The One Percenters Read online

Out there on the balcony, in the rain, it felt right and wonderful.

  We walked inside, and she spent the night. I’d have to say that was one of the top five nights of my life, and not because of the sex (or at least not exclusively).

  That night, for the first time in over two years, I felt human. I felt alive. I hoped that somewhere, somehow, Jill saw me that night and nodded her approval. I think she would have liked Cristen. No, I’m sure she would have. The next morning I awoke—always a good thing, and I suppose Cristen figured turnabout to be fair play, because she took it upon herself to open up. I know that I can repeat this now, though at the time I swore Page 38

  myself mum.

  Cristen had been in a long and serious relationship beginning when she was fifteen. It was your typical rebellion affair at the start; basically Jimmy was the perfect type to piss off the parents and bring a little bit of an independent feeling into a young girl’s life.

  Eventually though, her motives changed, as she found herself falling in love with the tall, charming James Youngblood. James was eighteen when they’d met at a diner. Cristen had been having a cheeseburger with her friends when he approached her. Well, she took to his charismatic style, and they began to date.

  When she turned eighteen, she moved in with Jimmy, against the wishes of her parents. The decision created a rift between Cristen and her folks that wasn’t mended until she was twenty-five. At that time her father fell ill (he has since recovered). Cristen returned home to help care for him, and she and her parents decided that enough water had passed under the bridge and that it was time to put an end to it.

  Anyway, Cristen moved in with Jimmy. He had a one-bedroom apartment and drove a truck intrastate.

  He was gone long hours, which gave Cristen time to see her friends and take a job of her own. She was still very young, and was not ready at the time to commit most of her time to one person, although she did love Jimmy dearly. Four months after moving into the apartment, she became pregnant. Between the two of them, Cristen and Jimmy actually made enough money to live a decent lifestyle (Cristen had taken her first landscaping job).

  Two jobs, two mouths is an entirely different equation than one job, three mouths, however. Together, the couple decided that the timing wasn’t right. Frankly, they were young and scared.

  Cristen made an appointment, and two weeks later, well, the baby was nothing more than a moot point and a stain on the operating table. It was at that point that the couple started using birth control. In retrospect, Cristen admitted that they were quite lucky to have avoided pregnancy for as long as they did.

  Well, they wouldn’t be so lucky again. Within three months, Cristen found herself pregnant for the Page 39

  second time. Now nineteen, she was distraught. The first time hadn’t been so bad actually, but now guilt was beginning to eat at her, as she now felt like murder—I mean abortion—was becoming a form of contraception rather than damage control, if you will. She fought with herself this time over what to do, and the biggest problem was that she found Jimmy to be very unsupportive on the issue.

  Cristen wished to have the baby, essentially saying damn the consequences. She didn’t think she could excuse herself two abortions, and she also didn’t want to put her own body through that strain a second time. She didn’t know, too, if the doctors would perform the procedure so soon after the first occurrence, and she was afraid to ask. When Cristen was telling me this, I couldn’t help but think about how very badly Jill had wanted to get pregnant. Now, my logical side realizes circumstances were different for the two women, but the first thought through my mind was one woman’s treasure is another woman’s trash.

  The normally reasonable James Youngblood didn’t like the idea of his future being decided when he was twenty-two, and insisted Cristen not have the baby. In the end, fear and simple economics won out over heartfelt emotion and Cristen made another appointment. She found, though, that she could no longer face Jimmy. Two weeks after her second abortion, Cristen broke up with her longtime boyfriend and moved out. She had to work longer and harder hours now, but she felt it was something that had to be done. She feared now that, as a result of the abortions, perhaps she would never be able to bear children when she was ready. Quietly I hoped—just for a second—that this was true. There’s nothing like a good backup form of birth control.

  I dismissed that thought immediately, don’t get me wrong. I realized it was a dreadful, awful, horrible thought, but after all that had happened in my life those past few years, I might as well be honest. It truly is the best policy. We can’t control these little thoughts that creep into the recesses of our mind. The human brain is a sublime piece of machinery, but it can also be one Page 40

  hell of a monstrosity. Consider the items it has come up with in the past: cannibalism, necrophilia, mustard gas, the guillotine, quartering, disco.

  We don’t like to admit these little invasive ideas to ourselves. We try to drown them out. But the taboo and the dangerous thought is a driving force in society, and secretly we all get off a little bit on the thoughts we shouldn’t be having. They are our dirty little secrets, something just for us.

  Now it was Cristen’s turn to cry, and my turn to provide the soft shoulder on which to do so. I remember even now that at one point her cheek rubbed up against my arm, brushing tears onto my bicep. There was a window directly behind the bed, and as the sun shone in, the tears glistened upon my arm. I experienced a great happiness at that moment. It was a happiness to be alive.

  Here we were, two people crying about our problems, and yet I was thrilled to be alive. Seeing those tears reminded me that, much as we like to hide it, we are all still human. There is a world of opportunity before us. We’re creating our own movie with our own plot twists, and the ending is largely under our control. .

  well, all except the final curtain.

  That morning, in that bed, I felt vibrant and passionate, and unstoppable. I wanted to play first base for a professional ballclub, and I didn’t even care for sports. I settled for gin rummy. It was Cristen’s favorite. I’m glad I played her game. If I had known she’d be dead so soon afterwards, I would have let her win. I prefer spades myself. It requires just the right amount of thinking. Bridge is a better game, but it’s dying because it requires too long an attention span for the modern world of microwaves and text messaging.

  Other games such as Crazy 8s are too simplistic. Spades is a good in-betweener. You could spend your whole lifetime playing it and still be learning when you die.

  But rummy is a good talking game. It doesn’t require much effort or concentration, and it has a nice pace to it. I got lucky on the first hand; I drew three fives.

  “Isn’t it funny how you can’t not think?” Cristen Page 41

  studied her cards as she asked the question.

  “Come again?” I was hoping the five of diamonds was near the top of the pile. I like to get off to a fast start. “Well, it’s very difficult to clear your mind. There are complex techniques just for doing so. Your brain is always on, and there’s nothing you can do about it. I often wonder, who’s in charge, you or your brain?” I figured Cristen was just humoring me. She knew full well that psychology is a pet topic of mine. I don’t study it deeply or technically, but I do like to try to figure out what makes us all tick.

  “I guess it’s kind of like the idea of, if you theoretically cut out a chunk of brain and then another chunk and another, how far could you go and still call yourself human? I mean, what is human? Our brains?

  Our souls? Our emotions?” Truly, I’d love to know the answer to that.

  “And another thing. We don’t even control our minds, it would seem. I mean, if I were to suggest an image to you, there’s no way you could help but imagine it.”

  “Try me.” I felt up for a challenge from the slut.

  That was now my pet name for her. Of course, I never said it aloud, but it made me laugh inside. Slut. Slut.

  Slut. What a funny word.<
br />
  “Okay. Don’t think of a walrus with a lacrosse stick shoved up its butt.”

  I laughed and tried to think of a big bowl of gelatin. A big bowl of blue gelatin. A big bowl of boiling, blue gelatin. A walrus with a lacrosse stick up its butt.

  Damn. I just could not get away from the image.

  “That’s not fair. That’s too graphic. I almost wanted to picture that because it’s so laughable.”

  “Fair enough. Let’s try another.”

  “You’ve got the damn five of diamonds, don’t you.” “Hush. Don’t change the subject. Here’s an easy, nondescript one. Don’t think of —and had she said “a bowl of blue gelatin,” I would have left for Vegas immediately—an orange cup.”

  Big bowl of gelatin. Big bowl of blue gelatin. Big Page 42

  bowl of boiling, blue gelatin. Big bowl of boiling, blue, bubbly gelatin. Uh, oh, running out of ‘B’ words. Big bowl of boiling, blue, bubbly, orange cup. Damn.

  “All right, you win.” I really wanted to beat her little test, hoping that I was more than just a sheep.

  Alas, I am not. To top it off, she laid down the two, three, four, and five of diamonds. We were doing more talking than playing, but now I was forced to change my strategy. I hate when that happens. Having to drop the idea of four of a kind, I instead would go after a high straight. I had the jack and king of clubs.

  “So I guess you’re right. We’re too smart for our own damn good. Care to distract me some more?”

  “Hey, if you can’t talk and play cards at the same time, you’ve got bigger issues to worry about than rummy. Could you grab the pen behind you? I’ve got a scratch pad right here.” She reached toward my nightstand, and continued talking.

  “All right, I got another one. How do blind people know if they’re straight or gay if they can’t see what people look like?” Obviously she didn’t have much faith in her hand if she had to resort to such distraction tactics. I felt confident.

  “I don’t know. I guess it’s kind of internal. Or maybe they go by pheromones.”

  “Well, if it is internal, that would prove that orientation is preprogrammed.”

  “I think most people assume it’s a nature thing anyway. I guess you could argue that the blind take the orientation of their parents, go with what they are taught as a kid. Kind of like, it’s easier to go with the flow.” I reconsidered a moment. “That doesn’t work, though, ‘cause it’s not always the case. At least I assume it’s not always the case. Besides, you’re overlooking the fact that it’s more than the look. It’s the essence and the touch and the mind of the person as well. I sure wouldn’t find you all that attractive if you had the mind and the smell and the touch of Joe Ironworker. Male and female is about a lot more than looks.”

  “I bet they must really enjoy making love—

  heightened senses and all. I bet you we can’t even imagine the level of pleasure their bodies reach, because Page 43

  we’re not so in tune with our bodies.”

  “Never thought of it, and it’s about time I got the queen.”I laid down the straight. I had already set down three nines. The hand was out.

  “All right, Ed. What’s that, 55 points?”

  “Yeah.”

  She smiled at me. I smiled back. The world was smiling. Smile. It’s a comforting, warm word.

  Smile. Nobody loves you.

  The great bologna mystery had been solved the week before. Cristen bought it en masse so she could feed the birds behind her apartment. I argued that it was probably not particularly good for their health, but she retorted that it was probably not particularly good for ours either. I couldn’t argue that.

  We ended up together till 4:00 p.m. We both felt very comfortable, and neither of us had anywhere in particular to go, and let’s face it, Sundays are the perfect do-nothing day. It’s a time for coffee and danish and dozing off. It is a day for rest, so says God. And who the hell am I to question Him? We watched a black-and-white flick on channel 47. It was grainy, simply-plotted, and terribly enjoyable. You have to love movies that don’t take themselves too seriously.

  You have to love people who don’t take themselves too seriously.

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  Chapter Seven

  Not much happened that week. I worked. I slept. I ate. Really. Not much.

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  Chapter Eight

  Saturday. I window-shopped at an outdoor mall. In truth, it’s a strip mall with a whole bunch of vendors on the sidewalk in addition to the stores. You might have assumed that anyway. The moms and the pops are long dead and buried, and it’s a strip mall world. I was really quite enjoying myself, and I even managed to pick myself up a stereo. Well, not a stereo, per se, but one of those boom boxes that were all the rage in the ‘80s. It was marked down thirty percent and had a 3-CD deck. The guy who sold it to me was a real cutup.

  He looked like a cartoon character, with his long, blond sideburns, beady little eyes and strong jaw line. He was also an incredibly massive man.

  Like many incredibly massive men, he wore an incredibly undersized tee shirt to assure himself that the world would know that he’d put his time in at the gym. As a general rule, I don’t like anybody who can bench press me. I suppose it’s just jealousy. He wore sneakers, and one of them had a loosened sole that went

  “Schlup, Schlup” when he walked. It was very annoying.

  It reminded me of a joke I heard as a kid, something about an elephant and a puddle. Like I said, though, he was a real card. He was also one of those guys who believes the moon landing was an in-studio thing.

  I spent a lot more time in that store than I had intended. He kept jawing away, and to his credit he made me laugh quite a bit. I guess the store didn’t get much business; he seemed awfully lonely. Finally, I was able to take the receipt from his hand and sneak in a word edgewise. I thanked him for his time, and headed out the door.

  I wasn’t three steps out the door when an incredibly skinny woman ran me down from the right.

  I had my head turned and was standing still when she plowed into me. My newly purchased radio fell to the ground, and there was an audible crack. Instinctively, I hit the woman. Now, generally I’m not a woman-hitter Page 46

  other than the bitch I mentioned earlier; bitches don’t count. I’ve never hit a girlfriend, and really, I didn’t mean to hit this woman either. It just happened. I was having a good day, it was sunny, all systems go, and then—wham-bam-boom—this woman crashes through me like I didn’t exist. Who the hell do these people think they are? They’re the same damn people who yell at the bank tellers and hold up the grocery line counting pennies. Frankly, I’m glad I hit the sorry twig.

  Somebody needed to.

  I left the radio where it sat on the ground, assuming it was beyond repair. I was halfway to my car when I decided I wasn’t leaving without a radio, so I went in to see Studly Gotmuscle again.

  “Problems?” He was wadding up paper and chucking it at the wastebasket. There were a dozen or so misses staggered on the floor.

  “I need another radio. Same kind.”

  “You giving it as a gift? We have gift cards, you know. Certificates too.”

  “No. No gift. I just need. .”

  It was then that the door opened with a start.

  The stick was back with some guy who I can only assume was her boyfriend. He had three inches on me, and about thirty pounds.

  “Who the hell do you think you are, hitting a woman?!”

  “I didn’t hit her.” I lied. “She plowed into me and broke my radio. That’s why I’m back in here in the first place.” “Are you calling Missy here a liar?” His tone was deadly, and his voice was loud. He had one of those creepy spider-web tattoos on his elbow.

  Mr. Workout stepped in from behind the counter.

  “Sir, please keep your voice down. You’ll upset the other customers.” There were no other customers in the store at the time, but I wasn’t about to point this fact out. I felt it was in my bes
t interest to keep quiet.

  “This doesn’t concern you, freak.” I can only imagine that in his anger, Mr. X forgot who he was talking to, because my new best friend Page 47

  stood up and approached him.

  “Now it does. I told you to quiet down, and I’m not going to ask you again.” It was a string of words I had heard time and time again, and it was becoming tiresome. I was hoping they’d get right to the good stuff; I needed a distraction.

  Well, fortunately for me, boys will be boys. The boyfriend was now all into it with the clerk. They began trading insults. Apparently his girlfriend’s problems took a back seat to his own situation. While they were circling and eyeing each other like cobra and mongoose, I quietly slipped out the door, now feeling quite content to leave radioless.

  I guess it’s only logical that people act like animals; after all, we are animals. But it’s especially humorous to see two guys arguing, sizing one another up. Equally funny is when a man and a woman flirt—the equivalent of the goofy courtship dance among some birds, I presume. I guess anger and lust are the only motivations powerful enough to persuade us to drop the facade we call humanity, if only for a few minutes to fight or fuck.

  The incident at the storefront got me to thinking.

  Specifically, I imagined that moment when you are nearing someone who is walking towards you on a sidewalk. Obviously, someone has to move laterally.

  Now, sometimes you both move, and fall into that left-right-left, am-I-avoiding-you-or-are-you-avoiding-me situation when hopefully you both end up wearing smiles. Most of the time, though, most of the time it is I who gives way. And I got around to thinking right there or then about why that is. Is it just that I am an extraordinary person, or is there something more to it?

  Do I come off as a pushover, as submissive even? And if so, how would people sense this without even talking to me? It’s not as though I’m undersized or anything like that. My next thought was pheromones, but I was doubtful that they could be picked up on so quickly from a distance, especially on a crowded sidewalk.