The Refractive Period

Psumner finished the last quarter of his beer in one pull and went to the bar. Everyone needed a drink. Chuck and Amanda were playing pool when he came back.

"What you need to do is get your dick wet," said Chuck. "Clear your head right up."

"Yeah," said Psumner, frowning, "really get some skanky on there."

"Let a girl park your Cadillac in her garage for a while."

"It's nice to hear how boys think about these things," said Amanda, watching Chuck clear the table.

"Only people whose names rhyme with fuck can say things like that seriously," said Psumner. His beer was about half gone. He told himself to slow it down. "I don't think his name is even Charles. I think his parents just called him Chuck. They knew something about him."

"A circus gypsy named me," said Chuck, all Texan deadpan. "Said she saw my future. Eh, you know where I heard that line? About the Cadillac?"

"A Romanian gypsy," said Amanda. "They're always from some country they don't have anymore."

"A porno," said Chuck, and he delivered the line, deep voiced and slow, making it a question. "But seriously, dude, maybe pull an Asian."

Ruminative Psumner. He finished his beer and bought another even though it wasn't his turn. He wasn't paying attention to this conversation or had any of the previous ones that night. He responded automatically with what he thought were funny things to say. Kept those bastards off his back. Buck up, they seemed to want to say. He didn't want it.

Chuck let Amanda break the next game, and when she didn't sink any of the balls, Chuck stepped in and began cleaning house again. Psumner said he was going to smoke a cigarette.

"Maybe I'll buy Sumner a shot," he heard Amanda say to Chuck. "Maybe he wants one of those."


Psumner left the bar and walked down Third Avenue to Fourteenth Street where he cut over to Union Square. Phantom vibrations coming from his phone in the back right pocket of his jeans. He pulled it out to check almost twice a block: nothing. The Virgin Megastore was closing. They were even selling the shelves. It was depressing. Another vibration from his pocket. Amanda had written. Some guys were milling around the entrance of Virgin.

"Say dude," one of the guys said to Psumner. "You like hip-hop?"

"Do you like Jesus?" he responded. Combative Psumner.

"Motherfuckah, don't blaspheme!"

"What does that even mean?"

Psumner turned away and descended into the subway. He was upset about Virgin. It had been a touchstone of his in this city. It was loud and obnoxious and you could never tell where the movie was playing they were blaring over the PA system. But he always bought DVDs from them and sometimes a quaint CD. He was a man of habit and this part of his habit was being taken away from him. Plus, there's something to be said for physical browsing. He could never get the hang of strolling through Amazon. He rode the train out to Brooklyn and found he'd lost his headphones.


Psumner bought six Modelo Especials from the deli near his apartment. He drank one in his room and looked at the internet. He drank most of another, slowly. Beer was beginning to make his mouth sweet and his head thick. Naked Psumner. Nearing bed time. It was very late. He picked up his phone and called a car service. He'd only just pulled on his pants and had opened a beer when he heard a horn outside.

He told the driver the address in Manhattan and sat back. This was the right move. This was John Cusack. His heart was beating in his throat and his head had cleared. They listened to Arabic news driving down the empty streets.


Psumner stepped out of the car and looked up at her apartment building. He found her window and tried to discern if there was any light peeking out from the sides of the curtains. There was no way of knowing. What do you do? Tacky to ring the buzzer, her roommate might be home. It was late. Only cigarette butts on the sidewalk to throw at the window. And he only had his keys in his pocket. Risky. He smoked a cigarette. He texted her hello. No response. He called, no answer. But that didn't mean anything.

Or it did. It meant she didn't want to speak with him. She didn't want to see him. She wasn't home. She was asleep. She was out. Who would she be out with? She was ignoring him. He looked at the front door of the building. She was opening the door in front of him the first time he'd come over. He'd trailed the back of his fingers up the back of her thigh. Best to ring the bell. He stopped. What humiliation was waiting in the intercom? This is Psumner's flaw. Proud Psumner.

The city was changing around him and had become hollow. He was no longer in charge of his own destiny. Psumner leaned on the bell and the blood rushed in his ears. He could hear no cars. Was that the merest flicker of light at a corner of the curtain? There was no answering crackle at the intercom. Psumner saw only overgrown sidewalks in a ghost city. I'm not ready. I'm not ready. I'm not ready.


Psumner hailed a gypsy cab and told the Nigerian driver his address.

"How much you pay?" the driver asked.

"Like eight bucks?" They laughed and laughed. The driver named an extortionate price and Psumner agreed. He was too tired, and what's the point? They crossed the Manhattan Bridge back into Brooklyn and followed yellowed street corners to his neighborhood past Prospect Park. He and the Nigerian smoked cigarettes, and at a stoplight Psumner saw a tattoo on the driver's neck of two hands clasped in prayer. Fingers pointing up, so angels can land on them.


Back in his room, Psumner thumbed through his Google reader. He sipped the now warm and flat Modelo Especial he'd left on the nightstand. An underground militant revolutionary pop singer was marrying a liquor and movie heir. It's a funny old world. He scanned the pages flickering past, not really reading, but following the text. A grey wall had risen in his mind; thoughts representing the past weeks, surrounding finally any pretense of a public face. If these thoughts were put into words it would sound a repeating phrase, throbbing and hopeless.

Psumner clicked a link in one of the blogs and found himself looking at a product page on The Duluth Trading Company. He blinked, finished his beer, and realized that he dearly wanted a Fire Hose fabric Chore Coat.