I'm Not Scared of You or Anything Read online

  “Wow, Vlad. That was beautiful!”

  “Listen, Jesse,” Vlad said in a strikingly domestic tone, “before we reach the border, I need you to know I’m not actually Russian. Not even close.”

  I sighed. “I know,” I said.

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, well, the accent is very affected and inconsistent. Sometimes you sound Russian, other times you just sound confused. Also you never knew anything about Russia, its politics or its history, and so, you know, the whole thing was just obvious and offensive to everyone I think.”

  “Really? Seriously? Man. I thought I had that voice down pat. Because, you see, it’s the key to my business. No one wants to learn the Russian art of Systema from a guy named Wenton Billingham.”

  “I am your only current client, Vlad, and I am not paying, so I think it may actually be hurting your business because of ... Wait, what? Your name is Wenton Billingham?”

  “Shut up, Jesse. You don’t hear me making fun of your name.”

  “Yes, yes I do. All the time.”

  “But that is my persona.”

  “Well, I always thought if you dropped the unintentionally comedic and, frankly, hateful accent, then things might pick up for the business.”

  “Why didn’t you ever say anything?

  “I don’t know, you are kind of my best friend, and I figured you needed to use that voice for some reason. Like self-esteem or something? I just wanted to be supportive.”

  “Jesus, Jesse. You are kind of my best friend too!”

  “Do you mind if I still call you Vlad?”

  “I would punch you in the fucking face if you didn’t!”

  I smiled and turned up the tunes. We were silent until we reached the border. I pulled up to the window and saw a thirty-something blonde border guard. She had mildly masculine features but was objectively attractive. Despite her furrowed brow, I had a sense that she probably had a big heart. I handed over the two passports.

  “Destination?” the guard asked.

  “Brooklyn, Ma’am,” I responded.

  “Brooklyn? What business do you have in Brooklyn?”

  “None. That is to say, no business. Just pleasure. Well, maybe pleasure. If it works out. You could say that pleasure is our business!”

  “I’m sorry? What is that supposed to mean?” The guard’s tone grew colder and more impatient.

  Vlad leaned over. “I got this Jesse,” he said and looked up at the guard. “Ma’am, we are going down to Brooklyn in order to find a woman.”

  “What do you mean ‘find a woman’?” she asked. “And sir, why are you crying?”

  “Oh, well! My friend and I just — around fifteen minutes ago — we admitted to each other and declared to the world that we were best friends. It was a very emotional moment. And then we listened to some highly emotional tunage! Anyways, that’s not the point. The point is, well, surely you’ve experienced love in your life?”

  Silence.

  “My friend here has to find a woman to fall in love with and we are going to go follow her for a few days. A week, tops.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Oh. Well in a non-threatening way, of course. I feel that Jesse here needs to finally track down and nab a woman. I mean he is still a virgin. Which is very strange for a man his age, and I feel that this trip is mostly about letting loose and letting life happen, you know?”

  I had to chime in — to clarify. “I’ve always tried too hard to control everything. I want to lose control, you know? I want to lose control in Brooklyn.”

  The guard stayed quiet for around thirty seconds as she typed in information from our passports. Then, gesturing, she said, “OK sir. Please pull the car over into one of those open spaces.”

  “Sure thing!” I said.

  Twelve hours later, we were in Vermont and back on the road to Brooklyn. As the Lake Champlain region gave way to the Adirondacks, I became so jacked-up. There were all these beautiful trees. I didn’t know what kind and neither did Vlad. But it would have been nice to know what kind of trees the nice trees were. If this were a third-person story then perhaps the narrator could tell you. But it’s not. I put the highly irregular interrogation at the border in the back of my mind. I was so very eager to get to New York that I had increased my speed significantly. I did the calculations in my head and determined that there were five-and-a-half more hours to go. Five if I floored it. I inserted the best Tears for Fears CD, The Hurting, and belted out “Pale Shelter” as Vlad fell asleep.

  Ten minutes passed and I glimpsed the red and blue flash of a State Trooper SUV behind us. I pulled to the side of the road, as my father had drunkenly taught me to do, and I put on my best face. The heavy-set, mustachioed trooper approached the Prius and gestured for me to roll down my window.

  “Son, do you know how fast you were driving?”

  “Good day to you, sir! I believe I was up to 140. I’m obviously in a hurry, so if we could make this quick . . . ”

  “Jesus Christ! Are you actually sassing me, boy? Don’t sass me and don’t insult my intelligence.”

  “Well that wasn’t what . . . oh. I see. I’m sorry. I was using the metric system. It’s what we use up in Canada. Marconi and all that. He invented the metric system. Smart man. Smart man, indeed. It’s a shame you are still stuck in Imperial measurements. The metric! It’s a far superior system. You see, if I were to answer your question again, using your antiquated system of measurement, I would say around eighty-six miles per hour, sir.”

  “Listen, dipshit, you were going eighty-seven miles per hour.”

  “So I was very close in my estimate!”

  “Shut up! Let me tell you exactly what happens to guys like you. Do you want to hear what happens to guys like you?”

  “Well, not really. As I said, I am in a hurry . . . ”

  “Holy goddamn shit! Shut the shit up! Guys like you. They speed. They speed and they listen to their hip-hop music about gangbanging and alternative lifestyles and they don’t give a shitting shit about anyone or anything other than their own smug satisfaction and hedonism and ethnic music. And then guys like you take a sharp corner on the interstate, and then guys like you drive through the rail guard and die in a fiery twisted mess of metal, wretched humanity and . . . fire! And then guys like you get buried under a winter of heavy snow and the idiots who may love guys like you because they were unfortunate enough to give birth to you or share bunk beds with you or settle for you or some shitty shit like that have to wait until the spring for the chance to find the dead, mangled, unrecognizable bodies of guys like you!”

  “With all due respect, I think that may be a mild mischaracterization . . .”

  “Shut up. Just shut the shit up! Now sit here and think about how stupid you are for speeding while I write you up a ticket . . .a ticket for speeding.”

  The trooper handed me the ticket, and I drove away at sixty-five miles an hour. Vlad slept, murmuring in an almost-British upper-class accent. The Adirondacks gave way to the Catskills and the snow began to blow. It was eerily beautiful but equally daunting. I slipped in a Lionel Richie CD, specifically Can’t Slow Down, and looked at the well-slept Vlad.

  “Hey, my brother.”

  “Hey, Jesse.”

  “How do you feel, Vlad?”

  “I feel like drinking. Have you ever had a best friend before?”

  “No.”

  New York was hit with the worst snowstorm in years. And in the early evening Vlad and I pulled off the Brooklyn Bridge just in time for the aftermath. News jerks on the radio were calling it “Snowpocalypse,” “Snowmageddon,” “Snowmaclysm,” “Snowtastrophe,” and “Snowlocaust.” For some reason beyond Vlad and me, the mayor of the city of New York decided not to plow the streets of Brooklyn. Cop cars, ambulances, taxis, and trucks were all stuck spinning their wheels, and it was very difficult for many people to get around, but Vlad and I just plowed on through on account of the winter tires on our Prius. Vlad had taken the wheel and drove
with reckless abandon.

  “Look at all of this!” Vlad said. He swerved around a stuck police car and onto the sidewalk, and continued to barrel down E. New York Avenue toward the Howard Johnson on Utica. “This would never happen in Montreal. In Montreal we know how to deal with a little bit of snow.”

  “But the news jerks are calling this a Snowmageddon,” I said.

  “Those news jerks are jerks. Think about it, Jesse. In Montreal, within an hour of the first flake, we have fleets of the world’s finest snowplows cleaning it all up and making it safe for our citizens. And you know why?”

  “Powerful unions? A well-planned city budget?”

  “Well, maybe that’s a part of it. But I would like to think that it’s more to do with the Canadian heart. It is a superior heart to the American heart. Just think of all we’ve accomplished as a nation. No wars. No famine. No slavery. No problem!”

  “I’m pretty sure we’re at war right now with the Taliban in Afghanistan.”

  “Don’t be naïve, Jesse.”

  There was the occasional Brooklynite on the street. Some young men with shovels over their shoulders, some families trudging through the unplowed mess toward home. Vlad maneuvered the Prius the wrong way through a yield lane and onto Utica. The hotel was now in sight.

  “This is amazing!” I said.

  “We’re kind of like action heroes right now!”

  “We’re exactly like action heroes right now!”

  “We’re like Mel Gibson and Danny Glover!”

  “Yeah! Or like I’m Luke and you’re Dak from The Empire Strikes Back and the Prius is our snowspeeder and the buildings are the AT-AT’s!”

  “Yeah! Totally! Except I’m driving, so I’m Luke and you’re Dak, Luke’s really excitable aerial gunner who dies almost immediately! You’re him!”

  “Right. But I don’t want to die.”

  “Nobody wants to die, Jesse. Just take one for the team.”

  Vlad glimpsed a corner store and pulled to the side, put on the hazard lights, and went to get a twelve-pack of Budweiser. Vlad explained that it was important for him to drink twelve beers before sleep because if he didn’t he would be shaking, sweating, and itching all night. And since we would be sharing a room, he thought it would be the right thing to do to spare me that experience.

  Vlad walked swiftly around and through the Brooklyn snowdrifts. A precious few snowplows lumbered down major streets and sidewalks. He looked back at me and smiled. He approached a large snow bank that was blocking his way across the street. He took a step back and leapt over the three foot bank. He leapt so gracefully, like the way one would lunge toward a person, dissenter, or bear. He didn’t notice the snowplow that was barrelling along. The snowplow driver didn’t notice Vlad. As he landed, he slipped. Then Vlad got plowed.

  WHEN IT GOT

  A LITTLE COLD

  “Hey! That’s St. Mary’s Hospital! Do you know what you did there?”

  “What, Daddy?”

  “You got yourself born there! That’s where I met my daughter!”

  “Oh, yeah! St. Mary’s Hospital. I remember!”

  “What do you mean ‘I remember?’ You don’t remember!”

  “Sure, I do.”

  “Well, then tell me about it.”

  “You tell me first.”

  “OK. Well it was taking a long time and your mother was in a lot of pain. She had started to develop a fever. And her doctor told her that she had to have a C-section. Do you know what that is?”

  “Yeah. That’s when they cut open your belly to get the baby.”

  “Yeah. So your mom didn’t want this, obviously. And you know how your mom is stubborn?”

  “My mom isn’t stubborn. She’s just really smart.”

  “Well, whatever. She was insistent on not having a Csection so she started yelling at the doctor. I thought that was pretty cool because I never liked that old guy.”

  “Why didn’t you like him? What did Mommy say?”

  “I thought he was mean and cranky. I shouldn’t say I didn’t like him. I just liked other people more. Your mom said, ‘Listen: you are going to go and get two buckets of ice and I will get my temperature down myself and I am going to have this baby the way I want to have this baby!’”

  “Whoa! Did she really yell it like that?”

  “Yeah. It was awesome. Your mom is very strongwilled.”

  “What does strong willed mean?”

  “It’s the same as stubborn, but a nicer way to say it.”

  “Oh. Strong-willed.”

  “Yeah. So the doctor stormed out of the room. And a new doctor came in. She was a really friendly French Canadian lady.”

  “What was her name?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “You should remember her name, Daddy.”

  “I’m not good with stuff like that.”

  “But still. You should remember her name.”

  “The new doctor was super nice. And she came into the room with two buckets of ice. And sure enough, your mom managed to get her temperature down. It was pretty amazing to see. The new doctor told your mom that she was smart to suggest that. And then it was time for you to be born!”

  “How did everyone know?”

  “Well, your mom’s vagina got really, really big.”

  “So I could fit through, right?”

  “Exactly. And then, the strangest thing happened. The really nice doctor told me that she needed my help. She told me that you needed my help to get born. So she told me to . . . well . . . to put my hands where your head was and to apply pressure.”

  “Wait. Where was my head now?”

  “You know . . . in your mother.”

  “In her vagina?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, Daddy.”

  “Well, it’s not like it was the first time I’d ever put my . . . I mean, this was different . . . I mean, you were there too. It’s not . . .it’s cool.”

  “It’s cool?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, I hope you washed your hands.”

  “So, I was like confused. I was pushing on your head, applying pressure like the doctor told me and I told the doctor that this seemed weird. Like, why was I pushing instead of pulling?”

  “Daddy, this isn’t the way Mommy tells the story.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, it’s sorta the same but you’re not really in it that much.”

  “That makes sense.”

  “That’s OK?

  “Yeah. Of course that’s OK. It’s called point of view. Your mom tells the story from her point of view. But listen, just as I was asking why I was pushing instead of pulling, you slid right out and right into my arms. It was the coolest thing ever. And you know what?”

  “What?”

  “You looked just like Gollum.”

  “Daddy!”

  “Listen. What I’m going to tell you now is important. When I saw your face, it was so small and so compressed. And that compression was astonishing. It was as if everyone I loved was in your face. You looked like my mom and dad, your mom, my brother, my cousins, everyone. I saw you for the first time and I had this feeling that I had always known you and loved you. And I knew that I would always love you and protect you. You need to understand this. There are kids who never get to feel that they are loved. And you are so loved. Do you understand?”

  “Yeah, Daddy. I understand. I love you too. It’s cool. But now do you want to hear my story of it from my point of view?”

  “OK.”

  “So, OK. It was very late at night.”

  “Early evening.”

  “Right. It was early evening. And I was just sort of figuring out how I was supposed to get out of my mom. And I was swimming around and looking for some light. And then it got a little warm and then it got a little cold. And when it got a little cold, I saw this light and felt this hand on my head. And the next thing I knew, I was in this guy’s arms. I thought that this guy
looks very much like a daddy. And there were all these other people there dressed up in weird blue outfits. And I said, ‘Wah! Wah! Wahhhh!’ and I thought, What is all of this? Who are you people? Why am I covered in blood? Are you people some sort of vampires? Why are you cutting my umbilical cord? That’s how I eat! What is this, even? This is so not cool! And then you know what?”

  “What?”

  “I got to meet Mommy and that was pretty cool.”

  TEEN WOLF QUOTES

  SLAVOJ ŽIŽEK

  MR. SPOCK SAYS THINGS

  FROM EPISODES OF GIRLS

  JON PAUL FIORENTINO

  INTERVIEWS HIS MOTHER

  JPF: Well, Mom, I’m 38 now. In what ways do you think I can do better?

  MOM: Let me count the ways (laughter). I noticed you seem to have your days and nights mixed up and you don’t manage money well. You have trouble paying parking tickets and bills on time. I think you need to be proactive instead of reactive. I wish you had more money so you could afford a personal assistant. Also: stop getting parking tickets.

  JPF: You and Dad lived a fairly typical suburban life. You were educators and still are community leaders. Does it bother you that your weirdo sons both dedicated their lives to the arts and live in relative squalor?

  MOM: No. We’re happy that you boys are pursuing your dreams and sharing your talents. Living in “squalor” is your choice. We didn’t raise you in “squalor.” I think we spoiled you too much.

  JPF: I remember getting away with a lot of things as a teenager. Was I actually getting away with things or did you secretly know what I was up to?

  MOM: I knew everything you were up to. At least I think so. I knew because I was the guidance counsellor to your best friends. I knew their habits and assumed they were yours. I found suspicious twigs in the drawer in your bedroom.