[27]

Mamma Mia, 1989

After The Handbook was complete and out there in the world, Buckley’s only escape from loneliness was work. He worked longer shifts. He worked doubles and triples. He stayed at Damici’s when he was off the clock. He sat at the bar, eavesdropping—anything to avoid being alone with his thoughts. Unfortunately or fortunately for Buckley, his new neighbor, Mia, didn’t abide sulking or introverts. She also wore heavy black boots, which she used to kick at his door. “Wake the fuck up!”

When she first moved in across the hall, she introduced herself, saying, “I’m punk rock.” Her boyfriend, wearing studs through his nose and eyebrow, said, “She’s hell on wheels.”

Buckley said, “She doesn’t have wheels.” He was trying to be funny.

“It’s an expression,” the boyfriend said.

Mia wore black eyeliner and black lipstick. Younger than Buckley, she said, “We’ll hang out together. We’ll be pals. When I’m out of beer, you share, and when you’re out of beer, I’ll share.”

He said, “I work a lot. I don’t drink.”

This morning, as she kicked his door repeatedly, a neighbor shouted, “What’s wrong with you? Stop that!”

Mia said, “Screw off.”

The neighbor said, “I’m calling the landlord,” and pulled her door shut.

Mia kept kicking. “You’re getting me in trouble,” she shouted at Buckley’s door. “Don’t get me in trouble.” She kicked some more. Her boots were good for more than moshing. “Open up!”

Buckley said, “Go away.”

“No.” She kicked some more. “Open up!”

“Please stop.”

She kept kicking. She was relentless. Buckley was not. It required too much energy.

They sat side by side on Buckley’s sofa, Buckley’s hands between his knees, his eyes to the floor.

“I want you to come over Friday. I’m having a party.”

“I have to work.”

“Then after work. I won’t take no for an answer.”

“I’ll smell bad—like grease and garlic.”

“I don’t care. If you don’t come, I’m bringing the party to you.”

“I really just want to be left alone, Mia.”

“I know. That’s why I’m here. I revel in torture. See you Friday!”

It was after midnight on Friday when he got home, but he could hear the party still going strong. He showered. He didn’t want to go. The New York Nighttime Music Hour was on TV. He sat on his bed and stared at a nail in the wall, wondering why when he felt sad he couldn’t cry like a normal person. He showered and dressed.

Mia served cheap beer and vodka punch. There were potato chips and French onion dip—the kind you make with Lipton dried soup. The food reminded Buckley of the reverend. Maybe he should go back to Arkansas. He could rot away there. No, he’d rather rot in the Bronx. Mia got Buckley some punch. It smelled disgusting, but he drank it.

In the morning, he woke up bare-chested on Mia’s floor, his shirt tied around his head. He vaguely remembered dancing on Mia’s coffee table. (And he didn’t know how to dance!)

Mia was in a burgundy robe, her dark hair draped over one shoulder. “I told you you’d have fun.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing happened. You had some fun.”

“I don’t remember. Tell me.”

“Do you want coffee?”

“No.”

She sipped her coffee. “You want to hear the worst of it or the best of it?”

“Whichever.”

“You were cute. Everyone loved you. When Sheila said her uncle died last week, you started crying. You took off your shirt to dry your tears, and then you got up on the coffee table, got everyone’s attention, and told us how your mom got struck by lightning and how your girlfriend got shot in the face. That part was heartbreaking. And then everyone hugged you and said you should write songs because you had the bluest life they’d ever heard. You said, ‘I never cry. I’m crying!’ And then you tied your shirt around your waist and passed out.”

“This is why I don’t drink.”

Mia made a pouty face. “You were adorable.”

On Sunday, Mia took Buckley a paper plate piled with chocolate chip cookies. She said, “I didn’t make them or anything, but I think when you take them out of the blue wrapper and put them on a plate, they taste better. It’s the power of suggestion.”

Buckley poured two glasses of milk. He said, “I’m not a mean guy, but I’m cursed. Everyone I love dies. I don’t want to be friends with you or anyone. Just leave me alone.”

Mia dunked a cookie in a glass of milk, ignoring his short speech. “So I must tell you that on Friday night, after you told us all about your mom and stuff, and before you passed out, you and my friend Sheila made out. She told you that you could call her Clementine. I think she totally likes you. Be-ware! She’s a psycho when it comes to men.”

“Please tell me that you’re joking.”

“Afraid not.”

“I’m never drinking again.”