We’re watching the TV. She’s pressing the buttons on the remote to no avail—nothing is happening. She waves the remote half-heartedly, her baggy sweater sleeve flapping.
“Turn up the volume?” I know she’s requesting but it sounds uncertain, like a question. Her feet are curled under her, her light beer is in her hand. She’s tired, comfortable. Even though it’s past noon, there’s still hints of sleep in her eyes. It’s too early to be drinking, but the beer had been sitting out on the table from the night before. I’m drinking water mixed with lemonade packets. The cost of lemonade is too much for me right now.
I stand up, pushing off the faux leather couch. I am pretending that this is taking a lot of effort. I am moving slowly and deliberately making her feel guilty for her request. This is probably a mean thing to do, but I feel like being a mean person today. My head hurts and I plan on making everyone else’s head hurt too. I stagger across the laminate floor. I look like a zombie, or a man who’s been paralyzed for years and is just relearning to walk. I press the button on the side of the TV, I know where it is, I’m a pro at this point. The remote hasn’t worked in months. We both know this, but we both pretend we don’t, lazily asking the other to get up. I am normally the one getting up. Most arguments go in her favor, and it is only because I’m too tired to protest.
The volume rises with the audible clicks of the button. What show are we even watching? I haven’t been paying attention. I’m half asleep and hungover, my body sore from menial exertion. This makes a smile come to the corners of my mouth, but I stay grim faced. To the world I must stare sullenly ahead; to her I must pretend that I’m annoyed by the minor inconvenience of getting up, the dull pains, the nauseating boredom of the activity we’ve chosen to do. I’m a miserable person.
Sitting back down, she unfurls her legs and rests her feet on my lap. I sink into the cushions and let her weigh me down. The show is America’s Got Talent, or something similar, there’s a million of these shows. I don’t recognize either of the judges, but I don’t think that naming celebrities is my strong suit anyhow. She’s better at that, she follows those people on social media, I think. She checks their Instagram stories and their YouTube vlogs. She’s tapping her phone screen, she’s probably consuming some numbing media right now, the show’s not enough of distraction or stimulation. I don’t really care that much; I like to believe that I’m simple.
We watch TV for a while, but still neither of us are really watching. She looks down at her phone and taps, and I close my eyes and lean my head back. I run my hands over her feet, soft with chipped nail polish. She flexes her toes and stretches her knees, digging her heels into my lap. It’s not comfortable, but I’m stealing glances at her thin ankles that hide in the caves of her pajama pants. Last night those legs wrapped around my waist, bringing me close.
The show is pretty standard. There’s nine-year-olds singing opera, and couples lifting each other over one another’s heads in spandex suits. It’s not very different from the sponsored videos on Facebook showing the Icelandic wonder who sounds like Adele, but is only eleven (eleven!) years old, or the link my father sent me of trained cats jumping through hula hoop loops. I think that this must be a try out episode, airing in the middle of the day, because some of the acts really aren’t that good. I briefly wonder if I could audition, amaze the judges and win thousands. I hold back a laugh and breathe sharply out my nose. I have no talent.
They’re introducing the next contestant to the stage, and he’s different. He’s of a slight build with dark curly hair. He’s handsome but average. His face looks like he recently shaved, but it doesn’t look like he did a very good job. It looks like the kind of facial hair that never actually grows but still requires maintenance, unless risking looking like a middle schooler who just hit puberty and believes his rat stache on his upper lip will win the hearts of all. He doesn’t really look impressive, like some of the other contestants with their strong builds or flashy clothes. He doesn’t even look like he really wants to be there, but who knows, maybe he can belt out a falsetto or dance the Argentine tango. Maybe he’s an intellectual who can do long division in his head with imaginary numbers in seconds. He’s nervous and fidgeting with a plastic grocery bag that seems to be half full.
He steps onto the stage with his head bowed down, staring at the floor in front of him, and the hosts seem hesitant. This is not a very confident looking man. They don’t know what to expect from this person who looks as though he just came from the convenience store after getting a little too high. What is he going to do with his lumpy grocery bag that’s reading THANK YOU in bright red? A woman in a black tee shirt with an earpiece brings him over a clear glass of water from off stage. The life of an underappreciated stagehand, she looks unimpressed.
The man takes the glass of water slowly and sets it on the small stool next to him. Maybe he does stand up. His demeanor could represent a comedian who specializes in self-deprecating humor, bringing each joke back to the sincerity of how much life really sucks. He looks towards the hosts, barely moving his head, but looking up with his eyes, and nervously speaks, his voice a quiet murmur.
“Ask me something I won’t know.”
The judges look at each other, they’re deciding whether or not they’ll play along. This guy is weird, but he doesn’t seem like trouble, and as hosts they’ve probably seen many weird people.
The woman on the left has a question. “When did my grandmother die?” You would not find the answer to this question on the Wikipedia page of this woman that I do not know.
The man nods and shifts his eyes back down. He reaches into his bag and pulls out a handful of small fridge magnets. My fridge humming in the other room has similar magnets. Joke poetry and the word fart. The other day she had arranged I LOVE YOU on the door and I left it up, letting myself get soft. He opens his mouth, stuffs the magnets inside, and swallows with the aid of the glass of water. His throat seems to bulge with the effort it takes to swallow them. He does this again, another handful of magnets, his chapped lips pursing tight with discomfort.
The judges are murmuring, and seem to be confused, and the woman with the earpiece looks concerned. It’s caught my attention and next to me on the couch she’s looking up from her phone. Before anyone can ask, Why the hell did you just swallow fucking fridge magnets, the man brings down his fist hard, right below his own ribs—a perfect Heimlich. The man sputters up clear bile and water, a slew of rainbow fridge magnets.
“Oh!” The judge on the right gasps. The man is motioning for the camera man to come closer, pointing at the mess. The camera hesitantly looks down at the spill of liquid and letters on the floor at the man’s feet. But here’s the thing-the letters are spelling something.
MAY FOURTH 19EIGHTY5
The judge on the left looks surprised, her hands are over her mouth and her eyes are wide. She’s nodding her head up and down. “Yes, yes that’s right.” She didn’t expect him to be able to answer this question, and definitely not in this manner. I’m fascinated.
The woman with the earpiece looks like she might be the next to throw up. Her hand is pressed against her stomach. I imagine with the short distance between the two of them that she can smell the upturned contents. The man is squinting through the bright lights and wipes his mouth with the back of his sleeve. He’s more confident now, his parlor trick is working.
"Ask me another question.”
Now it’s time for the judge on the right to ask her question. “When I was seven, what was the name of my childhood dog?” She’s nervous now. The tables have turned. I don’t think she wants him to throw up again, but she’s curious. She wants to know if he can get the answer.
He’s putting more magnets in his mouth, drinking more water. His fist is coming back down again, and the colors fly from his lips.
JUN1PER
There is a hush. Did he get it? The judge on the right nods, she looks a little scared. He’s gotten the answer right. He’s run over the time that is allotted for auditions, but the judges are too filled with morbid curiosity to care. They’re eating this up, they want more. They want to know what answers he can form. I want to know what answers he can form.
“What was the name of my high school crush?”
JOHN
“What is my mother’s middle name?”
MARIE
“What color is my underwear?” There is a laugh from the audience, which before now has been mostly quiet.
PINK
The man is standing still now. Answering each question takes momentous effort. Sweat running down his face and tears leaking from his eyes. He was already pale, but now he looks waxy. There aren’t many letters left in the grocery bag now, most of its contents are on the floor. There are enough left for one more question.
The woman with the earpiece looks the man straight in the face. “When will I die?”
The mortal question, the one we’re not supposed to ask. The hand scoops a final small handful of magnets from the bag. The fist comes down one last time and the letters come spattering out. The man looks tired, exhausted. The camera pans down.
TODA
