Mr. Gerber Is Living the Life He Always Dreamed About.

We never learned how Mr. Gerber maintained himself. He helped out here at the building, kept an eye on things, but that hardly could have been enough to live on.

Mr. Gerber was peculiar, certainly. I don't doubt that he was somewhat mad. He may have been a pervert. A skim milk-looking middle-aged man, thinning hair, the kind of man you can hardly tell if he is 38 or 61. The sun seems to never shine directly on such a person.

In a crowd of people Mr. Gerber was useful as an end table. You gave him your drink to hold when you went to the toilet. Fifteen minutes later he hadn't moved. I suppose you could have thrown your coat over him.

Mr. Gerber was part of the complex. He lived in a corner basement apartment. A made-over utility closet, I suspect, though of course I never saw it. In this building we're all good friends -- it's required. When we had parties we invited everyone. When we invited everyone, we invited Mr. Gerber, too.

If you forced him to speak, Mr. Gerber would straighten up, tuck his chin down toward his chest, and say that he was grateful, grateful to be at a party like this, among people like these people. Mr. Gerber was so strenuously grateful one wondered if he was grateful at all.

I should clarify some things about myself. I am a person who tells the truth. Thus many people do not like me very much. I'm not a sentimentalist. I'm not a sympathetic sort of person. I'm a pragmatist. I'm an M.T.V. person. Do you know what that means? That means: My Time is Valuable. All right, let's continue.

Mr. Gerber was extremely unobtrusive, but he was always around. If you came home early feeling under the weather, there was Mr. Gerber. Or late on Sunday afternoon when distractions were running low. At 3am when you couldn't sleep, there was Mr. Gerber, clearing away the junk mail, sweeping out the entryway.

If you caught him alone Mr. Gerber was chatty, in a style both humdrum and bizarre. He'd chat about the light that was out, about trash collection, about the weather -- and then he'd sigh and say, "For so long I dreamed of this and now I'm living it!" And an enormous smile would sweep over his face.

I am not impressed by poetic-type people. If you take a moment to investigate their self-conscious behavior, you will nearly always see an attempt to camouflage failure. Like women who gain weight and become spiritual.

For all his being nothing, Mr. Gerber was extremely grandiose. His life appeared to be 10% of one's own life, which frankly was shoddy in some departments, and yet he talked like he was rags to riches, like his whole entire wish list had been delivered. He was delusional obviously. Probably he was actually severely depressed. I've seen a case or two of this before.

I suppose he was giving me some clue the afternoon we discussed Christmas shopping, while leaning up against the mailboxes. He said he was pleased to be finished with his shopping. (I have no idea who he could have been shopping for. I myself never received anything from him.)
Mr. Gerber said, "I like things -- but most of all I like the space between things."

Well. It sounds a little spiritual written down, doesn't it? Trust me, it wasn't spiritual at the time. He had one hand in a crinkly bag of BBQ ripple chips, He had little orange specks around his lips.

Conspiratorially he leaned near me, breathing on me with his barbecue chip breath. "Have you ever been in the train station at rush hour, shoving and elbowing along with everyone else, when, without warning, a gap appears? You've got 144,000 people in front of you. 144,000 in back. But nobody is quite exactly where you are. You're in a little gap. I love that."

I bet, if we really looked into it, we'd find out that Mr. Gerber really was a pervert. Perverts resemble skim milk and are always careful to be the nobody next door.

As for myself, I don't shirk responsibility. I believe in doing things. I celebrate achievement. That is why I live on the top floor, whereas Mr. Gerber lived in the basement. Both of us, it's true, live alone. But a corner on the top floor is obviously very different from a corner in the basement.

All religions of the world agree on one point: every little thing you do matters. All of us are born with a 'to do' list. We must work, procreate, ornament, etc. Like it or not this is the situation. When we die we go to Heaven, to the auditors, and all our exotic destinations, university publications, and redheads are tallied.

You can pretend otherwise but that just means you are afraid of life. At very least you must avoid blowing your nose on cloth napkins and eating potato chips on the train.

One night -- I was having some troubles, I admit. I don't have nearly as many troubles as most other people, but still I have some. For some reason I was walking around in my t-shirt. And underpants.

This is not as inappropriate, as abandoned, as it may seem. I am fastidious about underwear, about its cleanliness. And all my underwear is very modest, more modest than what many people wear on the outside.

Anyway, it was the middle of the night. In one of my hands could be found a fifth of whiskey. I turned the corner and saw that there was someone there. I started to apologize -- but there was no need. It was only Mr. Gerber.

"Whiskey?"

Mr. Gerber looked at the bottle. "It isn't space really," he said. "Actually it obliterates space. But it feels like space." I thought this meant I could continue enjoying my liquor privately, but he took the bottle from me, and had a good strong slug of it.

I remember he didn't shiver and his eyes didn't widen any. So maybe that was Mr. Gerber's story.

"Isn't this the very best time of night?" said Mr. Gerber. "I adore it. I like stumbling on these odd times when one can really live."

Well, this was nonsense, and I would certainly have said so, had I not been overwhelmingly intoxicated. And so I said, "Gosh. You really like some unusual things, Mr. Gerber."

"I like all the things that are likeable. And also those things that cannot help but be loved. Dust, for instance." Now he started counting things off on his thick stubby fingers. "I like train stations when the train is gone. I like gardens in winter. Nothing charms like the absence of charm! I like cafeterias. I am addicted to laundromats. I dislike traveling, but I enjoy being in transit. There's no place a man can really live, don't you agree, besides in a city, in a basement apartment, in a building where no one really likes anyone!"

Likely this was not Mr. Gerber's first whiskey of the evening. Some people enjoy being eccentric and contrary. And they expect other people to find it just delightful.

Personally, I dislike monologists. Don't you, too, dislike monologists? It's the back and forth of dialogue that enriches one, connects one to the species, even has health benefits. Not so Mr. Gerber. He did not seek the back and forth, the to and fro. Mr. Gerber had his speech prepared. No doubt he was a deeply lonely man, and monologues, as everyone knows, are a hazard of that species.

"One of the joys of modern life," said Mr. Gerber, "Is the perfectly anonymous coffee shop -- not the most popular chain, but its cheaper, though I grant still over-priced, imitators. Each shop is just like another and even the street corners on which they appear are so similar, so dull and gray, that you could never agree to meet anyone there, because you could never think of anything that might distinguish it from any other shop, its street from any other street, its city from any other city, until finally you cannot even distinguish yourself from anyone else: in a place like this you can really live!"

My diction doubtless makes Mr. Gerber's gobbledygook more distinguished than it really was. I decided to confront him about his evasions, to remind him that work and restraint are necessary, that the age of consent is 18. Unfortunately that drunken evening was the last I saw of him. For shortly after this discussion, Mr. Gerber disappeared.

I don't mean that there was anything untoward about it. I don't think he ran out on the rent. He just isn't with us anymore.

The odd thing is, now that Mr. Gerber is gone, he's become a very common topic of conversation among residents here in the building. They want to know where he went. They want to understand him. This is a sentimental and foolish interest which Mr. Gerber does not in any way merit.

Thus it disturbs me somewhat to discover that I, too, am unable to stop thinking about Mr. Gerber. Mr. Gerber is absolutely stuck in my mind. He appears to have become part of the structure, like train stations and dull street corners. Like dust.

I want very much to see Mr. Gerber again. I would greet him courteously. I'd listen to whatever nonsense he wished to share. And I'd be sure to tell him, "We cannot forget you, Mr. Gerber." I think the look of disappointment on his dull face would be most satisfactory.

AWE.

"Please," you said. "Less awe."

I’m sorry. I must have seemed terribly exaggerated. Maudlin. But please imagine, pretty boy, that you are 53. Beauty’s not just some dainty treat. It’s a surprise. And not like a birthday party, but really a shock to the system. Especially if you have been alone for a very long time.

Do you know what it’s like to be lonely? Perhaps you do. In the beginning loneliness is quite passionate really, as it stumbles over broken ground: boulders, lava flows, birds of prey. That sort of thing.

After a long time it is a clear cold flat expanse. You can see for miles in every direction. No one is coming.

Excuse the fancy turns of phrase. Nowadays I read more books than I talk to people. Drama is something I enjoy – but only in books with Russians! Years ago I was advised to cultivate a simple life.

I shouldn’t be grandiose. After all, I was completely wrong. I felt like I was living on the moon. And someone was sneaking up on me.

I’m 53. I wrote that already. At a certain point your age becomes a talisman you wave in front of you in hopes life will leave you alone. It doesn’t work. But anyway – I’m 53. I was never particularly handsome. Not like you! OK, for awhile I had a certain something maybe. That something has long passed. My father and grandfather were both bureaucrats. I have inherited neither their money nor their influence. Their jowls alone have been vouchsafed to me.

I have enough money for basic security, none for excess. I admit I like security. I have never been a globetrotter, a go-getter, an enthusiast. I am not saying this is the way you ought to live. But it is not such an uncommon strategy either. I look upon disappointment as a friend and ally.

Now can you imagine how I felt – when I answered the door and a boy stuck his tongue in my mouth?

Do you understand why I shook? You looked worried -- I must have seemed even older than I am. Please understand: I prepared for disappointment. I did not prepare to have an Italian boy (28!) unbuckle his belt in my entryway.

Those who fast are warned to resume eating only gradually -- a bit of gruel, weak tea. Whereas I was accosted by the buffet. I am sorry if I sighed a lot or looked close to tears. I am grateful to have survived.

This is not an effect of age: all my life I have struggled to retain my composure in the face of good news. I remember the day at work when I was told I had been promoted to assistant manager. (This is the same job I have now, 23 years later.) I still remember the day. I locked myself in the bathroom for an hour. I was sure I was about to be sick.

The year before last a stranger's child threw her arms around me at the park. I'd been pushing her on the swings. I'd sung a little song for her. She hugged me and my eyes welled up. Her mother laughed -- and pulled her off of me at once. I'm sure I seemed a little crazy, the kind of person not to be trusted with children.

Years ago I had as many aspirations as anyone. I may even have been grandiose, if you can believe it. And then – well, I lost my balance. I was advised to live a simple life. I got a job at the drug store. I moved in with my mother.

It would have been easier for me, I think, if you'd refused to move and expected me to do everything. If you'd demanded money or stolen something from the nightstand. Lord knows, I'm used to that.

But you said (and, hello, you demonstrated) that you are attracted to older men. Good Lord, the fetishes people have nowadays: spitting, spanking, amputees, auto-asphyxiation, old men. Such perversity. God bless you!

I have adjusted, adapted, prepared, accommodated myself to simplicity, to ordinariness, to what is drab. But please keep in mind: I recognize that I am very humble, very nothing. But life however is very rich. It is extremely even overpoweringly rich and, contrary to the advertising blitz, it does not care whose handbag you are carrying. It does not care if you have a Mercedes or a Mastercard or an enormous penis. Life goes on being rich. Yessir, even for me at Payless Drug six days a week, with library books and 2 cans of Diet Beer, with my chapped lips and increasingly demented mother.

All that is required is a certain quiet precise attention. I cultivate this. I sometimes even think that life is more well-disposed toward me, because I am so very nothing.

My mother used to tell me that I was too proud. You see how we are misunderstood even by those who purport to know us best.

Mother, as you know, is extremely unwell. But there is something in her even now: Mother adores monster movies. Often now she seems very far away, but she still lights up to see a giant reptile wreaking havoc, a luxury shopping district squashed.

That night -- the night before we met -- was a double feature. I stayed up very late to watch with her, to watch her. Something I would ordinarily never do. And so the next morning I was exceptionally tired and accepted the new clerk's offer to get coffee from the gas station, except that the clerk is new and added too much sugar and got an extra large instead of a small and I was on auto-pilot and drank it all and that, I think, is why I did something so abandoned, so reckless, so entirely uncharacteristic of me, and winked at you, when you came up to the counter with your can of Red Bull, and Cheddar Cheese pretzel combos, and two boxes of Trojan Magnum XL.

Please understand – about the wink – it’s not the sort of thing that I would ever do. Except that I did.

I’m sure you understand now how I felt when you handed me the receipt. I’m sorry I acted so dense. I assumed you wanted to return something. You smirked, I looked down at the paper and – there was your phone number.

The other clerks are very good to me. Even if they accuse me of being “brainy”. I bring them donut holes every Friday. Nobody minded that I lay down in the storeroom for an hour. I’m sure they just assumed that I was worried about my mother.

I didn’t call you. Of course I didn’t call you! Do I have to start explaining all over again? I am 53. Almost 54 actually. I have a double-chin. If an Italian boy with a trouser snake passes me his number I assume it is going to cost more than I can afford.

The next day you were back, looking aggrieved and demanding my address. Which was, of course, just next door. Of course I would never give a total stranger my address. My own mother’s address. Except that I did.

I have water and canned food in case of earthquakes. I have a back-up generator. I have the phone numbers of three coroners taped inside the cupboard. But you were an emergency for which I was not prepared.

About my mother. Please don’t be sorry! Yes, she was startled to see a nearly naked man in the entryway, grappling with her very own unbuttoned son. But in another moment I’m sure the memory had entirely dissolved. Anyway, she was exceptionally cheerful the whole rest of the evening. And I’m sorry that I myself was so startled. I wasn’t horrified actually. It’s just that, at the moment she came around the corner, I’d forgotten that I even had a mother.

As for the rest – how can I thank you? It’s like my soul’s been reupholstered, new doors and windows, new carpets throughout, all new appliances, solar power!

And that is why I must insist that you not contact me again. Good news, for a man like me, is contraindicated: it’s over-rich, intoxicating. Potentially devastating. I am nursing my mother throurgh her twilight years. To tell the truth, management has several times offered me promotion. But I don’t want my own store. Assistant manager is high enough in the world for me.

I’m sure this will be no sacrifice for you – I suspect that you are only passing through. Wild boy! Anyway, this city has an army of plain faced fifty-somethings if that is your fetish. They will be thrilled to see you. Most of them have money.

I’m sorry – to good news I cannot adapt. I suspect my mother will soon be unable to dress herself. I am prepared for that. I have learned to live my simple life. I cannot risk losing my balance now. I cannot adapt to good news – which is, I suppose, a kind of fear of heights.

There are many drug stores in this city. I reckon most of them stock Magnum XLs! It will be easy for you to avoid mine. Super Walgreens, to tell the truth, has better prices.

Please tear up my number. My face will be easy to forget. Thank you for your praise and endearments. I am certain that you do not mean them. This is a well-known Italian characteristic.

Please don’t call or come into the store. Please no letters. I almost never go out now that Mother is doing so poorly so there is zero chance of a random meeting.

Above all I must insist that you not come to the door again. You see what kind of man I am. I do not know what I would do --

Enlightenment -- and What I Wore.

A Zen Story Retold.

A rich lady who wanted to be enlightened climbed a mountain to meet a holy woman. Reports that the rich lady climbed the mountain in 400 dollar Italian pumps are completely false. In fact she'd bought new high-class hiking boots for the occasion. Extremely comfortable, excellent traction, and also quite chic. For hiking boots anyway.

Certainly it's a question that merits consideration: what shoes do you wear to be enlightened?

Also false are reports that the holy woman was up there wearing a white sheet or even naked. She had a down parka. A cheap one and patched with duck tape but still -- real down. A few tiny feathers were caught in her wooly brow. Reports that the holy woman had once been a courtesan or even a princess are likewise groundless. No question but that this old woman had been Plain Jane even half a century before.

The rich woman presented gifts as she had been instructed: a garland of orchids, a specialty fruit basket, beeswax candles. The holy woman was very interested in these gifts at first, but afterwards looked quite disappointed. As the rich lady began to prostrate before her she could be heard muttering, "Still no cream corn! Why, after all this time, can't people understand that I would simply like a few cans of creamed corn!"

As she prostrated, the rich lady recited the obligatory verses of praise. And all the while she was thinking, "This had better not be a scam! Maybe this old girl is going to be re-selling the Alfonso mangos in two hours time." The rich lady was also worried this might all be joke and there was a camera somewhere and this was all going to be on TV and then she would never ever be promoted to executive vice president.

Still, she'd come this far -- she'd bought new boots, she'd gotten a blister -- and so she joined her palms above her head and said, "Please! Show me the way to enlightenment!"

The holy woman stared at her. The holy woman ran her tongue over her desiccated lips. She had an enormous thick tongue, a real dong of a tongue, the kind of tongue possessed only by people in nursing homes, a tongue seen wandering around the mouth after the mind is gone.

"You're sure that's what you want?" said the holy woman. Her voice was unexpectedly tender and motherly, as though she were asking if French Literature was really such a practical thing to be majoring in. "You're sure that's what you want?"

"Yes, that's what I want! The student is ready! Show me the way to enlightenment!" The rich lady recited it thrice, as she'd been instructed.

The holy woman sighed, like this was really not what she was in the mood for today, but still she put her shoes on. She had an old pair of sneakers, quite incongruous really, like a high school boy might wear for track and field. She laced them up carefully and then she pushed herself up to a standing position.

"Well, all right then," said the old woman and transformed in a flash into a gigantic three-headed demon, a dank shaggy saber-toothed thing, which drove the rich lady out the door and out onto the mountain path.

"WTF!" thought the rich lady abbreviatedly. "Why did I ever sign up for yoga! I could have signed up for hula! I could have signed up for Pilates!" The rich lady kept running, always just a few steps in front of the demon, gagging at hideous smell of its breath: dead puppies and peanut butter.

Although the holy woman might have seemed kind of fake, but the demon was entirely real. Vicious and horrifying and -- Sorry -- not in any way comical.

In spite of the fact the rich lady had never seen a demon before, this demon was not wholly unfamiliar. One of its three heads was that of a guy who'd put a gun to her once, the only time in her life she'd ever been threatened, a strung-out dead soul face -- even blown up three times the size and sulphur-colored she could recognize him.

As for the second head, well, of course she recognized that one -- she was married to it. Her good husband, who had a personality at work supposedly, who did as he was told to do, who thought as he was told to think, who could no more have an original thought than he could lay an egg. What an agreeable thing, it seems, to be marry an agreeable man. Until you find yourself in a walled-up room screaming, Is anyone there?

The third head, well, that also was easy. That was her own face in the mirror. Not the face she saw -- the face that always threatened to arrive. The face she attempted to ward off with creams and exercises, with yoga and antioxidant supplements, with positive thinking. Here was that face, her own face, wrecked by time, by bitterness and busy-ness, by the life she'd left unlived.

All three heads had the same horrible teeth, the same awful breath, as the demon ran behind her shrieking in unison the same terrible word.

NOW! Shrieked the demon. Now! Now! Now!

The rich lady sprinted along the mountain path, the demon close upon her, its claws extended, its teeth about to chomp.

NOW! Shrieked the demon. Now! Now! Now!

Overheard: Charity

“Charity is impatience with God. That’s all it is. Doing something God ought to have done already but God didn’t do it and finally it pissed you off enough you decided, fine, I’ll do it myself, and I’ll have a talk with that G.O.D. when I see him.

“There are so many paths to God, so many attitudes one can assume: friend, slave, child, mother but nowhere in the sacred treatises will you see 'God as roommate' discussed as a sacred path. And that is because God SUCKS as a roommate. God will leave the dishes in the sink forever.

“And all God’s codependents, all God’s buttbuddies, will try to explain it away: God is busy, God couldn’t possibly be expected to --, maybe God thinks this would be a nice time for YOU to develop your leadership skills. More generally everyone will just pretend that the dishes aren’t there or even that it’s the dishes own damn fault.

“And this is how charity arises, charity means being entirely pissed off and fed up. To such an extreme degree that you decide, fuck it, I’ll just do it myself. This is charity, and naturally it is virtue most prized by God, since it gives God one less thing to do.”

The Difficulty of Making Good Choices.

After much deliberation, after contemplating and delineating their desires and expectations, as well their weaknesses, histories, and needs, along with the possibilities and limitations of their current situation, they decided not to become lovers. Because, despite their physical attraction to each other, they recognized a physical relationship would not likely lead to happiness, not for themselves and not for others, at least not in the long term. This was the choice that they had made and they had made this choice carefully. This was the right choice.

They were still friends. Of course. And so they met for coffee. As friends do.

“Great to see you again.”
“Great to see you, too.”
“Thanks for meeting me.”
“My pleasure.”
“I think – is it okay to talk about this? I think we made the right decision.”
“Absolutely.”
“You’re feeling well?”
“Perfect.”
“And you’re -- comfortable sitting out here? Not chilly? You don't want a table inside?”
“No, it’s lovely out here. So bright.”
“Can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“Personal questions are okay?”
“Well. Ask me and I’ll think about it.”
“Why are you wearing a face mask and a scarf and galoshes and industrial overalls and a motorcycle helmet? It’s a warm day – and you are not riding a motorcycle.”

“Just felt like it.”

The café was a little expensive, the coffee incredibly strong. They sat sipping it now.
“A face mask is certainly a common sight in this city. It’s flu season after all. And as for the winter clothes, well, plenty of people believe that winter begins on a certain day and so they wear their fur trimmed coat and snow boots even if it’s downright balmy. Overalls are always adorable but the overall effect – is it okay to say this – seems to me, frankly, outlandish. I’m not hurting you am I? You know I never want to hurt you. The motorcycle helmet seems particularly superfluous, since you came here on the bus --”
“I’m comfortable.”
“That’s what matters. Are you comfortable?”
“I’m not comfortable at all. Physically. But I can say that I have a certain spiritual comfort as well as a hard-headed pragmatic satisfaction.”
“You’re quoting my letter.”
“I agreed with your letter.”
“I’m glad to hear that.”

They sat together in silence for the next few sips of coffee. The man who asked questions bobbed his head around, nodded like he was checking things off a list. Yes, it was Thursday morning. Yes, this was Tokyo. The sun was out and so were the high society wives and their ten thousand dollar dogs. He never stopped smiling.

The other man may or may not have been smiling. He had his visor down.

“You’re okay?”
“Yes! I’m completely okay,” said the voice inside the helmet. “Of course I’m a little sweaty, but that’s to be expected.”
“Good, good.” He went on nodding at the air. “Listen, I don’t want you to feel like I’m pressuring you – because I totally respect you and your decisions and those decisions, we both agree, don’t have to look anything like what other people are deciding but – are you sure you don’t want to remove something?”
“Of course I would like! But no, absolutely not. Oh, hell.” There was a muffled sob from inside the helmet.
“Oh honey – I mean, dear friend. Does this have anything to do with what we decided?”
“I completely agree with what we decided. It’s definitely the right choice.”
“It’s good to hear you say that.”
“And sometimes, when you make the right choice, you have to accept, it’s going to be a little awkward sometimes. For example, now.”

Another long silence.

“I am very interested in what you are saying. Please -- continue.”
“We made an excellent choice. A mature thoughtful and ethical choice. I will sleep better. Eventually. I presume. In the meantime, there may be, as I said, some awkwardness.”
“I think I see what you’re saying. You mean, despite the choices we made there are still residual feelings which – point in another direction.”
“Something like that.”
They nodded to each other, one hairy head and one motorcycle helmet. The natural opening was lost; the moment passed. Their coffee was nearly finished and what was left was cold.

The man in the motorcycle helmet lay one gloved hand on the other man’s thigh. The other man looked carefully at that hand.

The voice behind the visor said, “I want to fuck you in bed. But only to start. Really I what I want is to fuck you down on the floor. So we can really have at it. I want to spank your hairy ass. I want to be buck naked with the blinds open and the sun streaming in. I want to beg for it. I want to cram your cock down my throat. I want to feel your balls resting on my beard. I want to put my tongue in your asshole. I want to drink your hot spunk.”

At tables all around them, Japanese ladies did not turn to look. Immaculate in linen, in the style, still, of Audrey Hepburn, those ladies did not turn and did not look. Perhaps a particularly sharp eyed observer might have noticed the muscles straining in their delicate necks. Perhaps they might even make an appointment later with their acupuncturist. To help them manage the discomfort accumulated over a lifetime of not turning. Because these were absolutely first-rate ladies, the kind who do not ever look.

Their dogs had no such qualms however. Naturally. The dogs were positively riveted, straining at the end of their leashes. Those little dogs were absolutely interested in finding out what happened next.

But anyone with even the most rudimentary knowledge of men, or dogs, will not require such elucidation.