Читать книгу Iris Has Free Time - Iris Smyles - Страница 29

Martin and I were going as “The Damsel in Distress” and “The Villain,” archetypes from the silent film era. I’d built a stretch of train tracks extending five feet, out of some balsa wood, nails, and silver spray paint, and planned to tie myself to them. My idea was to carry them around on my back, as if I’d been freed by cutting the tracks instead of the ropes. The rest of my costume was an old-fashioned, damsel-like lace dress.

The idea was born out of Martin’s unwillingness to participate altogether. Martin said he hated Halloween and never ever dressed for it, so I had to come up with a couple’s costume that wouldn’t require much on his end. It was a battle just to get him to don the mustache and black hat—barely a costume at all—and he refused “on principle” to take part in any of the preparations, which is how I ended up at The Halloween Store alone.

We’d had an argument before I left. I asked him why he couldn’t just dress up because I wanted to and not make such a big deal about it. Martin said he was being civilly disobedient as a way of defying my increasingly totalitarian reign over his life. I said that he was the dictator, and why couldn’t he just compromise? I told him that Halloween was important to me, that it would be fun—I said this while crying.

I pointed out that I’d attended multiple Seders and Yom Kippur suppers for his religion, and he said Halloween was not my religion and my comparing it to his religion was further evidence of my being an anti-Semite. Somehow all our arguments, which were increasingly frequent, ended up with his declaring me an anti-Semite. I said that was unfair, and he said my resorting to tears was unfair. Then he said he’d wear the mustache if I got it for him, but that’s it.

So I got all the stuff—including the mustache—and was very excited. I hadn’t observed Halloween in two whole years, not since I met Martin because I’d been too tired and depressed about my new life as a schoolteacher to make the effort. That, coupled with the fact that I’d recently stopped flying in my dreams, suggested a significant psychological shift about which I was deeply concerned. I felt my soul was dying and I didn’t know what to do. Martin said this was called “growing up.”

When I arrived at his place with the supplies, Martin was in a miserable mood and made a big show of it; it was like he put himself in that mood just to get back at me. I persevered. I handed Martin the black hat and mustache and offered to help him prepare the rest of his look.

He took the mustache with him into the bathroom and swatted me away. “I’ll do it.”

From the open door, I watched him apply a thin line of spirit gum above his upper lip before carefully pressing the mustache into place.

I smiled.

He scowled.

“You make a perfect villain,” I said.

“Because I’m so cruel to you, right? You’re just the innocent victim, I suppose.”

“Damsel,” I corrected him, twirling my hair.

He rolled his eyes.

Fred, Martin’s friend, was having a costume party downtown, so Martin’s other friend Zach, and Zach’s girlfriend, Michelle—both of whom lived on the Upper East Side—had decided to come over to smoke pot and have a drink before heading down all together. Zach and Michelle arrived as a wounded hockey player and a witch, respectively.

“Last-minute costumes,” Zach explained, heading directly to the kitchen.

“I would have loved to do something creative like you,” Michelle told me sweetly, as we waited for our drinks, “but I had no time and couldn’t think of anything anyway.” We sat on the couch where Martin was packing his bong. “I’m boring,” she said.

“No, you’re not. Witches are classic!” I said.

“Relax, Iris. She’s just trying to make you feel better because your costume’s so ridiculous.”

“I can’t believe you got him to dress up,” Zach broke in, handing us glasses. “Martin, what’s happening to you?”

“I’m whipped,” he said. “I’m her slave.”

“Woe is you,” I said.

“Zach already had the hockey jersey, and I just put some of my eye shadow around his eye to make a bruise,” Michelle said. “I used glittery shadow though, so he just sort of looks dressed up or something.” She shrugged, as if to give up.

“I think we should go,” Martin said. “Before Iris gets impatient. Halloween’s her religion, you know.”

Because my tracks, when attached, made me five feet wide, I wouldn’t be able to put them on until we got to the party, so I brought the rope with me and told Martin he could tie me up once we got there. A taxi stopped for us at Park and Eighty-second. I put the tracks in the trunk while everyone else got in.

The cab dropped us just north of Union Square and I was excited to see the streets filled with people in costume. On the walk over, we started talking to a couple our age that were dressed as contestants from TV’s Double Dare, the popular kids game show from the ’80s and ’90s. Their costume was pretty impressive, and I nudged Martin as if to say, you see how much fun this is, everyone is doing it, not just us. He said, “Ow,” as if I’d jabbed him in the ribs.

“Martin, can you tie me up now?” I asked, stopping on the sidewalk.

“I’ll do it when we get there.”

“It’ll be too late then. I want to be in costume when we walk in or the effect will be lost.”

“I’ll do it in the lobby.”

We got into an elevator filled with vampires, sexy witches, pimps, and white trash. When we got out, Martin kept going.

“Wait, you said you’d tie me up!”

He sighed. “Is this really necessary?”

“Yes!” I said. “It’s our whole costume!”

Zach and Michelle stood by.

“You guys go ahead,” Martin said. “I’m not allowed.”

They went in, and Martin and I got to work. I had already figured out how best to secure the tracks and tried explaining to Martin, but he got mad and said he knew what he was doing and that I should just “keep quiet for a change.”

“You keep quiet,” I whispered, as he circled the rope around my arms and torso, weaving it through the tracks until I couldn’t move my upper arms. “Circle it more times,” I said, when he stopped after only two loops. “You have to do it more times or it won’t look good.”

He circled it a few more times and then, walking on ahead without me, said, “I don’t know how you’re going to move around, but you got what you wanted. Happy?”

Since I was now attached to the tracks and the hallway was so narrow, I couldn’t walk straight but had to walk sort of sideways, like Gloria Swanson entering stage left. “This is part of the fun,” I said, flanking in behind him.

Past the front door was another long, even narrower hallway that led into a large loft-like living room packed with costumed guests. Martin and I stood at the edge with Zach and Michelle. I smiled excitedly and, maneuvering just the bottom of my right arm, handed Zach my disposable camera.

“Would you take a picture of us? Martin, could you please wear your hat?” He’d taken it off again. “At least for the picture?”

Martin put his hat back on and stood beside me. I leaned over for a second to brush a hair from my face, which caused my tracks to bump Martin in the back. He flashed me a mean look.

“What?” I asked.

“Your stupid tracks hit me. Can you try to be a little more aware of yourself, please!” he yelled, shaking my tracks angrily, and in so doing shaking me.

“Guys,” said Zach, a few feet in front of us, holding up the camera. “You ready?”

My eyes filled with tears. I tried to smile but found my mouth muscles doing all sorts of weird things. “No, umm, I have to go to the bathroom,” I said and flanked off down the long narrow hallway, trying not to cry until I made it outside.

I just needed a moment alone to collect myself, but the hallway was filled with pimps and white trash—investment bankers in costume—coming off the elevator, so I climbed the staircase half a flight to get some privacy. Standing on the next landing, my arms tied down to my sides, tracks on my back, I let my tears flow.

After a minute, a sexy witch spotted my feet and ducked her head up the stairs. She smiled, then frowned. “Are you okay?” My costume was a success; I looked like I was in trouble. Her boyfriend, wearing a tuxedo and an Afro wig, poked his head in next to hers and looked up at me with concern. I tried to smile back. “Fine,” I said. “Great,” I sniffled, as if I had no idea why they’d even asked.

After my face air-dried—I couldn’t reach my eyes to wipe the tears away—I went downstairs and flanked back into the party, to the edge of the large room where our group had stood moments earlier. Martin was nowhere to be seen. A few different guys came up to me while I waited, each of them telling me how much they liked my costume before asking if I needed rescuing. I said no, told them I had a boyfriend somewhere inside, but thanks anyway. Then, after a few minutes, The Villain returned.

“There you are!” Martin said. “Look, I’m going to get a drink, you want anything?”

“A screwdriver would be nice,” I said quietly.

He looked me up and down and then back at the crowd. “Well, obviously you can’t come inside with your tracks on,” he said.

“Yes, I can.”

“So I’ll come back in a few minutes.” He rubbed the skin above his upper lip, pulling at the remaining glue so that it looked like he was twirling an imaginary mustache; he’d already removed the real one. “It was falling off anyway,” he volunteered. “It’s too hot in here,” he sighed. He took off his hat and jacket and studied me. “You might as well make yourself useful,” he said. And then, as if I were a coat rack, he hung his jacket and hat on my tracks and disappeared into the crowd.