"I hate you!" she screamed. "I FUCKING HATE YOU!" She threw chairs, clipboards, plant pots, books, basketballs, field hockey sticks. She screamed obscenities. She broke all her windows. She sprayed neon paint on everything - it was pink, by the way.
And I wasn't there for any of it. I came in afterwards, and it wasn't my fault. I could tell you that I wasn't the guy who made her do it, but I'd be lying. There's a distinction between my fault completely and my fault halfway, because Ill bet you she had a lot of shit going on in her head. I'm not telling you any lies. I'm not rationalizing or justifying - I don't do that. All I'm telling you is that it wasn't my fault, wasn't my fault that she jumped out of the window and cut herself on the broken glass as she fell. Just as I walked in.
It wasn't my fault. But I thought it was. I walked out of the room and down the street, and bought the latest issue of Vanity Fair. I gawked at the perfume ads where an unclad woman was draped across a rock. Trauma blockage, I swear. I got dinner - Chinese take-out - went home, watched Fight Club, stopped at the liposuction clinic even though that's my favorite part, and screamed, ripped my carpet apart.
I don't know why I did it. That rug was my great-great-grandmother's, and it was brought over from Germany. My mother had entrusted it to me for one week only as she and her father toured the city.
"I don't know why I'm trusting you with anything," she had shouted to my backseat while my father yelled and cursed at Boston drivers. "But if you do anything to that carpet I'll roast you alive."
Knowing my mother, that wasn't a euphemism. She doesn't do "the empty threat thing."
I wouldn't have under normal circumstances. But I guess Lana had made me feel pretty fucking destructive. So I grabbed a knife and I just shredded it, cutting off all the little tassels first and throwing them into the fireplace in the six-year-old ashes, and sawing the rest into halves. Savagely. I have never known myself to be that instinctively brute, like a ravenous lion, in an everyday circumstance.
I just sort of stood there looking at that carpet - or lack thereof - for about five minutes. It was like in eighth grade P.E. when I could never kick the soccer ball hard enough, and then some hotshot suggested that I pretend it was my ex-girlfriend's head.
Well, thanks, buck, I've never had an ex-girlfriend [until this very moment]. So I just pretended it was my mother's head and damn, did that ball soar. It was funny, though. I'd never wanted to do that to Lana's head before she committed suicide. And we're supposed to miss the dead, and turn them into virtuous saints, right? I barely mourned her.
Trauma blockage. It doesn't hurt to remember, either. I don't think I ever was a normal guy. Because I don't think a normal guy would have looked out the window and wondered where Lana was. I mean, Lana. The real Lana. I'd always thought existentialism was cool, but where did she go? You cant go nowhere. You cant get on a subway and go nowhere, unless you stay on the subway forever.
Forever in transit. But she'd be somewhere then. She'd be in transit. On the subway. So where was the subway?
That's about when I went to go get the Vanity Fair. There was some chick on the cover, wearing what would not have passed for a shirt at my uptight private prick high school, and I just thought - who dates these girls? Who drives them home? Who thinks of them like I think of Lana?
And why are all movie stars in their own little group? If some "hot young thing" from a blockbuster hit saw this really attractive girl going down the street in some backwards town that he had to visit for the filming, what would he do? Assault her, because she's not worth anything? Not bother to talk to her, because she's not worth anything? Ask her if she's related to anyone famous?
Thought of Lana.
I never liked verb tense.
Because I wasn't thinking of Lana. I was thinking about nothing.
So I got on the subway.