said.

Conrad filled his plate and sat down. He resented the fact that they had started eating.

“All set,” he said to Jock. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” Jock said. He looked down at his plate.

Not looking at Conrad was also condescending.

“So, you do this a lot?” Conrad asked him.

Jock looked up.

“Hand out prescriptions?” Conrad elaborated.

Jock frowned. “No. What do you mean?”

Conrad shook his head. “Nothing. Just wondered.”

“As a matter of fact, it's kind of difficult,” said Jock. “I may not be able to renew it. But Jenny said you were having trouble sleeping.”

Conrad didn't like the idea of Jenny talking to Jock about him. Telling him about his problems. He wondered if she knew about his nightmares. Had he told her? Had she told Jock? It was no one's business.

“Yeah, well, thanks,” he said.

After that night, Jock began to piss Conrad off.

He thought that Jock pressed his lips together when Conrad said something, and wouldn't answer. He thought Jock acted supercilious, as though Conrad were a child. Conrad knew he might be overreacting. He couldn't be sure, and that pissed him off, too.

*   *   *

A week later Conrad spent the afternoon at the library, studying for an econ test.

The problem was that he couldn't absorb the information. He read it over and over, and some of it stuck and some of it refused to. When he came to something he couldn't get into his head, he underlined it and read it to himself in a whisper so that the words were formed and spoken. What he didn't want to do was panic. He could feel the headache hovering, and he put his hand over his right eye. What he was afraid of was failure. What if he went ahead, step-by-step, but couldn't make his mind work? What if he failed the class or had to drop out? He couldn't fail. Even if he took the class over next semester, the failing grade would be on his record. He couldn't fail. But what if he couldn't succeed?

The problem was making his mind work. The headache, and not being able to grasp ideas. But he couldn't abandon the mission just because it wasn't going well. You carried on. And in any case, what other option was there?

Tools, process, opportunity.

He was surrounded by a carnival of opportunity, a feast, a smorgasbord. And tools were everywhere, it was like a secret language. Once you understood it, you saw the message written everywhere. It was all around you. The distant star of the subway car bearing down on you through the darkness, rattling toward you, larger and larger, breathtakingly lethal. Jenny's kitchen, with its rack of knives, each of them, even the smallest, fully effective. The vacuum cleaner hose. Tools were everywhere.

*   *   *

Jock came over that night. They had dinner at the table in the living room. Jenny had made lasagna, and the cheesy smell of it filled the apartment. Jock took a swig of beer and looked at Conrad.

“So, how's it going?”

“Going okay,” Conrad said.

“What are you taking, again?” Jock asked.

“Just one class,” said Conrad. “Prerequisite for grad school. Macroeconomics.”

Jock raised his eyebrows. “Serioso.”

“Yeah,” said Conrad. “But it'll be okay.”

“Must be hard to get your brain back into school mode.” Jock took a big bite of lasagna. His Adam's apple worked as he chewed.

“Actually,” Conrad said, “in the Marines we're always in school mode. Acquiring new information, using it to design strategy. We actually use our brains quite a lot. Contrary to public opinion.”

Jock looked at him. His Adam's apple stopped moving. “Hey,” he said. “I know that. I just meant that studying—” He didn't finish.

“Actually, there is a very strong intellectual streak in the Marines,” Conrad said.
Fucking doctors.

“Is there?” Jenny asked. She sounded serious and interested.

“Yeah,” said Conrad. “A lot of smart jarheads. They read the
Iliad
. They read
War and Peace
. They read history. They come back here and they're treated like idiots.”

Jock stared at him. He picked up his beer and drank again. Conrad could hear him swallowing, could see the gulps going down his gingery speckled throat.

“Okay, so, Con,” Jenny said carefully, “you make it sound like it's our fault.”

Conrad squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them. “Okay, sorry,” he said. “Not your fault. Okay? Sorry. I'm a little on edge tonight.”

They ate in silence. Jock finished his meal and set his fork on his plate. He leaned back in his chair and looked around the living room. It was a mess.

Conrad's clothes lay draped on the chairs and the arms of the sofa. There was nowhere else for him to put them: no closet, no bureau. His books and papers were stacked on the coffee table; there were more on the floor.

“So, what's the deal?” Jock asked Jenny. “Are we ever going to move?”

Jenny frowned at her plate. “I don't have time to look for another place right now.”

“Yeah, but when will you?” Jock asked. “When will you not have a job? When are you going to call a broker or look at the ads in the
Times
and then actually go out and look at the places? Or do you want me to look? Because I'll be happy to. On my day off every two weeks.”

“I know, I know,” she said.

“Jen, come on. We've been having this conversation for months,” Jock said. “What's your point?”