Quickly, after the words The Nutcracker House, I added a line to the instructions: Do bring Snarly Muppet. Or don’t.
seven
–Dash–
December 24th/December 25th
Boomer refused to tell me a thing.
“Was she tall?”
He shook his head.
“So she was short?”
“No—I’m not telling you.”
“Pret y?”
“Not telling.”
“Hell aciously homely?”
“I wouldn’t tell you even if I knew what that meant.”
“Was her blond hair blocking her eyes?”
“No—wait, you’re trying to trick me, aren’t you? I’m not saying anything except that she wanted me to give this to you.” Along with the notebook, there was … a Muppet?
“It looks like Animal and Miss Piggy had sex,” I said. “And this was the spawn.”
“My eyes!” Boomer cried. “My eyes! I can’t stop seeing it now that you’ve said it!” I looked at the clock.
“You should probably get home before they start serving dinner,” I said.
“Will your mom and Giovanni be home soon?” he asked.
I nodded.
“Christmas hug!” he called out. And immediately I was enmeshed in what could only be called a Christmas hug.
I knew this was supposed to raise the temperature of my cockles. But nothing associated with the culture of Christmas could really do that for me. Not in a humbug sense—I still hugged Boomer like I meant every last squeeze. But mostly I was ready to have the apartment to myself again.
“So I’ll see you the day after Christmas for that party, right?” Boomer asked. “Is that the twenty-seventh?”
“The twenty-sixth.”
“I should write it down.”
He grabbed a pen of the table by our door and wrote THE 26TH on his arm.
“Don’t you have to write down what’s on the twenty-sixth?” I asked.
“Oh, no. I’ll remember that. It’s your girlfriend’s party!”
I could have corrected him, but I knew I’d only have to do it again later.
Once Boomer was safely out of the building, I luxuriated in the silence. It was Christmas Eve, and I had nowhere to be. I kicked o my shoes. Then I kicked o my pants. Amused by this, I took o my shirt. And my underwear. I walked from room to room, naked as the day I was born, only without the blood and amniotic uid. It was strange—I’d been home alone plenty of times before, but I’d never walked around naked. It was a lit le chilly, but it was also kind of fun. I waved to the neighbors. I had some yogurt. I put on my mom’s copy of the Mamma Mia soundtrack and spun around a lit le. I did some light dusting.
Then I remembered the notebook. It didn’t feel right to open the Moleskine naked. So I put my underwear back on. And my shirt (unbut oned). And my pants.
Lily deserved some respect, after all.
It pret y much blew me away, what she had writ en. Especially the part about Franny. Because I’d always had a soft spot for Franny. Like most of Salinger’s characters, she wouldn’t be such a f**kup, you felt, if these f**ked-up things didn’t keep happening to her. I mean, you never wanted her to end up with Lane, who was a douche bag, only without the vinegar. If she ended up going to Yale, you wanted her to burn the place down.
I knew I was starting to confuse Lily with Franny. Only, Lily wouldn’t fall for Lane. She’d fall for … Well, I had no idea who she’d fall for, or if he happened to resemble me.
We believe in the wrong things, I wrote, using the same pen Boomer had used on his arm. That’s what frustrates me the most. Not the lack of belief, but the belief in the wrong things. You want meaning? Well, the meanings are out there. We’re just so damn good at reading them wrong.
I wanted to stop there. But I went on.
It’s not going to be explained to you in a prayer. And I’m not going to be able to explain it to you. Not just because I’m as ignorant and hopeful and selectively blind as the next guy, but because I don’t think meaning is something that can be explained. You have to understand hopeful and selectively blind as the next guy, but because I don’t think meaning is something that can be explained. You have to understand it on your own. It’s like when you’re starting to read. First, you learn the let ers. Then, once you know what sounds the let ers make, you use them to sound out words. You know that c-a-t leads to cat and d-o-g leads to dog. But then you have to make that extra leap, to understand that the word, the sound, the “cat” is connected to an actual cat, and that “dog” is connected to an actual dog. It’s that leap, that understanding, that leads to meaning. And a lot of the time in life, we’re still just sounding things out. We know the sentences and how to say them. We know the ideas and how to present them. We know the prayers and which words to say in what order. But that’s only spelling.
I don’t mean this to sound hopeless. Because in the same way that a kid can realize what “c-a-t” means, I think we can nd the truths that live behind our words. I wish I could remember the moment when I was a kid and I discovered that the let ers linked into words, and that the words linked to real things. What a revelation that must have been. We don’t have the words for it, since we hadn’t yet learned the words. It must have been astonishing, to be given the key to the kingdom and see it turn in our hands so easily.
My hands were starting to shake a lit le. Because I hadn’t known that I knew these things. Just having a notebook to write them in, and having someone to write them to, made them all rise to the surface.