“What?”
She hugs me. I pull out of it.
“You don’t get to hug me while wearing those eyes!” I scream.
She just watches me, silently, like a cat, like a cat about to break up with a man.
“Why?” I demand.
“It’s just … I think we’ve grown apart over all this time apart, and I don’t know how to find a way back in.”
“I’ve been in a medically induced coma! Due to … something!” Suddenly I’m unclear. “Haven’t I?” I whine. “Isn’t that what happened?”
“I heard you were. But that doesn’t change anything.”
“We can try. We owe it to ourselves to try. I have a part for you in my movie.”
“It won’t work.”
“Why not? Because they shaved my beard off to facilitate coma-inducement? I can grow it back!”
“Because I’m with someone.”
My heart breaks. It’s a cliché, but I feel it. I feel my heart breaking. It even makes a sort of cracking sound.
“An actor?”
“A director.”
“Him?”
“Yeah. I’m sorry.”
“But—”
“I need to be with someone black, B. Maybe that’s a shortcoming on my part, but—”
“Anyone African American will do?”
“Of course not. Don’t be cruel.” She pauses, then: “We have a shorthand. You and I don’t. Yes, I understand the Jewish people have suffered, too, but—”
“I’m not Jewish.”
“OK, B. I’m sorry. I really am.”
“I don’t know why you always insist I’m Jewish.”
“I don’t know. You just … seem Jewish. It’s hard to remember you’re not. Even more so now. For some reason I can’t put my finger on.”
“Do you laugh with him about my seeming Jewishness?”
“No!”
“I suspect you do.”
“We don’t laugh about you! We don’t talk about you!”
“Wow. OK. I guess you’ve made yourself clear then.”
“I didn’t mean it like that.”
“OK. Well, do you want the gift I brought back for you?”
“I don’t know, B. It’s very nice of you. But I don’t think I should.”
“Yeah. OK.”
I take the gift-wrapped box from my bag and drop it in a public trash receptacle. It immediately feels wrong, theatrical, pouty in a way I hadn’t intended. But the truth is I have little use for the pair of ladies’ pumps I had purchased in the hospital gift shop. Not no use, but little.
I wander the streets, clutching my small hospital-issued bag. I can’t face my apartment yet. Everything is gone. Ingo is gone. Kellita Smith of The Bernie Mac Show, my African American girlfriend, is gone. The possibility of getting financing for my New York film without Kellita is nil. My Florida transgender film monograph has been given to a hack half my age and twice my gender. I discovered Enchantment; it is by rights mine. There is nothing left. New York has become an expensive cesspool. It holds no interest for me, which is just as well as I’ll be squeezed out of my apartment if I don’t soon become gainfully employed. I look outward in an attempt to take in the magic of New York, in an attempt to allow the city to heal me.
Walking toward Times Square, I try to remember Ingo’s film. I feel certain this street is in the film, maybe even these very people. Maybe even me. Though I can recall very little of it, it has left an emotional imprint on my brain. I suspect my perspective is forever altered by it. Is this a good thing? I don’t believe it is. But there is nothing to be done. For all his fascination with movement and comedy and human psychology, at his core Ingo was a nihilist, I suspect. Pre-Ingo, I could best characterize myself as a teleological optimist. Leibniz’s Theodicy was without a doubt the most dog-eared book in my childhood library. God, because he/she/thon is God, has made what must, by definition, be the best of all possible worlds possible. But Ingo won me over to the “dark” side of meaninglessness. I am bereft. But without the comfort of remembering why.
Suddenly, huzzah! A flash of memory, the beginning of Ingo’s film:
A crudely constructed puppet of wood stands watching me, his joints and jaw articulated with hinges. Everything is silent. Exposure is inconsistent, the image black and white. The figure moves its arms and legs as if trying them out for the first time. His eyes remain fixed, open and blind. He raises his left arm, waves at me. His hinged jaw flaps twice, this followed by the handwritten title card “Hello, Mister!” It lingers too long, this card, allowing me to read it one hundred times. Then back to the puppet. He stands still, looking intently yet sightlessly into the camera. Finally he nods and his jaw clacks open and closed eight times, in a way inhuman, terrifying. “Very well, hello, B., then, if you insist.” This card holds even longer. Is he responding to what was to be my return greeting? Is this Movie Minus One? Was I to say, “Call me B.”? Back to the puppet and more jaw-slapping, then another title card: “I am happy to meet you, B.” Back to the puppet. A long moment followed by a nod and jaw movement. Title card: “Thank you. I shall enjoy having the name William.” I have named him? Back to puppet. He waves. The film irises out to black, then back in. The puppet has had some work done. Clearly a male now, he even has a hinged penis, which raises and lowers while William stares straight into the camera. His jaw moves and is followed by a title card that reads: “I am ashamed.”
I recall all of this quite clearly, yet somehow feel it entirely inaccurate.
MY APARTMENT, WHEN I finally return to it, smells horrific. My Lord, I neglected to ask anyone to care for my dog Au Hasard Balthazar! The floor is covered with his feces, the rugs darkened with his urine. I find him emaciated but somehow alive, shivering in the bathroom. He feebly wags his tail. That’s what a greeting without underlying hostility looks like. No dead eyes here. That’s love. He doesn’t blame me for his predicament, which, to be fair, he could. The human race should take a lesson from Au Hasard Balthazar. I gently pet him, whispering comfort, praising him for his fortitude. He seems grateful for the attention, but his eyes are trained on the gnawed, unopened cans of dog food scattered around the room.
“OK, fella,” I say. “Let’s get you fed.”
I honestly do feel bad that I completely forgot him for all this time. I’m just thankful he survived. It seems unlikely. I guess one can live a long time without food. Water is the issue, the scientists tell us. I imagine he drank out of the toilet. There’s no other explanation. That’s what I would have done, if I had only paws and didn’t understand faucets. I place his bowl of food on the floor. He attempts to swallow the food, but it’s a struggle.
“Take it slow, dear friend,” I advise him.
He looks up at me and seems to smile. His teeth are gone. Perhaps if I mash the food? It is soft, but with his overall weakness and his lack of teeth, perhaps he needs some additional help. I reach for the bowl and he snarls at me. That’s weird. Not like him at all. He was always such a friendly fella. I’m not sure what to do. They say one cannot allow a dog to display dominance. A dog must always respect the alpha, which is the owner, which is me. Still, no one wants to get bitten. But I guess with his current toothlessness, he could not do all that much damage. I pick up the bowl. He snaps at my hand, getting hold of it, but it slips easily from his gummy grip. He falls over and appears to exhibit some sort of seizure.