The Far Shore Read online

  She was bullshitting—it was a job interview—scratching the surface of subjects she otherwise knew little about, but it was a job interview and that’s what you did.

  You made it look like you knew something.

  It probably didn’t hurt that Wes was interviewing her and she was thirty pounds lighter then.

  On Wes: he is this guy—

  If you saw his face—someone thrust an iPhone in your face and showed you his picture—you’d think…jolly.

  Halfway to Santa Claus, really.

  Before Santa was Santa, he was probably Wes—salt and pepper in a beard he can’t decide whether to commit to yet, the gut not yet fully dome-like (if Santa as we know him is nine months pregnant, Wes is six months pregnant), the tiny bursts of capillaries on his ears and nose and cheeks not yet gin blossoms.

  There is still time for Wes.

  But that is only the picture.

  He is otherwise a mad genius.

  With Hitlerian skills of psychological warfare.

  Nobody follows the wolf, unless it is in sheep’s clothing.

  He said that once, referencing a book, if she remembers correctly.

  (And candidly, it made no sense to her: no one follows the sheep either.)

  But the way he had said it—a throwaway moment for him, but indelible to her—the way he’d recited it with such quiet admiration, like it was Confucius or something, made her know instantly he’d underlined it wherever he’d read it, or written it down, an aphorism to remember.

  He was everyone’s friend, until he wasn’t.

  When that moment was for each particular person was an entirely subjective thing.

  To Wes, it was when you “shat it,” and he had to come down on you.

  To most of the other employees, it was before the moment one had ever met Wes.

  Because from the very outset, no one thought of Wes as a friend.

  Which, despite her considerable stores of contempt for the man, makes her sort of sad.

  She knows she shouldn’t; assholes are assholes.

  We’re all carrying enough of our own shit (and God knows this tramp’s got a bulk-carrier full).

  But still.

  She’s just stupid that way sometimes.

  They’re out on the jetty.

  There’s a couple of larger stones out there near the end, pressed together and near level enough to sit on.

  This is her usual spot, this place of only-horizon-as-company, where she gets to check out from the world.

  Only today Wes is here.

  And one of his lieutenants, Jack.

  It’s Friday and it’s after work, and for whatever reason, whether it was the dearth of emails that afternoon, or just the fact that her sixth coffee had hit her just right, Liliana found herself in fine fettle, and sort of just rolled with it when Wes, with a studied casualness, suggested they Throw a Few Coors Lights at Toot Time.

  He quickly added that Jack was coming, a studied move again so as not to make it weird, squishy, forward.

  But she knows the plan; he’s used it before.

  Jack will have two beers, then will check his phone.

  Dear Lord, where has the time gone?!

  With great resignation he will have to excuse himself.

  Then Wes, four beers under his belt to her two, will suggest they stay on.

  Just the two of them.

  And he will take his shots.

  He will try to bed her.

  It’s Friday, after all.

  But this hasn’t happened yet.

  Wes and Jack are actually pretty good company all things considered.

  They’re bro’ing out.

  With broad, authentic smiles and fist pumps and eyes all a-twinkle as they run jokes up the flagpole with each other, as they have competitions to see who can throw their empties farther into the sea.

  Heaven hath no greater love than two ex-fraternity men over beers.

  Lily thinks they would make a good gay couple.

  Jack liberates the otherwise repressed, frustrated middle-management executive that is Wes.

  He is the wind beneath Wes’s wings.

  These two men: they understand each other.

  They are a species of two.

  She really does wish they would get married (though Jack is already married, suspiciously, to a woman).

  It would be a fun wedding.

  She would go.

  Million dollars: you chop off your hand?

  This is Jack.

  In a heartbeat, says Wes.

  No way, says Lily.

  Ten million: would you put an icepick in your eye?

  What the hell’s wrong with you?

  This is Wes.

  You can say no.

  Which eye, asks Wes after a moment.

  Does it matter, says Lily, laughing over the rim of her beer.

  Yes, we have dominant eyes, though you may not know it.

  (Incidentally, add this to the dossier on Wes: he is one of those quantified-self guys.

  One of those lifehackers with all the nitty-gritty on optimum performance: the supplement stacks and sleep tracking and inner meridian alignments that make men not just men but entrepreneurs, tornados in the sack, visionaries.

  The fact that Wes remains just a cubicle up the hall from her makes her question lifehacking’s effectiveness.)

  All right, Jack says, fine, your dominant eye.

  No, no way; non-dominant, yes, dominant, no.

  Jack just laughs out loud.

  Your mother must’ve been on PCP when she nursed you.

  One, shut up, and two, just, Jesus, I don’t know, keep shutting up.

  Jack looks to Lily.

  All right, Lily, I’ve got to get you on the payroll.

  Would you eat a dog for five hundred grand.

  They do it in Korea, says Lily, and shrugs.

  How do you know?

  She saw it on YouTube, says Wes.

  Sensing her gaze, he says: What, you see everything on YouTube.

  He gives her a knowing look.

  Like they’re an old married couple and he’s just calling it like he sees it.

  She lives inside a screen, what else can he say?

  As Lily briefly considers the various places on the body she could punch him—in the throat, the temple, the eyeball—Jack presses her: Lily, I need your final answer.

  No, no dog.

  Ever?

  No.

  I just bumped it up to a million.

  Still no.

  Ten million.

  Do I get condiments?

  Whatever you want.

  I’m in.

  Yes, playing grabass with the boys can be nice.

  On par with watching reality shows.

  Hicks in swamps or tarts in Beverly Hills.

  Sometimes it’s just good to flip the script and see the Other side.

  But when Wes and Jack go to video games, about their online Halo handles, she’s gone.

  Poof.

  Brain elsewhere, ears on vacation.

  Yes, they are all drinking together still.

  And the dialogue is still ongoing.

  The appearance of engagement is still there.

  But she is thinking other things.

  Thinking again, despite herself, about Forgetting.

  (It’s that damn horizon that does it, isn’t it?

  Makes her think of 3.1 miles.

  Which makes her think of him.

  And the rest of it.

  No, she steadfastly will not be the Bitter Girl.

  That is why she will Forget.

  No names.

  The name will never be spoken.

  What is not said is not remembered.

  [A new mantra, I like it.

  Let’s go with that.

  What is not said is not remembered.]

  Probably going to stick as well as the calorie-counting apps and new year’s resolutions and media cleanses.

 
But, hell, it’s something; it’s shiny and new and feels like an answer, a method, so let’s go with it.

  Better than remembering.

  Enough horizon-gazing.

  Back to Halo.)

  Jack finishes his second beer.

  All of this foreordained.

  A déjà vu.

  There it is, that slick, furtive, knowing look between Jack and Wes.

  Jack slaps his knees, gets up.

  Not that it hasn’t been great, but my wife’s gonna scalp me if I’m not home five minutes ago.

  Wes offers a perfunctory You sure?

  Jack in turn offers an Übermensch nod: Don’t let me kill the momentum; you guys stay.

  Wes looks to Lily.

  We could kill the twelver, there’s only two left.

  (Groundhog Day, Lily.

  Walk this time.

  [But, damn, one more beer’d put the final sheen on this buzz, wouldn’t it?])

  She says sure.

  And pretends not to see that tiniest of flickers that’s transmitted between the men’s eyes: Boo-yah.

  Once Jack is gone, Wes’s mien perceptibly changes.

  From cocksure world-beater to sensitive confidante.

  I wouldn’t really give up an eye, he says.

  Just so you know.

  The ocean rolls through green toward pewter as the sun sets.

  Stippled like gooseflesh, she thinks.

  Like it’s unnerved by the onset of night.

  Is it worried for her?

  Lily shrugs: Who knows, maybe an eyepatch, it’d give you an edge.

  (Oops, sharper than intended.

  Instead of affirming his original choice as you intended, it could be construed you’re suggesting he’s somehow lacking….

  [Goddamn third beer: like truth serum.])

  She hopes it slips past.

  But he is in active-listening mode, so it does not.

  We don’t all need edges, Lily.

  The tone in that, slipping ever so slightly from confidante to boss.

  Sometimes getting along is enough, he says.

  Says it subtly like she is somehow lacking.

  (Maybe time to adjourn this thing, Lily…?)

  Can I say something, he says after a moment.

  He stands, his voice lilting toward a begrudging sort of intimacy.

  It’s about work, but not work-work, not me telling you what to do.

  That’s your job, it’s what bosses do.

  No, I mean it’s about, you know, the larger work environment at the company; you know I hate these sorts of things, Lily.

  Here it comes.

  He always apologizes before laying into her.

  People think…your team skills are bad.

  I do okay.

  You do better than okay.

  But it’s the way that you do it.

  Way?

  Look, oh wow, how to say this.

  Big deal if you’re single, Lily, big deal if you don’t date—

  Thought we were talking about work.

  But people bring their lives to work, you know what I’m saying?

  And I totally don’t mean to push, if you’re not comfortable—

  It’s not a problem.

  Wes sits back, philosophical; he takes a swill.

  Thing that never ceases to amaze me is we all think we come to work, and the people around us only know what we tell them.

  About ourselves.

  But you know work: everybody knows everything about everybody.

  (Wes: I have thicker skin than you think.

  Thicker than some of those tankers.

  Quit dillydallying and get to it.)

  They say you’ve got a chip on your shoulder, he says.

  I don’t disagree with them.

  (Oh dammit, here come your sharp edges, Lil.)

  What else do they say about me?

  That they don’t understand why you work at the company if you hate it.

  They know about your dad.

  They know about the failed case against the company.

  Lily sits back, absorbs it quietly.

  She wishes he could understand that all of this is so far in the rearview she can’t even see it.

  Another man’s battle.

  That was my parents, that wasn’t me.

  But you can’t tell me that things don’t trickle down from generation to generation.

  At least a little, he says.

  I can, you know why?

  My parents, they could’ve been schemers, for all I know, leveling a frivolous lawsuit like people have said, against a firm they thought they could fleece.

  (She’s lying, doesn’t remotely believe it was frivolous, but is wisely tempering her words; two minutes will get her through the rest of her beer and on the way home to her TV.)

  You believe that?

  I believe only in what I see and figure out on my own.

  Maybe that’s the problem.

  That I’m discerning?

  That you’re headstrong.

  How is this a problem and why are we even talking about a problem?

  Because there is one.

  Wes takes a long beat here.

  His face: dramatic, empathetic.

  The other workers, they describe you as this sort of phantom at work, in this permanent limbo, and it’s weird for them.

  She casts an inquisitive glance at him.

  The board would fire you, Lily.

  They want to fire you.

  She continues eyeing him, refusing to show reaction.

  They know who you are.

  They know about the initial oversight in hiring you.

  They got no love for Allens, as you can probably understand.

  And for the last few years, they’ve been wanting to terminate you; it’s just not a good memory for them.

  Why haven’t they?

  Because you’re an unlawful termination waiting to happen.

  You’re a woman.

  One who’s…

  He’s two words into that sentence when he aborts.

  He opts to finish his beer instead: We should go.

  Lily eyes him: Who’s what?

  I really don’t want to do this, he says.

  She glares at him, which is curiously affected at this stage, because she’s not mad, not even remotely.

  Rather the whole thing’s become surreal, because rather than hitting on her as expected, he’s laying all this at her feet—and she’s curious to know why.

  Cued by that glare, he shakes his head, as if ever-supportive of her: I’m not saying you’d do it.

  I’m not saying that you’d file an unlawful suit around it, but they’re careful of all the things that might be used against them.

  She tightens up the glare a bit.

  He relents finally, and she can tell that he is genuinely unhappy about saying the following sentence:

  They say another challenge for them, in terms of potential lawsuits, is that you’re heavy.

  They walk back together along the jetty.

  Toward the parking lot, now mostly empty.

  The air between them, spent, used up, nothing left to say.

  Or so she thinks.

  He nods vaguely toward her body.

  It doesn’t bother me, just so you know.

  Women are supposed to be women; straight lines in a woman don’t work.

  She’s briefly amused—his dogged attempts to get into her pants over the years have been nothing short of Herculean.

  You’re not still trying to parlay this into getting laid, are you?

  He unfurls all his best-intended, half-Santa-ness at her: I’m just drunk, you’re drunk, the world sucks; sometimes it’s just better to get naked and fuck and forget about things.

  They’re still walking; he’s looking off into the distance as he says this.

  For about an eighth of a second, she considers it.

  The fantasy in that flash not the sensual
one that he’d want it to be, but instead the oblivion component.

  The utter checkout.

  She’s got beer for that though, waiting for her back at home.

  And it’s not shaped like Wes.

  She stops, looks at him.

  I’m going to give you the brass tacks of it, okay?

  Because that’s what you deserve.

  I’m gonna keep working at the company, I’m gonna continue hating it, but I’m going to continue being a good soul.

  I’ll take other people’s work off their plates.

  I’ll cover shifts, everything.

  And you know, she continues, they’re right, I don’t have a life, but that’s for the betterment of the company.

  Don’t say that, says Wes, because he has to say something.

  Here’s what else I’m going to say, and I’m going to say it with the utmost respect: you and me, it’s not going to happen, not tonight, not ever; I actually like you one percent more tonight than I did before—you actually said a few sincere things there—you’re right, the world does suck, but every time someone lays something sincere on you, the world sucks just that tiny bit less, if only for a few seconds; so keep that up, that sincere part.

  You add something to the world when you do that.

  He seems amused.

  The finality of not getting laid apparently hitting him.

  He has nothing to lose at this stage, so some of the hard edges in him return.

  You’re smart, but not that smart, he says.

  None of that was sincere.

  And then he’s off to his car.

  She climbs deeper in her TV that night.

  Tonight it’s a periscope.

  That can see up and over that horizon 3.1 miles away.

  Can spy all the rollicking possibility out there.

  The unseen things of the world.

  All beamed to her living room so that she can participate, if only as a passive observer.

  The world really is pretty great.

  The world she can see in there, anyhow.

  Inside the Dream Aquarium.

  I am owed, she sometimes thinks in the night.

  She, this lonely island through no fault of her own.

  It was not her who created the high unemployment along the Eastern Seaboard in the ’70s.

  That drove desperate men like her father to do stupid things like clean possessed ships with lung-killing evil spirits inside.

  Those PAHs and PCBs killed not only him in their slow but insidious way but her mother too.

  She was dead in the head, if not the body, years before her car found the underside of a 1 a.m. big rig.

  Too many prescription pill bottles will do that to you, especially ones that do not have your name on them.