dedications to an ex

robert & shana parkeharrison; "architect's brother" series

this is a short story by etgar keret, taken from the girl on the fridge. it is entitled "so good." coincidentally, it is quite good. i loved it so intensely i read it repeatedly until my eyes crossed and clouded. some day, at some point, self-inflicted misery must cease. masochism and depression provide a warm, alluring cocoon; however, learning how to let go and experience happiness is really one's only hope. love can be an anchor.

* * * *

wearing nothing but pajama bottoms and cowboy boots, itzik sat on the edge of the bed and stared out the window. the sun was shining out there. he felt like a jerk. Happiness was supposed to arrive today. his sources had just informed him about it five minutes ago, and here he was, sitting on the bed like an idiot, not doing a thing about it. he thought back over the last time Happiness had come--how his father had opened the door for it, just like that, and how itzik himself, a pale-faced little boy, had sat there at the kitchen table making paper collages, not afraid of anything.

he started to tremble. "it can't get in," he whispered. "no matter what." if only he could keep it from getting inside, everything would be okay. he lunged at the dresser and started pushing it toward the door. once he'd blocked the entrance completely, he got out his hunting rifle and began shoving the cartridges into it. this time, he'd be ready. not like at his parents' house. nobody was going to turn him into a grinning zombie who loved daytime tv and garcia marquez, and kissed his mother every chance he got. "where's my flak jacket?" he yelled to no one. "where's my flak jacket, son of a bitch." he rummaged frantically through the cabinet under the sink till he found it, then put on an undershirt and the jacket. next he stuck the ice picks and stanley knives into the fireplace, with the blades pointing straight up. if they're so smart, let them try the chimney. he'd teach them a thing or two about Happiness. five years he'd done at club med. five years, damn them to hell. with the girl he loved, with sex both oral and anal, with money to spend like there was no tomorrow. he'd had it real bad. he knew it for what it was. if grandma hadn't died, he'd still be there now.

the first to arrive was Opportunity. they always sent her in first, like some goddamn bedouin scout. probably figured she was expendable. she knocked at the door, then tried the handle, which was electrified. the shock stunned her to the ground. that's when itzik broke the window with the rifle butt and stuck the barrel out. "think of something nice," he muttered through clenched teeth and pressed the trigger. "think of something nice, bitch, all the way up to heaven. i'm not giving in without a fight. i'm not my father. i won't let you drag me away in some van festooned with walt disney characters and a shit-eating grin on my face." he pumped another slug into the blank-faced Opportunity just to be on the safe side.

suddenly he remembered what greenberg had said about the fast one they pulled using cable tv. son of a bitch. here he was, sitting around like a jive rookie, with his back to the family channel, as if he'd never heard about what nbc did to the depression underground in seattle back in '87. how stupid could he be! he spun around and fired another one into the tv, a split second before cosby kissed lisa. "gotta stay cool," he muttered under his breath. "gotta stay cool, no matter what happens."

he was just beginning to focus on somalia when he heard rustling in the bushes. it was Sheer Enjoyment with the take-away pizzas and the porn magazines, inching her way along the hedge. he couldn't quite get her in his sights. but she didn't try to get any closer.

"hey, babe, i hate my pizzas cold," he screamed. but she didn't even answer. the helicopters were overhead now, with their enormous loudspeakers booming techno hits and schmaltzy crooners at top volume. he put his hands over his ears and concentrated on holocaust memorial day, on women with a breast cut off, on homeless people shivering in the new york winter. he did have a hint of a smile on his face, but the music remained on the outside. still, there was something going on. it all seemed too easy. the helicopters. Sheer Enjoyment not making a move. it had to be a ploy. "the roof, damn it," he blurted. "it's got to be up on the roof." he took a few potshots through the shingles. something fell down the chimney straight onto the spikes. that was Success! she was holding a packet of winning lottery tickets. itzik doused her with gasoline and threw his zippo into the fireplace. the body caught fire instantly. along with the winning tickets. the flames lapped them up long before they had a chance to spread through the cabin. smoke was filling the room, mixed with another smell, the fragrance of hot corn on the cob, of old-fashioned ice cream, of mom tucking him in at night. gas. he crawled along the floor, trying to get to the gas masks. aids, he thought to himself. people abusing children all over the world at this very moment. children. so sweet, i'd love to have some of my own, and a wife. who loves me. being tortured in the security service dungeons--he tried. no way. the smile just kept spreading. threatening to swallow him up. three emotions he couldn't quite make out were taking over, removing his flak jacket, wiping the number off his arm with saliva. replacing his "why?" undershirt with a "don't worry be happy" one. don't lose hope, it'll work out, he said, trying to cheer himself up as they dragged him outside. she'll be there, waiting for you. you'll have an amazing future. you'll have an apv minivan. so intense was the anticipation that his knees were turning to mush. you'll have it so good, you lucky son of a bitch, you don't know how good.

by then the tears in his throat had dried up. the trees outside were all green. and the sky was bright blue. the weather was just right, not too warm and not too cold. a van covered with simpsons characters and mortgage ads was there already, waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs.