Excerpt from Tearjerker

Until I bought one, I’d never touched a gun, never stood in front of a full-length mirror pointing a gun at myself. Bang, bang. Mine was a Magnum .357 purchased in New Jersey, much more handsome than I’d imagined a gun could be.
    A gun was tantamount to a secret, I realized soon enough; it required the right coat with a pocket roomy enough to provide a hiding place. A gun was also an instrument of illusion; it had a way of fudging the difference between appearance and reality. In the small town of Sandhurst, New York, where I lived, I probably seemed like just another man taking an evening’s stroll through the neighborhood, wearing a long, olive-garbed gabardine coat. But was that really the case?
    I made a habit of such walks, working against the initial trepidation—the fear that danger might approach if only to create situation apropos of my secret. There was also a worry about the gun going off and sending an excrutiating shot toward my groin. But eventually, as I went walking past the lit windows, peering in for a peek at the familial bosom of my anonymous neighbors, fear gave way to courage. I found myself falling into an almost dreamy state—just this side of serenity. It made me think of prayer, meditation, afternoon naps. It made me think of the attractive nurse who gave me too much codeine for a third-degree burn to my hand when I was seventeen.
    There were nights when I’d return to the house and stand in my kitchen and stare down at the gun, asleep in the palm of my hand. It lay there like some solemn bird with one eye shut, feigning death—quiet and yet very, very powerful. It held its breath with the best of them. Who knows, maybe I was fooling myself, but I sense—in the sheer weight of the weapon—a gravity, an authority beyond my own. Was I wrong?

How’s the bed?
    Robert Partnow lifted his head and looked in my direction. Fine, he said.
    I see you’ve chosen the lower berth, I said. Smart choice.
    Should I be expecting company? he said—his eyes rolling upward.
    No, no. IKEA just had a fantastic deal on bunk beds. I couldn’t resist. You slept well?
    I didn’t sleep well. I barely slept. I have a headache.
    And this when you can afford to sleep, I said—shaking my head. How many hours do you usually get, Robert? On a weeknight, I mean.
    Can I have something to eat?
    Of course, I said. I cleared my throat—a habit of mine, and not the kind of habit I can easily ignore. What would you like?
    I get a choice?
    It’s not a restaurant, Robert, but I’ve got a kitchen upstairs. I even bought a few items I thought you might like. I bought eggs. I never eat eggs myself.
    I don’t eat eggs. And don’t call me Robert. It’s Bob.
    Everyone used to eat eggs, remember? Then I gave him a smile—big, toothy—but I don’t think he saw me. He was looking down again, running a hand through his sparse hair. Obviously, despite my best efforts, he wasn’t a happy man.
    What about some oatmeal? he asked—still looking down.
    You got it, Bob. Maple syrup, brown sugar, cream, milk?
    Nothing else. Just oatmeal.
    No milk?
    Nothing.

Sandhurst, a small town fifty miles up the Hudson from New York City, didn’t seem like a particularly dangerous place. Certainly not in comparison to Alphabet City, the neighborhood where I lived in Manhattan until my parents died and I came into a bit of money. But until I had the gun in my pocket I’d never realized that danger was always lurking in the shadows, toying with my imagination, screwing it up. I’m somewhat ashamed to say it, but the gun loosened my imagination. After those evening strolls through the neighborhood, I wrote most productively, even fluidly—no small feat in the meager world of my psychology. Yes, for once I wrote feverishly. Sentences came out of me like stray bullets.
    What is a gun, after all? It’s like an umbrella on a cloudy day. You tend to look up less. And so my mind had the luxury of wandering. Like a zone outside of myself, it entertained wild notions—including ideas of putting the gun to some higher purpose.

You can scream, you can holler, I said, but no one will hear you. I’ve soundproofed the basement. Twice. Sound won’t travel up, down, right or left. Sound doesn’t travel. It gets to the wall or ceiling and stops right there.
    You’re very proud of this, Bob said.
    Do you have any idea how difficult it is to soundproof a basement?
    Personally, I haven’t had cause to find out.
    Well, it’s not easy, I said—and I began to pace along my side of the chain-link fence. I was feeling a little proud to be finally sharing my secret accomplishment, even if Robert Partnow wasn’t the ideal audience. He was still in his mood of recalcitrance, defiance, or what at times I took to be feigned indifference. The Porta-Potty is brand-new, I said—pointing to the polyethylene booth in the back without breaking stride. Use it at your whim.
    My whim?
    I cleared my throat, once and then twice. Your cuffs, Bob, are made of indestructible plastic.
    Bob nodded. What’s your name? he asked me—and it seemed odd, right then, that he hadn’t asked before.
    Evan. Evan Ulmer.
    And you obviously know mine.
    A television, I said—pointing at the set on his side of the fence. You probably don’t even watch television. So to your left is a small library of books. I’ve stocked it with titles that I thought you might enjoy. I can get more, of course. I don’t know your tastes, Bob, but I’ve made a few educated guesses. I’ve spared you the self-help crap. You must be tired of it.
    So you know—
    I’ve centered, as best I could, on the theme of writers. Novels about novelists, I said. But no Roth, no Updike, no white boys gone gray and soft in the dick. A little David Leavitt and Ian McEwan to keep things contemporary. Have you read Joyce’s Portrait lately?
    No.
    Staring at bob, secretly worrying about my choices for this little library of his, I knew I was talking off the top of my head—babbling out of anxiety more than anything else. But then, what was the alternative?
    Anyway, I said, I think you’ll see you’ve got a pretty decent deal here. The refrigerator is small but sufficient, I hope. I have zero interest in harming you or making your life uncomfortable during your confinement, if that makes any sense.
    It makes little sense, Bob said.
    I mean no harm. And there’s obviously no question of a ransom.
    I don’t understand.
    I hope in time you will, I said—nodding, and in that moment I was hoping this for myself as well.
    In fact, with Bob as my guest, I was doing a lot of hoping—wishing of the sort that makes you speak in an officious tone. Still getting to know my captive—my editor, I almost said—I was acting as though I knew what I was doing when, honestly, I didn’t. And even if it was a little hard to listen to my own voice, I was determined. I was not going to screw this up.
    A treadmill, I said—pointing to the brand-new apparatus. And it’s a good one. Maybe a little short of what you’d find in your health club. Do you belong to a health club?
    No.
    I didn’t think so. Mostly the treadmill’s for walking, but it’s entirely possible to job, even with handcuffs.
    What’s the point of this? he said—closing his eyes, shaking his head.
    You can do whatever you want, I said. But a word of advice. Coming from me, I know, any advice is suspect. But you might use this time, and your solitude, as an opportunity for reflection and physical exercise. And reading, of course. The television is here for your entertainment, Bob. But it’s the only one in the house and so we’ll have to share it.
    What is it that you want?
    I used the word solitude, I said. Compared to your office environment, and probably your home life, you’ll be living in a kind of solitude. And yet I’m here, too. I live in this house. Essentially we’re roommates. I have the key, you have the television. Use the bathroom, you use the Porta-Potty. I live upstairs, you live downstairs, but I think we’ll probably be spending some time together.
    What exactly does that mean?
    You’re an intelligent man, I said. I’m an intelligent man. We have things to talk about.