Chapter Six

CLUB FAIR BOOTHS LINED Locust Walk, students in costume barking about glee club and the Society for Creative Anachronism; the first dressed like Gatsby, the second like Dungeons & Dragons.

“SCA has the best kegs,” John had told Charlie. “Amazing, imported stuff. Those D&D looking geeks know their beer.”

One of them, a jester, was rapturously playing a flute, dancing in and out of the Locust Walk crowd with his pointed shoes. He was the only real Odyssey-like obstacle, and the worst he could do was poke you with his shoes. Miss Pettibone might be disappointed there weren’t any real mythical dangers along the way, he thought, although a girl in the gay rights booth yelled “Are you gay?” at Charlie and everyone stared. But you didn’t really come across that in the Greek myths. There was one beast toward the dregs of the fair, a boa constrictor draped around its owner’s shoulders. It wasn’t really an official college club, just a washed-out hippie who liked answering questions about his snake.

Across from him was the Hillel booth, with yarmulke’d kids in jeans.

“Are you Jewish?” they asked Charlie.

“Yes, but most people think I’m something else.”

“I could tell a mile away.”

“Most people think I’m European.”

“European Jew.”

“Initially, my ex-girlfriend thought I was Italian.”

“That’s why she’s your ex. She never knew who you really were,” said the smiling Jew with a razor-burned neck and corduroy pants that choked his fleshy thighs.

“She was Jewish, my ex,” said Charlie.

If Monica Miller were here, he thought, she’d grab my hand and walk us quickly out of the Club Fair; she’d want to see if there was any good shopping in the city center. She’d veto the Sansom Street Oyster House, unless shopping came first.

“We have a shabbat prayer for ex-girlfriends,” said the smiling Jew, wagging his finger. “It’s sort of like, ‘I wish you well, but I wish me a little better.’ You should come to shabbat dinner tomorrow night. Come,” he said. “Come.”

It made Charlie feel weird inside when his people repeated things like “Come.” When younger Jews sounded like older Jews. “Maybe,” he said, actually entertaining the idea.

“We have a brother who looks just like you. He’ll be there tomorrow, and you can judge for yourself.”

Charlie didn’t care much for mirrors. He couldn’t find his whole among the features. A mop of brown hair, big comic book circles for eyes, long limbs. He feared there just wasn’t much to him; people were always pointing out his doppelgängers. He had been physically beautiful for a few winter months when he was fifteen. Even John had admitted as much. Charlie supposed the remnants of that lucky time were still about the face if you knew where to look. Otherwise, he was someone’s cousin or brother. A tall boy with doe eyes. A brunette.

“People are always saying I look like someone else.”

“Hey, it’s all a shell anyway,” said the smiling Jew, his arms open so that the whole world could get a glimpse of his perfectly imperfect shell.

Charlie wanted to tell him about the genetic magic that some girls saw. Monica Miller couldn’t get enough face time, touching his mouth and cheekbones.

“When my mother was younger, she was beautiful,” said Charlie to the smiling Jew.

“All mothers are beautiful.” He said pretending to tip his tie-dyed yarmulke.

“No. Mine was truly gorgeous, and for a couple of years I looked just like her. I guess now I look like any other Jew.”

“Hey, you’re a cute guy, and with quite the sense of humor, I can tell. So, will we see you at shabbat dinner?”

“If I’m still around, sure.”

“Still around. Will you listen to this guy?”

“I didn’t think the rabbis would let you wear a reggae yarmulke,” said Charlie.

“One of our Hillel brothers has the Rolling Stones tongue on his. You have to have some fun in life. Look at this.” He pulled a yarmulke out of his back pocket. “The iron-on is the guys from New Order. Did you know that they’re Jewish? It’s true: the song ‘Bizarre Love Triangle’ is about three Jews. You want?”

“The yarmulke?”

“I was saving it for a dance party next month, but take it. It makes quite the statement.”

Charlie tried to refuse, but the smiling Jew forced it into his blazer pocket; he was surprisingly strong, which was confirmed by their parting handshake. He was a good guy, thought Charlie. If the snake across the way were anti-Semitic and attacked him, Charlie would intercede, put his life on the line for him. The smiling Jew stood for something: he wouldn’t care what people thought if he wore a New Order yarmulke. He’d just smile. He made Charlie smile inside, and he wished that he was a kindly Jewish kid with a killer handshake who believed in God. Kids like that needed a life-altering romance like they need a hole in the head. It’s us nonbelievers who seek out the oyster bars, looking for light eyes.

The night after he first kissed Monica Miller, he walked home with a smile on his face just like this religious kid’s. He wondered what it would be like to feel that way without needing a girl to get there. He’d read that antidepressants could do that. If I don’t leave college tonight, I’ll write an essay comparing antidepressants to God and publish it in the school newspaper. He could see the Hillel kid wagging his finger. “A pill is like the God of Israel? I don’t know about that, my friend.”

Charlie stood before the snake handler, wearing his new yarmulke. “You like?” he asked the dreadlocked white man, borrowing the Hillel kid’s knowing smile.

“It likes mice,” he said.

“That’s a dangerous creature, that one is,” said Charlie, wagging a finger.

“He’s a sweetheart, man.”

“Should be in a zoo, that one should.”

“If you don’t like my snake, you can buzz off, you know? It’s a free campus, dude.”

“Everything comes at a price, my friend.” Charlie’s finger wagged dangerously close to the man’s nose.

The snake handler grabbed him by his T-shirt. “I think you should move on.”

“Okay, okay. I was just joking.”

“Whatever, dude. Have a better life.”

Stupid white Jimi Hendrix, thought Charlie.

“I will have a better life,” he shouted from a safe distance.

So many childhood predictions about that better life pointed to today, thought Charlie, leaving campus, yarmulke in hand. The bright scenes he’d dreamed up and counted on, the warm girl with whom he could feel forever at home, were nowhere in sight. On the corner of Thirty-Fourth and Walnut, where taxis waited, was a mini tornado of trash, and beyond that, where he was headed, were those famous Philly skies John had warned him about. “Polluted and depressing. The only thing that can survive in there are the pigeons, and they come out with broken wings.”

*

Charlie cracked open the taxi window; the car smelled of overachieving air fresheners. Outside, however, was the scent of grease—block after block of spilled gravy. You’d think the city was one big diner that had caught fire, but the storefronts said SHOE REPAIR, LEATHER REPAIR, WATCH REPAIR, SHOE REPAIR TWO, USED BOOKS. And somewhere out there was the Liberty Bell. This city liked broken things. Maybe somewhere there was a huge cauldron of grease that was cracked, slowly leaking its roux into the streets.

“This city smells like lunch,” Charlie said to the taxi driver.

“So.”

“Hey, you think this diner up here has a phone booth?”

“You kids, these days, always needing to check your messages, needing to make sure someone gives a shit about you,” said the driver. “Whoever invented the answering machine fucked with a whole generation.”

Charlie believed he was beginning to understand Philly, the most unfriendly place on earth. He wanted to call Monica Miller, hear a friendly voice, then implore her to visit him so he could feel friendly skin. But as soon as she got here, she’d say I’m hungry and want to plant them at the diner where the specials would be written on a whiteboard, in plain view. Regardless, she’d still ask the waitress if there were any specials. An only child of two shrinks is brought up believing they are extra special; they believe that behind the specials board is an extra specials board. Maybe the city would make her feel as he did, that there was real danger in the air, danger you could drink your way out of. Drinks make dreams, and dreams kill danger. You can’t get that done at a diner. But then Charlie pressed his nose to the diner window. He saw where they’d sit, at first across from one another, and then on the same side, shoulders touching. The heat of her shoulder blade. He went inside and called her.

“Hey, you,” said Monica Miller. “How’s college?”

“Not good.”

“It’s only been a few hours.”

“I miss you.”

“Hey you. We just saw each other.”

“I miss our goodbye kiss.”

“It was a good moment.”

“You should come to Philly. This place can be full of good moments.”

“I have to get ready for college.”

“There’s nothing to get ready for.”

“I’m going to get a pedicure. Call me later, okay?”

Shit. Alone by a pay phone in a Philly diner. He decided to leave Miss Pettibone’s notepaper with the address of the Oyster House atop a tray of wrapped corn muffins: DAY OLDS—25 CENTS.

I’ll sniff the damn place out on my own. Miss Pettibone had mentioned little streets, and according to John, Philly’s little city streets were the real deal. He’d mentioned unpredictable street numbers like 12½, and sneakers hanging in trees. Small Euro cars that looked like they’d been parked crooked by drunks. And music. Boom boxes on the fire escapes. The smell of cigarette smoke, and of course cobblestones. According to John, nothing beat cobblestones.

“Girls in heels will need to lock arms with you,” he’d said. “Which means you’re well on your way.”

“To what?” Charlie had asked.

He followed a pint-sized sanitation truck that barely fit the alley where it brushed debris to the side. This alley was especially pungent with the grease smell. Turbines sprouted like mushrooms near handle-less iron doors. Charlie couldn’t imagine what businesses fronted these doors. He thought of walking around to find out, but feared there would just be another alley, so he kept a respectful distance behind the garbage truck and kept at its sluggish pace.

In the myths, the gates to Hades are floral and pretty. That much he remembered from class. Then someone leans in to smell a flower and down they go. Conversely, when you walk through a place that looks like hell, there’s a hidden passage to heaven. Maybe in one of these oil-slicked shadows? There were plenty of the glassy dark spots, and he tried to step in all of them. He decided to follow the truck a little longer and find some Odysseus in this dank alley with its roast beef gravy smell. Find some myth shit. That’s how Philadelphians talk, he thought. Myth shit in the alley. Sounds like Mike Schmidt in the alley. Great third baseman for the Phillies. Schmidty.

“Schmidty!” Charlie howled, and the garbage man honked his horn, then put on the brakes, stuck his hand out the window, and waved.

“Hey,” Charlie said, waving back, but it became clear that the man was talking to someone else, someone who’d been outside one back door or another. The width of the truck made it hard to see. He could hear the guy’s voice: young, city-tough. Lots of yeahs and ain’ts. Then a lighter voice. A girl’s voice.

“Yep,” said the girl, popping her P. Without looking, Charlie knew she had fleshy lips.

After the truck pulled away, there was a girl with long, very curly dirty-blonde hair, tied off in a ponytail. Tall, aproned, she was staring intently at her finger, where an eyelash had landed.

“I think there’s a rule,” she said, without looking up at Charlie. “If you don’t make an eyelash wish immediately, the chance goes away.” She looked up at Charlie with two Tiffany-blue eyes.

No, he thought. North Carolina basketball blue? Sistine Chapel sky blue? Charlie could only think to ask, “Do you know the garbageman?”

“I don’t know his name, but sometimes I’ll see him when I’m out here taking a break. If Cactus has gone through a lot of shells, I’ll give him a few crates. He makes soup with them, I think.”

“Cactus,” said Charlie.

“It’s only happened once, that I gave him the oyster shells, but it’s all we really talk about, so—why? Do you know the garbageman?”

“No, not at all. I was trailing him down this alleyway. Weird place.”

“This? Not really. It’s just an alleyway. I like it. Sort of peaceful, behind the scenes.” She was holding a pack of cigarettes and a lighter, and she saw that they had caught Charlie’s eye.

“I don’t smoke a lot,” she said. “I should get back to work.”

“Where do you work?”

“Here. The Oyster House.”

“The Sansom Street Oyster House?”

“That’s us.”

“I’m going there!” said Charlie. “I mean, I knew I’d find it, and here I am. It’s almost a miracle.”

“I’d take you in through the kitchen, but you don’t want to see that.”

“So, the entrance is in the front?”

“Oh, I thought you’d been in before. You look familiar. Thought I might have served you and your parents or something. You meeting your parents?”

“No.”

“Table for one. I like that. A man and his thoughts.”

“I’m probably going to sit at the bar, with my Walkman.”

“I wonder if it’s bad luck to blow on an eyelash even after its wish has died. Well, not died, that’s too dramatic.”

She closed her eyes and blew a slow stream of air at her finger. Charlie watched her long lashes flutter while one of their own took flight.

“Welp, see you later,” said the girl, twisting her mouth into a tiny, dissatisfied smile. She opened the door and walked past two flanks of trash into a kitchen where Spanish radio was playing. Knife clatter, loud Spanish voices, the brine of it all.

Charlie ran down the alley. He needed a drink and to see this girl again. The sting of vodka, the salve of blue. His throat and eyes couldn’t make his legs move faster. He had to stop, panting, at the corner of Sansom. A little down the block was a wooden sign shaped like a long fish: SANSOM STREET OYSTER HOUSE, EST. 1948.

He stood beneath the sign, making a Bono fist, petrified to enter but drawn, ineluctably. It was a word on the SATs. Sometimes big words work. He’d never really understood the word before, just memorized it, except maybe one summer on a high dive board when he’d surprised himself by climbing up and jumping off. Regardless, something other than him had begun to make his feet move when a sneering little man with white hair and a pen behind his ear popped his head out of a bar window.

“You’re blocking the entrance to my fucking bar,” said the man. “You in or out?”

“In,” said Charlie.