O’Boyle was explaining to Roth. “Ever see those fish flopping around after they get caught? The fisherman rips them off the hook and throws them on the ground. The fish are desperate. They struggle. They make flapping, snapping noises. Until someone clubs ‘em on the head. All that effort for nothing.”

O’Boyle lifted his glass. “I’m kind of like those fish. This girl I was seeing a couple of weeks ago. We get to talking.” O’Boyle noticed his glass was empty; he set it down with a bang. “‘Hey,’ I told her.  ‘Fuck you.’” O’Boyle pointed his finger at Roth.  “‘Ya got it?  Fuck you!’

“So she says, ‘No. Fuck you.’” O’Boyle gestured toward himself. “‘Ya hear me?  Fuck you!’” O’Boyle leaned back in his chair. “That, ya know. Pretty much did it.”

Roth said, “Your problem is, you feel sorry for yourself.”

O’Boyle called the bartender. “Harvey!”

He said to Roth, “Nah. It’d be like feeling sorry for someone ‘cause he has a nose or something.”

“What?” Roth said.

Harvey walked over, emerging from shadows. “Two more?”

O’Boyle nodded. Harvey went behind the bar. Roth lighted a Winston.

"Life follows a pattern, is my theory,” O’Boyle said. “It’s like there’re waves, and we all ride them. They go up and down. When you’re riding a wave that’s up, you’re doing great. What you try usually works.

“But when you’re goin’ down, man, forget it. All you get is bad luck. You might as well pound your head against a wall.

“What causes the waves? Who the fuck knows. But there’s nothing you can do about it. They’re beyond our control. The trick is to know when your wave is up. Then you try things like mad.”

Roth blew out a stream of smoke. “That’s actually not completely loony,” he said.

Behind their table, there was a smack of billiard balls. “God-damn,” someone exclaimed.

“The point is, I’m at the bottom of the wave,” said O’Boyle. “Every fucking day I wake up, I know at the end of the day, I’m gonna be no better off than when I started. No matter what I do, no matter what I try. I don’t feel sorry for myself. ‘Cause that’s just the way it is. For me, everybody. The difference is, I know it.

“Take, for example, insane people,” O’Boyle said. “How do you think they got that way?”

“I don’t know,” Roth said.

“Everything’s going great,” O’Boyle said. “Suddenly, you lose your touch.  Timing’s off. You’re clumsy. Some bad decisions. Couple of disasters. You can’t understand it. You think just because something worked before, it’s gonna work again.  No fucking way, baby.”

Harvey stepped forward and said, “Keep the tab running?”

“We’ll settle now,” Roth said.

Harvey put their drinks down. Roth gave him two twenty-dollar bills.

Harvey held up a roll of bills and peeled off a five.

“Keep it,” said Roth.

“See ya soon,” Harvey said.

As he walked away, his figured dimmed in the room’s low light. O’Boyle looked around. Maybe Sally was here, he thought, hidden in corner shadows. What a jolt that would be. Even though he knew better, he couldn’t help hoping.

“You can’t deal with the change,” O’Boyle said. “You feel like a fucking asshole.  You go crazy. Can happen to anyone. No sense complaining about it. That’s the way it is.  The difference is…”

“Yeah, yeah, the difference is, you fucking know it,” Roth said.

O’Boyle looked down at his drink, and listened to the surrounding rumble of voices. The colliding billiard balls punctuated sentences; so did the beeping of pinball machines. A jukebox played Sinatra’s “New York, New York” at low volume. O’Boyle quickly drank half his scotch and water. Roth did the same with his rum and coke.

“Hey man,” O’Boyle said.  “Know what I dreamed about last night?”

“No idea,” said Roth. “But as far as that wave shit goes, the theory may be okay.  At some high level. But don’t go round thinking there’s nothing you can do about something.”

O’Boyle didn’t really believe the wave theory. But a couple of weeks ago, during an episode of near paralysis, he’d considered it. 

“Talk is cheap,” O’Boyle said.  “Show me results.”

“Take how my sister met this guy,” Roth said. “Personally I think the guy’s a moron. But she likes ‘im. So it doesn’t matter what I think. They’ve been together for three years. Pretty good, huh? You ever been with anyone for three years?”

“No,” O’Boyle said.

“Ha! You’re over thirty. But never been with anyone for three years. So already, she’s got something over you. Know how old she is? Just 25.”

There was a commotion near the bar. O’Boyle and Roth turned to look. A couple of drunken kids were wrestling and laughing.

Roth gestured in front of his face to disperse a haze of cigarette smoke. He lit another Winston. “You never know these days,” he said. “Guys carry guns like they carry their pricks.

“Anyway my sister. This guy she was in love with before. They were gonna meet somewhere in Europe. She saves money for six months so she can afford to meet him in a train station. Belgium or Amsterdam, or someplace like that.  

“She gets there. The asshole doesn’t show. She waits all afternoon. All night.  Stays in the train station. She’s seeing lovers coming together. People kissing. People laughing. There she was, didn’t know anybody. In another country. Didn’t know the language. Said she was so depressed, she was gonna kill herself.

“Well anyway as you probably know,” Roth said, “she doesn’t kill herself. Stays in Europe for a while. She’s there already, has some money. Figures she may as well stay. It’s no barrel of laughs, though, being alone. She mopes around. Thinks about this asshole who ruined her life.

“Last day, she’s on a train. Nearly in tears. Looks up, catches this new guy’s eye. He’s sittin’ right across from ‘er. Never saw him before, but boom! She walks right across the aisle, starts talking to him. Three years later they’re still together. Gonna probably marry. Like I say, I think the guy’s a moron. A creep. But who cares what I think?”

O’Boyle said, “So? What the hell does that prove?”

Roth finished his drink. “You said show me results. I give you an example. Girl’s on a low wave. Feels like shit. But still has the moxie to talk to some guy. It ain’t easy.  But you can always do something about something.”

"Bullshit,” O’Boyle said. “Her wave wasn’t low. She was on a high wave. Something bad happened to her on a high wave. That can happen, you know. Only way to explain it. Catches some bastard’s eye on a train. Gonna marry. Give me a fucking break.

“Must’ve been a high wave,” O’Boyle insisted. “Only way to explain it.”

Roth laughed.  He slid his chair back. “Wanna get going?”

O’Boyle nodded and stood. The room swayed. He grabbed the edge of the table.  

Roth remained seated. He put a Winston in his mouth, leaned back with his arms folded and looked up at O’Boyle. “You look the worse for wear,” he said.

O’Boyle’s grin turned uncertain. “The curse of strong drink,” he said, and stumbled toward the exit.    

O’Boyle nearly barreled into Harvey, who was walking from the pool table, balancing a tray full of empty bottles and glasses. O’Boyle dodged him just in time. O’Boyle’s momentum carried him forward, where he smacked his hands hard into the glass front door.  He lurched onto the street.

                                                                                                ---
                                                    
“You asshole,” Roth said when he joined O’Boyle outside.  It was a warm summer night. Both men wore t-shirts and shorts. “Why don’t you watch where you’re going?”

The fresh air cleared O’Boyle’s head slightly. They walked on a sidewalk along a two-lane road called Main Street. They passed a Woolworth’s, a Chinese restaurant, a vacant former drug store, a movie theater. All were closed at this hour. Behind the storefronts, outlines of hills were barely visible, rising like phantoms through the starry night.

“As I was saying,” said O’Boyle. “I had this dream. You remember that TV commercial a long time ago? It had a black guy dancing. He was dancing with these two women who were dressed like robots or something. The music was just a piano, I think. They did these simple steps. The announcer said, like. . .” O’Boyle deepened his voice. . .  “ ‘here’s one minute from Pippin. You can see the other 119 minutes at the cocksucker theater, or whatever.’ You remember that?”

​

“Think so,” said Roth.

“I always loved that commercial. Made me wanna see the show. I never did, but I wanted to.”

They stopped at a corner near a pet store.  They heard a faint-hearted bark from inside, then crossed the deserted street. O’Boyle attempted several dance steps, lifting his feet high. He pretended to twirl a cane.

They stepped up on the curb. O’Boyle said, “The other night I dreamt I was seeing that commercial. I haven’t thought about it for years, but there it was, in the middle of the night. Now I can’t get it out of my mind. Whaddya think it means?”

“I don’t know what the hell it means,” said Roth. “Probably nothing.”

It meant something to O’Boyle. For three days, the tune had filled his mind, and he often felt compelled to physically express the joy that it gave him.

“So who’s gonna be at this party?”

Roth rattled off several names. O’Boyle had known all of these people practically his entire life.  He felt indifferent about the party.

That was the thing about Sally: she wasn’t like the people he was used to hanging out with. She made him feel like his life was breaking new ground. She was young and hopeful. Her presence excited him, motivated him to act positively.

O’Boyle compared the way he’d feel if Sally would be at this party with the way he actually felt. His spirits sank.

                                                                                            ---

​

Flynn was the host. He lived in an apartment above a bank just off Main Street.  Roth and O’Boyle turned the corner and stepped inside the dark hallway of Flynn’s building. They climbed the staircase to the second floor, knocked on a door and went in.

O’Boyle walked through the kitchen, listening to Led Zeppelin. In a corner, a blue strobe light flashed on an Esher print. O’Boyle stopped and studied it: the print depicted water flowing upward and downward simultaneously. The more O’Boyle stared at it, the blurrier his vision became.

O’Boyle entered the living room. Several people sat on the floor around a coffee table.  They were listening carefully to Led Zeppelin, nodding their heads in rhythm.  O’Boyle walked over. He was engulfed by a fog of sweet smoke. A couple of people shifted positions to make room. O’Boyle lowered himself onto a paisley rug.

                                                                                                ---

Flynn was a couple of years older than O’Boyle. He had been a star of their high school track team when O’Boyle first made the varsity squad in tenth grade. Today, Flynn had a salt and pepper beard.

“Ain’t seen you in a while,” Flynn said. “You shoulda seen me a couple of months ago. I looked in the mirror. It hit me: I looked like my father the day he dropped dead.  ‘Fuck this,’ I said.  

“Laurie got me this stuff, this hair color for men. I rinse it in a few times. Hair’s dark brown again. Looked great. I even felt better.

“Two weeks later. I’m not even thinking about it anymore. It’s hotter than shit one day, and we’re working on that new school in Fallsburgh. I’m sweatin’ like a wart hog. I look down and see I got ink all over my shirt.

“Anyway I think it’s ink. I go to a window, check out my reflection. I take off my hat. The fucking dye is dripping off my hair. Pouring down. I’m gettin’ grayer as I stand there. It’s gruesome. Jones walks by. ‘Look at fucking Flynn!’ he’s yelling. ‘Bastard’s coloring his hair!’ Fucking embarrassing. I took some shit.

“No more a that. You look like what you fucking look like. And you feel like what you fucking feel like. ‘Cause I feel like shit again. In case you were wonderin’.”

O’Boyle puffed a cigarette. He sipped a beer. “Life comes in waves,” he said.  “Sometimes you’re up. Other times you’re down.”

Flynn stared at him. “What planet are you on?”

O’Boyle leaned heavily on his left elbow, which was jammed against a door frame. “This girl told me to fuck off,” he said.

“Yeah? Why?”

“Beats me.”  

Pounding music filled a few seconds of silence between them. Flynn shook his head. “Is there anything more to this story? I’m on the edge of my seat.” 

O’Boyle grunted and fought for balance.  

“She the one I seen you walking with a few weeks ago?” Flynn said. “You were coming down Main Street, near the movies.” 

O’Boyle recalled the time. His walks with Sally—the few there were—were adventures. He was always stumbling and bumping into things because he couldn’t take his eyes off her face. Sally’s high cheekbones pulled her mouth wide, which made her natural look a smile. Her real smile was an explosion, the most dazzling thing O’Boyle had ever seen.  

O’Boyle squatted and placed his beer can on the floor. When he rose, his face was deeply flushed. “We didn’t go out much,” he said. “We mostly stayed in. I’m about ten years older than her. We had, ya know, like different friends ‘n stuff.”

Flynn looked relieved when he and O’Boyle were joined by Marcy. “Hey,” Flynn said enthusiastically. “How are ya?”

Marcy wore a straw hat and big, square-rimmed glasses. “What’s up?” she said.  “We having fun yet?”

“I wouldn’t exactly put it that way,” Flynn said, looking at O'Boyle.

Marcy smiled and adjusted her hat. She said to O’Boyle, “You look like you need another drink.”

“Jesus!” Flynn yelled. “You kidding? Another drink? He looks like he needs a blood transfusion. 

“You walk here?” he asked O’Boyle.

“Yeah.”

“Good,” Flynn said. He waved his arm, indicating the room full of people. “I’m glad people ‘round here walk.  Bunch a damn drunks. Put us in cars, nobody’d be left.”

                                                                                              ---

   

O’Boyle had known Marcy since first grade. He said to her, “You ever see those commercials for that show? Long time ago. Black guy’s dancing. What the hell’s the name of it?”

Marcy shrugged. “I give up.”

O’Boyle tried to concentrate. All he could remember was the tune. “Fuck it,” he said. “So what’re you doing? I heard you were up in that store in Roscoe.”

"Yeah,” Marcy said. “I’m a temp. I’m trying to save. You know my jewelry business? I need money for it. Marketing and stuff.”

“Pippin!” O’Boyle exclaimed.

“What?”

“This show. Forget it.  Uh, enjoy your work?”

“I’m a businessperson,” Marcy said. “But you wouldn’t know it by the way those jerks treat me. They could give a shit. ‘Here, make copies. Answer the phone. Sit on your ass. Fuck you.”

“I’d never do that,” O’Boyle said.

“Like temps don’t have feelings too,” Marcy said.

O’Boyle nodded. He’d always considered Marcy a loudmouthed pain in the ass.  Now he stared at her. Behind those dopey glasses, her eyes were tender. She looked like a little girl. O’Boyle quickly looked away. He patted his pants pockets, looking for cigarettes, and discovered he had none.  

“I don’t know about you,” he said. “But I gotta sit. Or I’m gonna pass out.”

“I’m gonna go smoke some more pot,” Marcy said.  “You coming?”

O’Boyle raised his hands in surrender and begged off.

                                                                                             ---

​

O’Boyle sat on the edge of a couch.  He was slumped forward, his head wrapped in his hands. Around him the party was slowing down. People were nodding and mumbling.  

The music reflected the party’s mood. Flynn had put on Steely Dan; the group’s soft, jazzy sound felt haunting, mesmeric to O’Boyle.

“Like temps don’t have feelings too,” Marcy had said.

Despite the close, smoky air, O’Boyle felt a chill. His body quivered. He stood and hurried across the room, head bowed.

 
“Hey O’Boyle!”

Sonofabitch.

“You going?”

O’Boyle nodded at Roth, who followed him out. They walked down the gloomy staircase. O’Boyle took long, deep breaths.

“You’re not much for goodbyes,” Roth said.

“Ever notice how nobody knows how to end a party?” O’Boyle said. “They hang around ‘til the last possible second. It’s excruciating. Get the hell out, is my motto.”

                                                                                               ---
   
They stepped onto the sidewalk. The night was still warm; the sky was full of stars. Both men stopped. They gazed past the roofs of the buildings across the street.  They could still see the fading contours of the mountains.

 
“One night, I swear I saw the mountain peaks,” Roth said. “All the way to the top.  The only night I could ever see them from town. They looked unbelievable, like ghosts. I think I was in fifth grade. With my parents on some balcony. So many stars, it was like daytime.”

O’Boyle squinted at the sky. “Tonight’s real clear,” he said. “Real sharp.  But not quite enough.”

They observed for a few more seconds, then began walking. They reached Main Street after half a block and turned right. They walked back toward Harvey’s.

Tears dripped from O’Boyle’s eyes. Roth couldn’t see this. He said: “Decent party.”

“Yeah,” O’Boyle said. “Listen.  Remember I told you about that woman?”

"You said ‘fuck you’ or something,” Roth said.

“I never said that. I never even really went out with her. I convinced myself I did, though. I’m a sick bastard.”

O’Boyle stopped and leaned backward against a store front. Roth stood and faced him.

“I saw this woman, she works down the hall from me,” O’Boyle said. “I’m in love right away. Second I see her. We get to talking. I like her even more. She’s under my skin. I’m convinced she’s about to change my life.

“She seems to like me, too. We go to lunch a couple of times. We take a couple of walks. They’re the highlights of my life. I figure I’m on the edge of something great, that even a dumb bastard like me can’t blow this one.”

Roth lit a Winston and handed it to O’Boyle. O’Boyle took a drag like it was water and he hadn’t had any for days. He exhaled a thick cloud that rose and dispersed under a streetlight.

“I’m agonizing one day because I’m gonna ask her to go for a drink after work,” O’Boyle said. “I’m dying. I gotta take a piss every fifteen minutes. Finally I go to her desk. She looks up at me and smiles, which as usual blows the top of my fucking head off.”

“So?” Roth said. “What’s the big deal?”

“Before it was like two people at work, happen to do something,” O’Boyle said.  “This time it’s like a goddamn date. I’m thinking: I’ve got a lot riding on this woman.  For two months I’m thinking of nothing but her. It occurs to me, if this doesn’t work out, I got nothing.

“She’s looking at me. I bullshit for a while. Finally I come out with it. I ask her out. Her eyes fucking die. May God strike me dead if they don’t. She just stares at me.  Finally, she says ‘I don’t know.’ Then she says all relaxed, like she’s telling me the time, ‘That’s not really something I wanna do.’”

Roth watched O’Boyle wipe his eyes with the heel of his hand.

“‘That’s not really something I wanna do,’” O’Boyle repeated. “You know how it is. You dread something but it’s never quite as bad as you think. This time it’s worse.  Every fucking rejection I ever had. . .”  O’Boyle clenched his fist. It vibrated at his side.  “You multiply it by a hundred. That’s what’s inside me. Be better if I swallowed poison.

“That was two weeks ago. I haven’t talked to her since. I’m walking around telling myself we really did have something, that it just ended. It was the only way I could deal with it. Me at my fucking age. And her just a kid.

“I couldn’t bring myself to admit it,” O’Boyle said. “All those feelings. And nothing fucking happened. Not a goddamned thing.”

Roth held out his hand. O’Boyle was momentarily confused, then offered him the burning cigarette. Roth took a drag, then tossed the butt away.

“Oh, something happened,” Roth said. 

O’Boyle thought about that for a while. He looked past Roth, at the stars glowing down on the unlit buildings across the street.

“You know what really kills me?” O’Boyle said.

Roth stared at him.

O’Boyle concentrated on the absolute silence of the street, on the floodlights in the sky. “All this amazing shit,” he whispered. “Always just out of reach.”

He thought about Marcy, and shuddered with a tender pity.

​

                                                                                              THE END  

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