The End

The End

The End. That was the title of the final volume, at the very far side, on the very bottom, of the very back room. It looked like it had never been touched by human hands, and it occurred to me that if I became the first to break the spine and thumb the pages, I would also be the last. 

But let me start at the beginning: before the hidden back room, before the shelves and shelves of books with green and gold binding, before the library, before I came to this place. I don’t even know what this place is. 

Before I came to this place, I was asleep, and no, this is not a dream. I am very much awake and alive and not in some weird, epiphanous fever dream. I was sleeping in my own bed. Well, not my bed, but the guest bed at Bubbe and Zayde’s house. Which isn’t so much a bed as it is a pull-out couch. Fine, I was sleeping on my grandparents’ orange sofa from the 1970s because I got kicked out of my house again. Sue me, I just needed a couple hits to help me get to sleep, and Mom and Dad, don’t tell me this is the first time you’ve had a tiny little blanket fire in the house after you ashed your blunt in bed. Besides, the basement isn’t even fully finished so it's basically fireproof. Work has been killing me lately and the stress is making it hard to sleep. I really do try to get to the station on time, but I won’t lie, the pressure gets to me. Every day I am risking my life for the benefit of others, but it’s fucking dangerous work. It’s not just the graveyard shifts that get to me. The truckers that come in at 4am, wreak utter havoc on our only toilet, and leave without buying so much as a stick of beef jerky. And I can’t say anything because these guys probably have 150 pounds on me and all of them are either packing or they're looking at me like I’m a snack. The fumes, from both the gasoline and the bathrooms, will definitely get me sick one of these days, so this job is one occupational hazard on top of the next, and sometimes I need a little puffaroonie to take the edge off. 

So, I finally settled into bed and fell asleep, so exhausted that I forgot to put out my blunt. I was dreaming that bees kept stinging my forearm and that obnoxious buzzing kept getting louder and louder. When I woke up, there was a charred, smoking hole on my blanket and the fire alarm was blaring. Mom didn’t even need to say anything. Once I saw her face, holding an open bottle of Evian over me, ready to douse the flames, I knew I was in the doghouse. Or rather, my grandparents’ house. Lucky for me, Mom's screwed up enough times in her life that Bubbe has always taken pity on me, thus guaranteeing me a place to sleep and half a brisket in the fridge, no questions asked. “You’re getting too skinny, bubbeleh, let me fix you something,” she’d say the minute I stepped out of my 1996 station wagon, which actually used to be Zayde’s station wagon but they’d given it to me the first time I attempted college. Seven years, six semesters, and three changes in my major later, I was not a graphic designer, nor a photographer, and definitely not a real estate agent. It didn’t matter that I’d copied my roommate’s mock-up logos, changed the colors, and tried to pass them off as my own, or that I’d taken nudie pictures of the TA I was boning on the weekends and accidentally left the developing proofs in the dark room, or that I got so very high in the bathroom my first day as an intern at a real estate firm. I hadn’t been the one that failed. To Bubbe, it was college that failed me (“Bubbe knows everything, my sweetheart, and I’m telling you, you’re too good for that fakakta school.”), and even living in my parents’ basement at the age of 33 was somehow a mark of Mom’s failings, not mine. I felt a little guilty, but not guilty enough to refuse brisket on rye and rent-free lodgings. The station only paid me so much, and if Mom didn’t want me living in the basement anymore, I needed to put those real estate skills to good use. Heh. 

Bubbe sat with me in silence while I ate, she in her fluffy pink robe and me in my flannel pants and a Slipknot t-shirt. Framed and hanging on the wall, just next to the landline with the curly phone cord, was a photo of me the morning of my bar mitzvah. It’s one of those where my smile and my eyes are saying different things to the camera. My suit was hanging off me like a former fat man’s skin, my yarmulke is, for whatever inexplicable reason, eggplant purple, and my upper lip is adorned with peach fuzz and sweat. I did not get any tail that day, as I’d played out in my mind 20 years ago. By that point in our lives, the girls from Hebrew School who I’d known since we were five had grown up enough to become borderline hot, and I was pretty sure one of them would want to play with my extra-large-hold-the-foreskin since that’s what they were doing at Derek Meyerstein’s the month before. Turns out, Derek was getting it every day in Shul and leaving nothing for me, the asshole. 

Bubbe caught me staring at the photo. “My sweet boy. You were perfect then and you’re perfect now. You just don't know it yet. Trust me, Bubbe knows everything” she said, patting my hand.

“It’s OK, Bubbe, I’ve always got my graphic design to fall back on,” I said, smiling with a mouth full of meat. Bubbe beamed at me. It was an odd and beautiful thing, to be loved for absolutely nothing. I imagined it’s what shitty kids with trust funds must feel like every day. She smelled of flowery face cream and mouthwash as she kissed the top of my head and went upstairs, painstakingly slow and deliberate on every step, to join a loudly snoring Zayde in their bedroom. Once the door closed, I looked in the fridge for one of the beers Dad brought over July 4th weekend like two or three years ago, and sat on the pull-out, staring at that photo. I took a sip, raised my bottle, and whispered, “Mazel tov!” The kid in the picture just grinned back at me, looking slightly manic. And that's when it happened. The End happened.

At first, I thought it had been the wind that nudged the door to the junk closet open, but Bubbe claims she's allergic to sunlight and Zayde’s dislikes the sound of birds. They always kept the windows shut, and besides, there were no windows in the closet, or I’d have tried to get in from the outside while I was small and dumb enough to wriggle my way in. With a combination of boyish curiosity - no one was allowed in that closet when I was a kid (“Your mother calls me a hoarder! What a shanda…") - and simple boredom, I encouraged the door open a bit more with the neck of my beer. The light came on by itself. Oops. Zayde must have installed that at some point and now I needed to figure out how to turn it off. There had to be a switch or pull chain somewhere. I stepped inside. 

CLICK. The door snapped shut behind me. I turned around to try to turn the knob, but it was fully jammed. Shit. I looked over my shoulder and expected the shelves to be full of kitchy Hanukkah decorations, a microwave that won’t close, the complete Bing Crosby home movie series on VHS. But it was none of those things. It was actually only one thing, a million times repeated. A green leather-bound book with gold lettering, over and over and over and over, the only differences being the books' titles and their thickness. I ran my fingers over them, scanning the volumes.

Potty Training Mishaps

Hypochondriacal Tendencies

Wet Dreams

Sketches, Age 14

Google Searches

Every Report Card Ever

Lies Told to Mom

Lies Told to Teachers

Best and Worst Haircuts (Ranked)

Kitchen Experiments

Bathroom Experiments

Maybe Bubbe did have a problem. Clearly she was off her romance novel kick, but whatever this is couldn't have been much better.

I picked up Sketches and opened it partway. There was a messy drawing of a chick in a bathing suit with disproportionately gigantic boobs, with a speech bubble that said “DO ME!” I almost did a spit-take of Sam Adams all over this lady’s rack. I remember this drawing. I was trying to copy a picture of Pamela Anderson circa Baywatch, but Miss Fenster caught me during eighth grade civics class, and shit, I had a lot of explaining to do at home that night. Next page, a collection of the letter S made with six straight lines, two diagonal and two incomplete triangles. Next, a whole lot of cock-and-balls. A crab wearing sunglasses. Two or three serious attempts at a human hand, a Polaroid camera, a cat. I remembered all of them. What the hell is this, and more importantly, why does the actual fuck does Bubbe have this? I put it back on the shelf and opened Wet Dreams. The minute I saw the top of page 89, “After seeing the movie Drop Dead Gorgeous in the movie theater, experienced nocturnal emission while dreaming about Allison Janney.” SHUT. 

None of the books had any author credited. As I shoved the volume back in its empty space, I looked up to notice this “closet” was no closet. It was an entryway that led to a staircase, heading down. The staircase was lined with shelves of books: Orthodontist Visits, High School Graduation Day, Cute Girls in Photojournalism Seminar, Jewish Guilt. 

The lower level was dimly lit with a cement floor, very unlike the shag carpets covering most of this house. 30th Birthday. Job Applications. Wardrobe Choices. I picked that one and opened it. “Presently wearing flannel pajama pants and a Slipknot t-shirt. The shirt once belonged to Miguel Hernandez, former college roommate, and has a hole in the right sleeve. The pants are red and black plaid, Fruit of the Loom brand.” This time, I dropped the book like a hot potato. It fell open to a later page, about two-thirds of the way to the end. I didn’t want to look. But I had to look. “Light green, slightly pit-stained short sleeve button-down with khaki pants worn to work. Signature combover hairstyle and black sneakers. Name tag pinned to breast pocket.” Well, now, the books are fucked because I don’t own any button-downs anymore and I’ve never had a job with a name tag. Combovers? I don’t think so, just a fully Jewish head of curls. I fingered through the pages until I reached the last.

“Black suit, white shirt, purple yarmulke, pancake makeup.” 

Oh.

Slowly, I replaced the scariest book I’ve ever read, and I’ve read Cujo twice. The next titles were even more off-putting: Unpaid Bills. Unsuccessful Remedies for Male Pattern Baldness. Frozen Dinner Selections. First Dates. I picked that one and opened it partway. “Elise Cameron is a fellow dating app user who has agreed to meet for coffee at Beanie Babies off Riverwood Ave. Prior to the agreed-upon meeting time, Ms. Cameron backs out, citing illness, but in reality she has decided to go on a ski trip with her friends.” So the books are hacking into my phone now? Yeah, I’d been talking to Elise for a couple of weeks and she picked the place, which happens to be equidistant from my house as it is to Bubbe’s, so I figured it was a win-win. I pulled my phone out of my pajama pocket. There was a text.

“hey sry, think i'm coming down with something, dont wanna get you sick lol def rain check”

I checked her Instagram, and there it was, a story uploaded two hours ago. A picture of a suitcase containing what looked like sweaters, board games and a bottle of gin, next to ski boots and poles. The worst part was that the finishing touch was a wintery, snowy filter. She lied and stood me up with a bad Insta filter. 

And somehow, the book knew. The book knows.

I opened the pages of more and more, reading a combination of forgotten memories, repressed embarrassments, recurring thoughts. 

“Wanted the limited edition acid green Transformer for Hanukkah but instead got a knockoff “Transforma-toy” and a book about the US Presidents through the Carter administration.”

“Accidentally knocked over expensive flower vase while working on a science project at Jason Richmond’s house. Blamed it on the cat. The cat died two weeks prior.”

“Drew penises on Derek Meyerstein's face while he was passed out at graduation party. Used a Sharpie.”

“Drunk dialed Elise Cameron after she posted a picture of her with her new boyfriend, with several heart stickers.”

“Wonders if that weird lump on inner left butt cheek is a pimple or possibly skin cancer." 

And then, there it was, the volume that was clearly the final installation to the records of every aspect, event, thought, and mishap of my life. The End. As I considered the possible consequences of touching this menacing edition and what would surely explain how I had gotten into a black suit and heavy makeup several books ago, I weighed the pros and cons. If I know how I’m going to die, then I don’t need to be afraid of anything else, right? But, what if I die, like, tomorrow? Or what if the pages are blank? Or, what if they say something that could be true and reading it will manifest it? What if it says I die alone, broke and sad, and I can’t do anything about it because it’s already written? Or, will the pages change? As I paced, sweating profusely, I reached for the book, then withdrew my hand, at least a dozen times. Until the sound of the landline snapped me out of it. Shit, I’m in the closet that no one is supposed to see. I have to get out. Without thinking, I grabbed the book and shoved it into my pocket, ran up the stairs, peeked out the door to make sure no one was watching, closed it quietly behind me, and jumped back into bed. 

“Bubbeleh, your mother has summoned you home,” Bubbe yelled from upstairs, obviously annoyed. I checked my phone; it was not even 7am but I had four missed calls and two texts from Mom already.

“You need to come back and clean up the mess you made in the basement. Now pls. Love, Mom”

“Need OJ. Bring some on the way home pls. Love, Mom”

Bubbe came downstairs in her fluffy robe with curlers in her hair.

“Be a dear, make us some coffee, bubbeleh.” 

“Bubbe, what’s in the closet in the den?”

“Nothing you need to concern yourself with, sweetie.”

“But how come we can’t go in there?”

“Because it’s full of skeletons,” Bubbe chuckled. Then, she crossed the room and walked to the door, much to my surprise. As she turned the knob and the light clicked on, there was not a bookshelf in sight. Boxes labeled “Fancy China.” An unopened blender probably from the year I was born. A mini TV with a cracked screen. Three creepy throw pillows embroidered with raccoon faces. An entire row of hotel slippers. 

“Just junk, bubbeleh, nothing of note! Trust me, sweetie. Bubbe knows everything. I know where everything is and what everything is, and it’s all just junk. Maybe I am a hoarder,” she said with a little laugh. She closed the door, humming contentedly, and began cooking breakfast. The book weighed heavy in my pocket. 

On my way home, after buying the orange juice, I picked up a few brochures from the community college. After I cleaned up the ashes, I flushed the remains of the blunt, and put a new blanket on the bed. I stacked the brochures on the nightstand, and on top, placed the book I had stolen. The book that was mine, and not mine. 

Over the next few months, I stared taking classes again. I stopped smoking and drinking. I even went on a few dates. Time went by and I was less and less tempted to look at The End. Finally, I was ready to move out of the basement for good and into my very own apartment, close to school, close to work at a rent-a-car. Bubbe had helped me with the moving costs and had even hired movers. She was definitely making a clear statement to Mom with that little gesture, but so be it. 

As the movers were leaving, and Bubbe with them, she pinched my cheek, winked at me and said, “I left you a little something on the kitchen counter.” With a wet smooch, she left. I walked into the kitchen, grateful to see a homemade frozen lasagna, canister of chocolate coconut macaroons, and a plate of brisket covered with plastic wrap. As I picked up the brisket, I saw that it had been placed atop the book, slightly askew. Bubbe really did know everything. The End.