Page 8

Existential Quack

Charlie

A host with slicked-back hair and a pencil-thin mustache smiles when Daniel and I walk inside. “How many?”

Daniel holds up two fingers, and the host scribbles something on a piece of paper before gesturing to a bench against the wall. “Should only be about five minutes or so.”

Taking a seat, I watch a server place an enormous bowl of pasta on a nearby table. My stomach growls again, even louder than before. An elderly couple waiting at the other end of the bench gawks at me.

In an attempt to distract myself from the hunger pangs, I focus on Daniel. “How are things going with Olivia?”

He shrugs. “Hard to say. We had a good day yesterday, but…”

“But what?”

“She invited me to a poetry slam tonight out in Brooklyn.”

Yuck. A poetry slam? “Are you going? ”

He rubs his chin with his hand and contemplates my question. “If I don’t, some dude named Jasper or Milo will swoop in.”

I scoff, more out of surprise than anything else. “Since when do you care about Jaspers and Milos?”

“Since I think my girlfriend would rather be with them than me.”

Nibbling on my bottom lip, I think about how much of a funk Daniel’s been in this year. Frustrated grunts and the occasional thump of a fist against the wall have replaced the pleasurable moaning that used to echo from his room when Olivia wasn’t around.

I’m about to offer some words of comfort when the host grabs two menus and leads us to a booth near the back of the establishment. “Your server will be with you in a minute.”

We open our menus—even though we both know what we’re going to order—and let the silence fill the small space. Daniel’s fidgeting makes the table shake to the point that the pitcher of water already on the table sloshes all over the place.

I give him the universal gesture to spit it out as I mop up the mess with some napkins.

“I need some advice.”

“What’s up?”

“When I was over Liv’s place the other week, I used her laptop?—”

I snicker. “To watch porn?”

“No,” he scowls, but the tiny hint of pink on his cheeks says otherwise. “To look up something for a class assignment.”

“I’m guessing you found something?”

He nods. “An email notification popped up. I didn’t mean to click on it. It just…kind of happened. It was an Amazon receipt for flannel shirts, a pair of fake glasses, and some flats.”

“Huh.” I let that sink in. “Are you thinking she wants to date a hipster? Because she could just be trying to fit in with her new friends.”

Daniel picks up the salt shaker and spins it around the table.

“ I don’t know. She’s been sending me mixed signals lately.

Like, she actively avoids coming over, but then asks me out to a poetry slam.

Our sex life has all but dried up, but then she’s propositioning me, using a blowjob as a bargaining chip. ”

He puts the salt shaker back where he got it and leans back against the booth. He sighs heavily, the sound reminding me of a deflating balloon. I feel like deflating right alongside him—it’s what any good friend would do.

“I used to love spending rainy days with her, lounging around in our pajamas, watching movies, and ordering in from that greasy Chinese place on Fifth. I miss that. I miss her. ” He runs a hand through his jet-black hair.

“I don’t know how to compete with her new posse, Charlie.

I’m a regular Joe Schmo. I like baseball, beer, and the occasional round of Mario Kart.

I’m not into poetry or art. Could you even picture me with that crowd? ”

Could I? I squint at my best friend, picturing him in a tight flannel shirt, a beanie pulled low over his ears, and his face obscured by a bushy beard.

I drag and drop thick-rimmed glasses onto his long nose, a cup of kombucha into his hand, and a pair of ripped skinny jeans onto his legs that nearly split when he bends over to tie the laces on his Converse.

Then I pretend he’s talking to me about some obscure indie band that recorded their album in a cave in Iceland.

The image isn’t terrible, per se. Daniel could pull off the ensemble better than I ever could. But it’s not him. It’s not the guy I’ve known since we were pimply-faced freshmen, bonding over a shared love of sports and a mutual hatred for early morning classes.

The Daniel I know is a creature of habit.

He orders the same meals wherever we go, right down to the glass of Pepsi and the extra plate of fries.

He wears his lucky socks the night before a game day—the ones with the hole that his big toe sticks out of.

He belts out off-key renditions of Prince songs in the shower.

He’s not some try-hard, kombucha-guzzling, grass-smoking impostor.

I want to say something that will convince him of that, but the truth is, I’ve never been in Daniel’s shoes.

I’ve never had a girlfriend like Olivia—someone I was so deeply in love with that the thought of losing her made my stomach twist into knots.

My past relationships have all been superficial and in high school, when you dated simply to say you were in a relationship.

We’d hold hands in the hallway and make out under the bleachers, but there were no real feelings involved. It was all for show.

I remember my first girlfriend, Julie Perkins.

She had curly red hair and freckles that danced across her nose.

We went out for two months before she dumped me for the quarterback of the football team.

I was crushed at the time, but now that I’m older and wiser, I know that I wasn’t heartbroken over losing her.

I was more upset over the fact that she chose someone else.

Someone better and cooler. It was a blow to my ego, not my heart.

After Julie, there was Mona, then Emily, then Rachel.

Each relationship lasted a few months before fizzling out.

We’d grow bored with each other or realize we had nothing in common besides a shared class or mutual friends.

There were no tearful breakups, no dramatic fights, or promises to stay friends.

We simply drifted apart until, one day, we stopped talking altogether.

I never minded being single. In fact, I relished it. I loved the freedom of not having to answer to anyone, of being able to flirt with whoever I wanted to without that Catholic guilt. I could focus on baseball and hanging out with my friends without being called out for neglecting my girlfriend.

I am woefully unprepared to offer Daniel any real advice. What do I know about making a relationship work? About fighting for someone you love? I’m just a dumb jock who’s coasted through life on his looks and charm.

The server arrives at our table, notepad in hand, and asks for our order—spaghetti and meatballs for Daniel, lasagna for me.

As the waiter walks away, I return my attention to Daniel.

“Look, man, I know I’m not the best person to give relationship advice.

But I do know one thing—you don’t change who you are for someone else.

If Olivia can’t appreciate you for the amazing person that you are, then maybe she’s not the girlfriend for you. ”

Daniel nods, but I can tell he’s not entirely convinced. He sighs and scrubs his face with his hands. “I’m scared, man. I’ve been with her for so long that I don’t even remember how to be with anyone else.”

“Well, you can’t sit back and do nothing, that’s for sure. You need to show her you’re willing to make an effort, even if it means stepping out of your comfort zone.”

Daniel nods, a glimmer of hope returning to his eyes. “You’re right. I won’t give up without a fight.” He pauses, then adds, “Hey, will you come with me tonight? I could use the moral support. Olivia has an extra ticket, so you won’t even have to break open the piggy bank.”

I choke on my saliva. Me at a poetry slam? With a bunch of hipsters who probably think baseball is a metaphor for the oppressive capitalist system? Fat fucking chance.

But then I look at Daniel, my best friend in the whole world. The guy who once helped inspect my balls when I thought I had testicular cancer, only for it to be a varicose vein. If Daniel can do that for me, the least I can do is suffer through a few hours of bad poetry readings.

“Of course, I’ll come with you,” I say, trying to sound more enthusiastic than I am. “What are friends for, right?”

“Thanks, man. I owe you one.”

“You owe me more than one,” I mutter under my breath, only half joking.

Our food arrives, smelling like heaven. We dig in, and the conversation turns to lighter topics, such as the baseball season and the new video game we’ve been waiting to play. But in the back of my mind, I’m dreading the evening ahead.

A few hours and one masturbation session later to de-stress, we’re standing outside an art gallery in Dumbo, Brooklyn.

“Are you sure this is the right place?” I ask Daniel, eyeing the Brooklyn Bridge at the end of the street.

He double-checks the address on his phone. “Yeah, this is it. Olivia said to look for the giant duck.”

I blink. “The what now?”

Daniel points to the window behind me. Sure enough, a massive yellow duck sits in the middle of the window display.

It’s easily six feet tall and appears to be made out of some sort of inflatable material.

Its beady eyes stare blankly ahead, and its orange beak is frozen in a permanently warped smile.

Now, I’ve seen many horrifying things since moving to the city. Dead rats, tourists getting mugged, Jason Voorhees taking Manhattan. But none of that compares to this inanimate object plotting my demise.

Next to the abomination is a small title card that reads—in a pretentious cursive font, no less— Existential Quack.

I stare at the duck, then back at Daniel. “What the actual fuck is that?”

To his credit, he appears equally disturbed. “No idea, man. But I think it’s sizing me up for dinner.”

“Do you think it’s also going to come to life and peck out our eyes?”

Daniel gasps dramatically. “Don’t even joke about that. I’m going to have nightmares for months now.”

“Months? Try the rest of our lives. Who in their right mind would create such a thing?”

People joining us in line apparently share a different opinion. They ooh and aah, applaud and whistle as if it were the second coming of Christ.

“So profound,” one woman says.

“A commentary on the human condition,” says another .

“It’s a big-ass duck,” I whisper to Daniel. “What’s so profound about it?”

He shrugs. “Guess this is what they consider art nowadays.”

I distract myself with a shelf full of brochures about the gallery. Apparently, it’s owned by a woman named Danielle Nichols. I balk at the picture they’ve chosen to accompany her short bio. Was the photographer on crack or something? She looks scarier than the duck.

The back of the brochure contains a couple of photos from the most recent exhibition. I smile at the canvas covered in colorful lines and squiggles. It reminds me of the book my mom used to read to me when I was younger— Howard and the Purple Crayon.

And then there’s an image of a blank, white square. I bring the brochure up to my face, thinking that maybe my vision is getting bad or something, but nope. Still just a whole lot of nothing.

The caption beneath it reads, “The Absence of Presence.” I stare at the words, mouthing them silently to myself. The absence of presence? What the hell does that even mean?

Is it supposed to be a commentary on the emptiness of modern life? The futility of human existence? The artist’s lack of talent?

I go to ask Daniel what he thinks, but he’s no longer beside me. Matter of fact, I’m all alone out here.

The door to the gallery opens, and Daniel pokes his head out. “Dude! Are you coming in or what?”

Tucking the brochure into my back pocket, I follow Daniel inside and pray that I don’t die of boredom. I’d much rather go out in a blaze of glory.