Black Chalk

‘Jolyon, forget it. You have the rest. It doesn’t matter that much.’

‘Did I hear you call me Joe?’ Jolyon’s anger pulsed and flooded the room like black paint swirling in a water jar.

‘Whatever, Jolyon,’ said Mark.

‘No no no, Mark. Did you or did you not call me Joe? You see, I say you did. Now you have to decide whether or not you want to dispute that fact.’

Mark blinked and shrugged while Jolyon stared hard at him. ‘Sure,’ said Mark. ‘Maybe I did.’

‘Then what I want to know, Marcus

, is who the fuck is Joe? Who the fuck ever said you could call me Joe? Did I tell you to call me Joe? Did you ask for permission to call me Joe? Joe who? Joe what? I don’t even know who the fuck this Joe’s supposed to be.’

‘Fine, Jolyon, I get it, all right.’ Mark lifted his hands and then let them fall limp to the floor.

Jolyon looked hard toward Mark but did not see him. Jolyon saw darkness, the long tunnel of his fury and its daylight end no larger than a coin. ‘What matters here,’ he said, ‘is that if anyone ever could call me Joe, it certainly wouldn’t be you, Mark. Have you got that? Understand?’

‘Just chill out, Jolyon.’

‘What the fuck do you mean chill out? What, chill like you, Marcus? You mean I should spend every waking hour acting like I have some form of muscle-wasting disease just so everyone will imagine how little I must work, and therefore how clever I must be? Or maybe I should try and change the rules of an entire fucking game because I’m not feeling up to the effort it demands. Is that your idea of chill, Marcus, your best version of cool?’

‘No,’ said Mark. ‘Just take it down a notch, Jolyon. I didn’t mean anything.’

‘Because you know what, Marcus, just closing your eyes every five minutes doesn’t make you cool. Acting like a zombie half the time isn’t so exquisitely nonchalant. And sleeping sixteen hours at a stretch doesn’t make you ever so chill. It just makes you lazy. You’re a lazy fucking cunt, Mark. That’s all you are.’

Mark stood slowly. The transition seemed to take an enormous quantity of energy and up on his feet he looked lost.

‘That’s right, Marcus,’ said Jolyon, ‘you can fuck off now.’ He gestured at the door as he bridled on the bed. ‘And the rest of you can fuck off as well.’ Jolyon stabbed the joint into an ashtray. ‘I never get this place to myself. Can I never get even one single moment to myself?’

They all began to rise. Jack nearly said something but thought better of it and left the room behind Mark. They trooped off in a line, single file, and with Chad at the rear. Emilia peeled away and moved cautiously toward the bed on which Jolyon had spread himself.

Chad hesitated at the edge of the room.

‘It’s fine, Chad,’ said Emilia, ‘I can handle this one.’

Chad smiled, stepped out of the room and closed the door behind him.

XXXVII

XXXVII(i) If I was unduly harsh on Mark then perhaps it was because his laziness extended to the observance of rules. He was a sloppy believer in right and wrong. And why did it fall to me to enforce the rules? The others wanted the rules enforced but they all kept quiet, waiting for someone else to speak first.

I used to see the same sort of behaviour all the time before I shut myself away – on buses, in bars, on the street. A man, for example, shouting at a woman. The woman cowering, shrinking back from the fist being formed. And twenty or thirty bystanders shrinking back as well, looking to each other, hoping someone else would step in and do the right thing.

And that person always used to be me. Once upon a time. But the Game snatched away several parts of me. Perhaps life would have done so in any case but the Game got there first. And Chad got there first. And Death got there first.

XXXVII(ii)

This morning my neighbour failed to look up even once from his crossword. My ex-wife is married to a tax attorney named Trip. Every time I pass a bum on the street he flashes me a don’t-come-hither look.

I have no other choice. There is something I must do. I can’t make it alone.

My evening routine steels me for the task ahead. I fill the whisky glass to the line in black Magic Marker, a third full. Two pink pills, two yellow, two blue. And then I leave my apartment as darkness is falling, my sternest test thus far, the East Village like a carnival parade every night.

I reach Avenue A where life throngs the streets, crowds buzzing between one drink and the next. Lines of girls move arm in arm like crabs, I have to step aside as they scuttle and slide up the sidewalk. Doorways disgorge their crowds like cats gagging fur balls. On the hood of a car there crouches a man in surf shorts bellowing, using his hands like a bullhorn. Paaaar-taaaay, he yells.

I try to recall what day of the week this is. Yes, a Monday, I seem to remember.

Baby steps.

XXXVII(iii) ACE bar sucks me into its blackness.

Whisky, I say, when eventually I squeeze through the crowd. The waitress narrows her eyes almost imperceptibly. No, I say, scratch that. Make it a beer, a Brooklyn.