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By Root 626 0

The menu probably hasn’t changed in a century. It was so nice to see a familiar face that at first I didn’t pay too much attention to his conversation, which was mostly kvetching about the service; the weather; the euro; the hotel mattress; the twenty bucks a day he had to spend to get onto the Internet; the flight over; the pigeons—he went on and on. Then it started to wear me down. I tried pointing out some of the good things here, like the food, and all he could say was, “Trans fat,” so I pointed out how well everybody dressed, and he said, “Because they don’t have houses to spend money on. They all live in rented apartments and don’t own land.” I have to tell you, Roger, I began to get annoyed. By the time our waiter took away our plates, I snapped. I started shouting at him, and it was awkward because I could tell everybody around us thought we were having a lovers quarrel— eeyooo!—and we were, for lack of a better word, “onstage.” This, of course, stoked my fires, and I screamed at him something along the lines of, “What the hell is wrong with you? Are you on drugs? Are you on medication or did you stop taking your medication? Why can’t you look at the world for even five fucking minutes without trying to trash the place and wreck it for people who maybe might like being here, or who are maybe simply trying to put a good face on being here? Why do you have to wreck everything?”

The poor guy was, possibly for the first time in his life, without words. Then he said, “I didn’t realize I was having that effect.” He wasn’t being snide or anything. I think he genuinely didn’t know the effect he has on people.

I said, “Well you do have that effect, and I can’t stand it. How many friends do you have?”

“What?”

“How many friends do you have?”

“I don’t see why that’s any of your—”

“It is my business. Because you’ve made me angry. And you don’t have any friends, do you?”

His face said it all.

“I thought so. Doesn’t that make you wonder about yourself? Everybody has friends, Greg. Everybody.”

“I thought we were simply having lunch here.”

“We were. Until you wrecked it with your endless complaining. You’re like the psychic equivalent of a wood chipper. Whatever goes in the front comes out the other end in shreds.”

Then he delivered a tae kwon do body kick: “You don’t have any friends either, do you?”

“I . . . I . . .” I threw some money down on the table— twenty coins’ worth of accumulated petty change—and it made a good and rousing noise on the tabletop. “I have lots of friends. And I’m out of here— Greg. And by the way, whenever you come into the store, we make fun of you because you’re a disaster.”

I stormed out before he could make a touché remark— God knows I deserved one—and out on the sidewalk I felt like a total creep. I mean, what if his personality stems from some medical condition and he can’t stop himself? Where does your personality end and brain damage begin? And why can’t I be normal? Why do I have to be the freak? I don’t want to be the freak, but all my life, there I am, out on the edge, the people in my life dropping around me like flies. Broke, wearing pathetic rags in a rectum of a French hostel, eating Mars bars until I catch my plane home. I can’t believe I’m coming home, Roger. I feel like such a failure. I was going to become Count Chocula’s personal assistant. I was going to—

Well, a fat load any of that matters any more. I’ll probably get home before this letter reaches you. I have no idea what I’m going to do once I get back, and I don’t care. Thanks for being an ear, Roger. I hope your novel has come a long way. It’s going to be the worst Christmas ever.

X

Bethany

DeeDee

Hi, Roger!

If I sound cheerful, it’s because I am—I got an email from Bethany saying she’s returning from Europe. (Didn’t say if she’s alone or with lover boy, but my mother’s intuition tells me she’s on her own. Joy to the world!) She got some weird discount Internet ticket, and she flies out of Frankfurt in three days, so I’m preparing the place for her return: I’m renting a big stack of DVDs (the complete Depp