"But I don't think I want to see you anymore," she said.
I didn't have anything else to say, so I said, "Okay." And then I heard the lonely sound of her receiver being returned to its cradle.
I lay in bed watching the fish swimming through the asbestos cheese.
I touched the center of my chest. I imagined I could feel a small, heavy marble composed of panic and depression somewhere behind my sternum. I was having trouble breathing.
At five it had grown to the size of a small whale. I knew that if I didn't move I'd be suffocated under its weight.
I got dressed, got into my car and drove ninety miles an hour up the empty 405 freeway to her apartment. I parked my car, used a credit card to break into her building (a trick which worked precisely as it does on television). I marched up the stairs and down a long hallway to her apartment, Suite G.
I knocked.
Nothing.
I knocked again.
Nothing.
And then, encouraged by my skill with the credit card, I kicked the door in.
Well, I tried to kick the door in.
It didn't work. The door didn't budge. The door was supposed to explode inward. There was supposed to be
How had I gone from being a man with business cards to a man who couldn't even break down a door?
a crunch and a crack and whatever was hidden on the other side of the door would suddenly be revealed. But no matter how hard I tried, the door stayed where it was.
And then I saw myself. My eyes were red. I'd been up all night. I was half-stoned. I was that guy in the hall terrifying the neighbors, pounding on some poor woman's door. I hated that guy. It wasn't romantic. It was pathetic.
All of a sudden I was so tired.
I leaned my head against the door and quietly said her name.
"Jenny," I whispered.
I closed my eyes and wondered how I'd gotten there. How had I gone from being a man with business cards to a man who couldn't even break down a door, who, even in a fit of passion, couldn't even get in the room. I walked through the hall, down the stairs and out of the building. I got into my car and drove to work.
No one was there. I sat at my desk staring blankly at the wall. My eyes hurt. I'd been crying. I was absurd.
Then there was a knock at the office door.
I blew my nose.
"Come in," I said.
The door opened. It was a cheerful woman who worked down the hall. She was holding a bouquet of cookies, a dozen chocolate chip cookies on long green sticks arranged to look like flowers.
"Would you like a cookie?" She asked.
I looked at her for a moment longer than might have been normal.
And then I said, "Okay. Sure. Thanks."
She handed me a cookie on a stem, smiled and said brightly, "Have a nice day!"
I sat at my desk and ate the flower. It was the size of a Big Mac. There were paper leaves glued to the stem.
When I finished eating, I got up and left. I drove home, walked out to the beach and sat there for a long time.
Pretty soon after I finished that cookie I quit my job. I realized eventually that I really didn't care that much about Jenny. She was a catalyst. When she left everything seemed to go with her. I'm not sure why I went nuts. I loved the idea that I was a man with all the things a man might have a career, a car, an apartment, a beautiful girlfriend, some money, business cards. But it turns out that a goatee to a twenty-five year old man is what a Corvette is to a fifty-year old man: a sure sign that your life is a fraud and that you'd better do something fast. n°
Alexander Maksik is a writer living in Paris. He's the author of a children's book, The Amazing Adventures of Isabella Wanderling and is working on a novel. Maksik's travel articles have been featured in the San Antonio Express-News and is currently writing for the travel guide, Paris Explorer. He's a regular contributor to the online magazine thenervousbreakdown.com. You can read more of his writing at pont-des-arts.blogspot.com.
