You

30

I’M back at the shop surrounded by newness, and maybe I’m more like you than I know because the new things are exciting, Beck. New bandages—clean!—new hat—wool!—new haircut—short!—and a new attitude—psyched! I let Ethan go home early and he said he was happy to see me in such high spirits. It’s only a matter of time before you reach out to me—you miss me—and I check your e-mail again because the news has been so good. Chana’s laying into you about your “LC” tweet:

Chana: “LC”? Beck, the only way you could sound like more of an asshole is if by “LC” you mean Lauren Conrad. You can’t call it “LC” if you’ve never been there. Which you haven’t, right?

You: Okay, you’re right. LC was a lame tweet. I just feel kind of off since Joe.

Chana: If you feel off, then you should be a grown-up and call him up and see him again. Running away with Princess Peach is literally the worst thing to do.

You: I know. It’s like in Sex and the City when Carrie is in Paris with the Russian and she says she can’t help but wonder what it would be like if she were there with Mr. Big.

Chana: Except that’s a bullshit TV show where they have to drag things out. This is real life. Stop being a drama queen and call him up. Who knows? Maybe he’ll even go to Rhode Island for a night.

Oh Beck, I’m going to be there every night. This is it. Our new beginning. You write back:

You: Hmm. That actually sounds kind of nice.

Chana: Then do it. Invite him. Fuck Peach. You can pretend he hunted you down all romantic and shit.

You: Maybe. Imagine if I just text him the address and say come lol.

And I check my phone for a text from you. Nothing. But it’s official, you want me and it’s official, I want you. I can’t sit around here and wait. I have to man up and I do. First things first, I find Peach’s family’s address online through a combination of an old article in Architectual Digest and Google Maps. Now I call Mr. Mooney and ask if it’s okay to go on a road trip and close up for a few days.

“Joe, you’re the boss over there now. And you know how I feel about January. It’s a waste. Take a vacation. You’ve earned it.”

And I have.

All the while, you’ve been e-mailing with Chana and Lynn, who is also on Team Joe, naturally:

Lynn: So why don’t you run away with him instead of Peach?

You: Please don’t hate on Peach. She’s going through a rough time.

Chana: Her whole life is a rough time. Ugh. Next!

Lynn: You know everything in that part of Rhode Island is closed, Beck.

You: Guys, please. It’s just a weekend. It’s not a big deal.

Chana: Tell her thanks for inviting me and Lynn. Whatever.

You: Chana, she did invite you. She asked me to invite you.

Lynn: That’s not the same thing as a personal invitation . . .

You: Guys, she’s depressed. You know she has a stalker, right?

Lynn: LOLOLOLOLOL

Chana: How much is she paying him?

Lynn: LOLOLOLOLOL

You: Guys . . . she means well

Chana: Of course $he doe$.

Lynn: #welldonechana

You:

I love your friends for being on my side. It means a lot to me and one day at our wedding I’ll thank them for it. I would like to say the same for Peach, but she’s not on Team Joe. She’s on Team Beck and she doesn’t understand that Team Beck and Team Joe are the same team. You’ve also been yapping with her:

Peach: Almost forgot, you will DIE over our library. Tons of first editions, Beck. Spalding was a friend of the family, we have tons signed, so much amazing stuff, real rare editions that you can’t get anywhere. I mean I have a signed To the Lighthouse. Virginia Woolf, well, it’s a long story better saved for this weekend over a bottle of Pinot.

You: You know who would love that? Ugh, of course you know who would love that.

Peach: I know, sweetie. I also promise that getting out of the city will be the best distraction.

You: Yeah. I hope so.

I toss your phone into the plastic Gap shopping bag. It’s time to stop reading your e-mail and start getting ready to see you. I can’t wait until you break down and write to me. And I know you will. You’ll be all alone in your bedroom in the beach house thinking about how much better it would be with me. You’ll text me and I’ll get there and you’ll let me in and we’ll sneak upstairs and have beach house sex. I am calm now that I know our fate. All I have to do is get to Little Compton and await your call.

I lock the basement doors and turn off the lights and try to remember where I parked Mr. Mooney’s car and wonder if I should take 95 the whole way. Murphy’s Law exists for a reason, so the front door opens and a few latecomers shuffle inside.

I call out in my friendliest tone, “I hate to do this but we’re closing!”

I know the sounds of this shop and I have a bad feeling. I know what it sounds like when someone locks the front door and I know what it sounds like when the OPEN sign flips to CLOSED. My machete is in the basement and I am upstairs and I hear them charging me, whoever they are. There are three of them, faceless dudes in Barack Obama masks, two big, one smaller. The smaller one wields a crowbar and there’s no time to hide in the vestibule or the basement. When you can’t win, you lose and they all come at me at once.

They attack.

I take it like a man and they pound me like I’m a motherfucker, like I literally fucked their mothers. My face is mashed in blood and saliva and it’s possible that my right eye is no longer functioning. Finally, the attack ends and I am not a man right now, just a collection of pulsing wounds. I open the eye that still works. The smallest Obama swipes my new Gap hat off the counter and pumps his fist. And. And.

Holy fuck. I recognize those sneakers because I’ve asked Curtis to keep his dirty feet off the counter at least a hundred times. So this is him, his revenge. Curtis and the other Obamas scramble for the door and I remain on the ground, throbbing. I will not feel sorry for myself. I did have this coming. There are things I have done, bold things; I remember Benji’s red badge of courage. Of course at some point, I would have to suffer. You miss me and I am about to have you, at last, and this is the turning point in my life, so of course there is a time for atonement. I bleed and I swell. My left eye flutters and I have atoned and the CLOSED sign is accurate; there is closure. Finally, I am free.