Close Your Eyes. Amanda Eyre Ward
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wasting, sister,’ said Alex, grabbing bags roughly and tossing them into the trunk.
‘What does that mean?’ I said. ‘Be careful – that’s wine!’
Alex placed the paper bag down gently. He turned around and held me by the shoulders. ‘Have you heard of Doctors Without Borders?’ he asked.
‘Oh, God,’ I said. ‘I have a feeling I’m not going to like this news.’
‘I applied last year,’ said Alex. ‘And I just got my assignment. I’m going to Iraq, to Baghdad.’
‘You . . . ’ I said, trailing off. I felt as if I had been sucker-punched. ‘You can’t leave.’
‘I’ll go in a few weeks,’ said Alex gently.
‘What about me?’ I said.
‘Lauren, this has nothing to do with you.’
In the Central Market parking lot, beneath the citrus frenzy banner, I began to cry. ‘I’ll be all alone,’ I said.
‘Lauren, you’re thirty-two,’ said Alex. ‘Get ahold of yourself.’
‘Go to hell.’ I threw the last bag in the car, slammed the trunk, and went around the side to the driver door, wiping my nose with my arm. I felt alarmed, woozy. I opened the door and tried to breathe evenly.
Alex ran to me and grabbed my elbow. ‘I knew you’d freak out,’ he said.
‘It’s so sudden,’ I said.
Alex hugged me, smelling of sweat and fast food. ‘Let me just lock up my bike,’ he said. ‘I’ll come over for dinner.’
Gerry and I lived in French Place, a historic neighborhood on the wrong side of the interstate. Fault lines made foundations crack and shift; while many houses looked great up top, there were problems under the surface. As opposed to Hyde Park, where professors and rich hippies lived, French Place was for the young and working-class. I loved it. Our landlord had painted the wood siding purple, which would not have been my choice – I preferred sage green – but the trim was a soothing yellow. Some people in our neighborhood went all out, with giant metal roosters or actual chickens in their yards, but we’d splurged on two lemon-colored chairs and a café table from Zinger’s Hardware and called it a day. When we had our fabulous pumpkin-carving party every year, nobody minded sitting on the steps or on one of the blankets we spread across the lawn.
Our street, Maplewood Avenue, was situated behind an elementary school. In the mornings, I could sit on our sagging front porch and watch kids arrive for school, their hair still mashed from bed, small fists rubbing their eyes. We had a house of bike messengers on one side of us and an elderly couple on the other side. Gerry and I often shared a cold six-pack with the neighbors.
When I turned onto Maplewood, I could see that the lights in our purple shed, which was now called ‘The Studio,’ were still on. ‘How’s that all going?’ asked Alex. ‘The, uh, podcast or whatever.’
I shrugged. Gerry had lost his job at Dell six months before, and after a week or so of moping around, he had declared his life’s dream. I thought my boyfriend’s ‘life’s dream’ was finally getting me to marry him (he had been asking for years), but no. In his boxer shorts and a dell bowling T-shirt, Gerry had stood in the living room and announced that he was going to start a blog and begin calling himself ‘Mr. Cheapskate.’ Wild-eyed, he showed me elaborate plans scrawled in a notebook he’d bought at Walgreens in the middle of the night.
‘There’s this guy who loves wine, okay?’ Gerry had said the next morning as I edged my way into the kitchen and began spooning coffee into the French press.
‘Okay,’ I said. I had to admit that he looked absurdly attractive with his unshaven face, his eyes alight.
‘So he makes podcasts, YouTube videos, the whole nine yards. He talks about wine. And now he’s rich! And you know how I always wanted to be a stand-up comedian?’
‘I thought you wanted to perfect neural networks,’ I said.
‘Before that, before that,’ said Gerry. ‘When I was in high school, I wanted to be a stand-up comedian. I won talent shows, the whole nine yards.’
‘You don’t really tell jokes or anything,’ I ventured.
‘ANYWAY,’ Gerry snapped, ‘my point is that I have personality.’
‘I’ll give you that,’ I said. I put the kettle on to boil.
‘So, and I’m cheap,’ said Gerry. He was cheap, of this there was no doubt. Gerry refused to order coffee when we went to a coffee shop, insisting he could sip from my cup. He fished newspapers out of the trash and exited airplanes scanning the seat backs carefully, hoping for free magazines. He had a plastic accordion folder for coupons, he knew every two-for-one night in Austin, and he was happy to buy three cans of a Campbell’s soup flavor he didn’t especially like (broccoli cheese, for example) because the fourth can came for free. Tea bags in his wallet, a favorite free parking place downtown that required me to walk twenty minutes every time we went to hear a band, a house filled with crap from Freecycle. Yes, my beloved was cheap.
‘I am going to be Mr. Cheapskate,’ said Gerry. ‘I’ve already bought the domain name.’
‘So you’re going to write about . . . about saving money?’
‘Oh, hon,’ said Gerry, ‘that’s just the beginning.’ As I drank coffee and nibbled a stale scone, Gerry talked about blog ad revenue, webcasts, social networks, and later, T-shirt sales and personal appearances. He outlined his plans for the dilapidated shed, which was to become the center of the cheapskate empire. He was never going to work for ‘the man’ again. In fact, he was working against the man!
I nodded and smiled, hoping against hope for an upturn in the real estate market, acknowledging with more than a little fear that my boyfriend might be turning into my deadbeat father.
Still, I felt a measure of pride as Alex and I pulled in to the driveway and could see Gerry through the grimy shed window, his face illuminated by the halogen bulb he’d installed. ‘Still at it, eh?’ said Alex.
I sighed. ‘He’s working really hard.’
Leaning against the car with our arms full of groceries, we watched Gerry gesticulate. His voice rose in the balmy night. ‘And they’ll tell you you have to get two of the same burgers to get the Hut’s two-for-one deal. But I’m here to give you the inside scoop, people. Your wife likes a cheeseburger, and you’re a plain-beef guy? Bring a slice of cheese in your pocket! And that’s the Mr. Cheapskate Secret Scam of the Day. So do good work, people, play hard, and BE CHEAP!’
‘Whoa,’ said Alex.
‘He actually has a medium-sized audience,’ I said.
‘That’s great,’ said Alex, starting to walk toward the house with his bag.
‘It’s wonderful,’ I said insistently. My dog, Handsome, came bounding out of the house to greet us, and I knelt down to scratch behind his ears.
Alex gave Gerry the big news as he made himself at home, opening the wine, pouring himself a glass. Then he said, ‘Before I go, I’m dragging Lauren on a road trip.’ Gerry, unpacking the groceries, turned around to meet my gaze questioningly.
‘It’s my final wish,’ said Alex, taking the box of cookies out of Gerry’s hand and helping himself. ‘She can’t refuse me. Besides, we haven’t seen Gramma since after the Astros game last spring.’
‘Please don’t be morbid,’ I said. I sank into the couch, suddenly both ravenous and exhausted. ‘Or is it moribund?’
‘Alex,’ said Gerry, ‘I want you to know I really admire what you’re doing.’
‘Jeez, Gerry,’ said Alex, ‘thanks.’
‘I