The Last Post Read online

  I finally got ahold of my senses. “Hello,” I said, offering my hand to Laya.

  She smiled and shook it. I noticed there was a sadness about her, even in her smile, and I wondered why it was there.

  When I pulled my hand away, there was an electric shock from her shoes scraping the carpet. “Whoa!” she said, laughing, and then she stopped abruptly and her sad smile was back. “You look familiar. Have we met?” She squinted like she was trying to find my face in her memory. She wasn’t wearing a stitch of makeup; she didn’t need to.

  “I might just have a familiar face,” I said.

  “No, like someone I’ve met before. Maybe I’m thinking of one of my patients who looks like you.”

  “I’d remember if we had met. You’d be impossible to forget.” Oh my god, did I just say that . . . right in front of her dad, my boss?

  I think I saw a blush rise on her face, but she remained stoic.

  “So, you’re doing your fellowship in California?” I asked.

  Jim interrupted. “She was. Now she’s back in New York. Doing her fellowship here. Aren’t you, Laya?”

  “Yeah . . . I am,” Laya replied, but she didn’t seem all that convincing.

  “Where’s big D?” Steve asked.

  I don’t know why Steve gave Devin that nickname, but it felt silly to hear him say it in front of Jim and Laya. Something came over me where I had a burning desire to impress Laya. I ran my fingers through my hair. Combed a hand down the scruff on my face, thinking I should have probably shaved.

  “Micah . . . Devin, where’s Devin?”

  “Oh yeah, he’s right here,” I said, pointing a thumb to the back. I had no idea why Devin was being elusive when he knew Laya was standing ten feet away. He’d been waiting to see her for hours. Then it hit me . . . he wanted to impress her by being aloof and acting caught up in his work. Devin always had the wrong approach.

  “Devin!” Jim called out.

  He jumped out of his seat and said, “Oh sorry, I was hyperfocused on this project. Nice to see you.” He held a hand out to shake Jim’s. “Hello,” he said to Laya with a curt smile. God, we were all being so awkward.

  “This is my daughter, Laya. She was in California for four years, but she’s back now.”

  Laya nodded and said, “I did my postgrad work there.” Her tone was almost robotic, like she had said the words a million times.

  “That’s impressive. Isn’t that impressive, Micah?” Devin said.

  “Yeah, very.”

  From my peripheral vision I noticed Devin glancing at Laya’s left hand. My eyes followed his, where I spotted a simple gold band on her ring finger. She’s married?

  The four of us continued to exchange odd pleasantries while people in the office walked past the large circle we had formed in the middle of the hall. Every man did a double-take when he saw Laya. There was something about her look that intrigued me, and apparently everyone else. It wasn’t childish, even though she was dressed like a teenager; it was more like she didn’t care what people thought.

  Jim asked about the projects we were working on. He seemed pleased. When they walked away, Devin and I looked at each other, stunned just by Laya’s presence.

  I said to Devin, “Did you know she was married?”

  “I had no clue, but that’s never stopped me before.”

  I shook my head and started walking away. “You have fun tonight with the boys.”

  “Come on, just go with us!” he whined.

  “No!”

  * * *

  LATE INTO THE night I worked on the Glossette model, which was one of Steve’s shitty designs for an apartment building in SoHo. Steve would land an account based on a presentation we’d all put together, and then he’d draw up a design in three days and ask one of us to build a model for it. I always tried to spruce up the models, but his designs were uninspiring square sketches, with square windows that resembled prison blocks. There was no amount of little plastic trees or fake grass I could add to improve a building design that looked like a fourth-grader had drawn it.

  Shelly stumbled back into the office around ten. As soon as I heard her singing in the hall, I rushed back to my desk, grabbed my messenger bag, and tried to sneak out the back stairway.

  “Micah, where are you going?”

  “I have to go, Shelly.”

  I left the building and walked all the way up Sixth Avenue until I got to Central Park. I roamed around the outskirts, trying to get a perspective of the surrounding buildings, but New York was suffocating me. I had to get out of there. I had no creative vision anymore.

  There was a time when I could see building after building coming to life in the city. I had dreams of restoring New York back to the charm it once held for me. For as long as I could remember, I was building. Starting with Lincoln Logs, then moved on to Legos, and finally computer software, where I’d sit for days on end creating one design after another. People took architecture for granted sometimes—living and working in buildings, but never realizing that architects had dreamt up the layout and the functionality with them in mind. Comfortable workplaces. Homes. Places to call their own.

  In college Devin and I would stay up late sketching and building innovative designs, but now work just put me to sleep. Devin was especially talented, but he, too, was losing his edge.

  I was standing in front of the Guggenheim. A museum, but a building that was art in itself. Why couldn’t I channel Frank Lloyd Wright? I could hop across the street to another architectural masterpiece at The Met. All of these amazing structures around me and I was building tiny, perfectly square boxes for Steve.

  As I sat on the train heading home, I noticed an older man in his seventies staring out the opposite window. I wondered what he was thinking. I thought maybe he was so used to riding the train home this late that maybe he was thinking about nothing at all. Once we were in the dark tunnel with virtually nothing to look at, I noticed his expression hadn’t changed.

  My dad always used to say, “Micah, what are you thinking about?”

  I’d reply, “Nothing.”

  “If you were thinking about nothing, you’d be thinking about thinking about nothing, or you’d be dead.” He’d laugh and say, “Think about it.”

  I guess we’re always thinking; for me, maybe too much, to the point where it would stress me out. The extreme lull in my life and lack of productivity as of late made me feel hopeless and directionless.

  I remember returning to the city with some friends after college ended. I had felt invigorated, like she was breathing new life into me. The beautiful and diverse skyscrapers and brownstones, the people, the sun, and the colors that painted the sky. My friends and I talked about opening our own firm and taking over the architectural scene in the city, but nothing even close to that had happened. Pretty soon the sounds and smells of the city started grating on me, and I found myself roaming Central Park on my lunch breaks more often than studying designs or drawing plans.

  Now I was sitting on the train visualizing my life as some giant novel with no meaning. Fuck that damn tome. I needed to rewrite it.

  No one was home when I walked in, but clearly the boys had started the party there because empty beer bottles littered the counter. I cleaned the kitchen, showered, and collapsed onto my bed.

  Dozing off, my mind wandered to unintentional places: me as a giant, watching the city, the cars, and the pedestrians below me; Shelly chasing me down a long, unending hallway . . . and Laya’s face, a flash of her happy expression in the picture on Jim’s desk, then that quiet, sad smile. My eyes shot open.

  I couldn’t sleep. My right ear was starting to ache and I hoped it wouldn’t turn into an ear infection. I texted Melissa. She had nothing better to do at midnight than to talk to me and eat chia seeds.

  Me: Do you think I have some sort of complex?

  Melissa: Without a doubt.

  Me: Thanks.

  Melissa: What’d you do now?

  Me: Nothing abnormal
for me, just basically froze in the presence of a beautiful woman. What are you up to?

  Melissa: I’m making overnight muesli.

  Me: I don’t even want to know what that is.

  Melissa: It’s healthy, you should try it.

  Me: What do you think is wrong with me freal?

  Melissa: I think you say FREAL, for one.

  Me: Stop, Melispa, I’m serious.

  Mel had a terrible lisp as a kid, so naturally as her brother I wasn’t going to let her forget it.

  Melissa: My-Cunt, you stop.

  Me: You are so vulgar. Just flat-out crude. I’m calling you. Answer your phone.

  I dialed her number, putting her on speaker while I grabbed my guitar and started strumming. “Can you give me four minutes of your precious time and tell me what I’m doing wrong?”

  “For starters, you’re too nice, Micah. You need to get a backbone. It’s like you turn into a pile of goo when it comes to women. Hmm . . . that’s making me think. No, it’s like you have a fear of disappointing them, and then you turn into a pile of goo. You weren’t that way in college.”

  “I cared less in college. I just don’t know what I want anymore. I’m not worried about disappointing women, Melissa.”

  “Disappointing them because you have a small penis— I mean, I saw it when we were kids—”

  “I’m serious, shut up. I’m not worried about disappointing anyone. I’m worried about becoming a total shut-in. And you are not helping. I feel like everything is closing in on me. On top of all of it, I think I have an ear infection.”

  “Does your ear hurt?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Oh my god, Micah. You need to go to the doctor; my friend lost his hearing from an ear infection.”

  “Really?” My stomach started churning. “Where should I go?”

  “To your doctor, stupid.”

  “I don’t even have a doctor, Melissa.”

  “What are you gonna do in this world? I can’t hold your hand through everything.

  “Just go to any doctor. As far as your girl problems, I don’t know what to tell you, except maybe you could try actually dating and not hanging out with Devin the devil.”

  “What, like, find a date online? Tinder?”

  “No, Micah, like meet someone at the gym, or doing yoga, or maybe if you see a girl at a coffee shop, approach her.”

  If I don’t hear Melissa take a breath during this pause, she’ll die tomorrow.

  She huffed.

  “Thank god,” I said.

  “What? Thank god for what? You definitely have something mental going on. I probably smashed you in the womb.”

  “Thank god you took a breath,” I said.

  “You’re doing that thing again. The thing you went to therapy for, aren’t you?”

  “Don’t you do it?” I said.

  “No, never. Please stop praying I’ll die.”

  “I’m not praying . . . wishing, maybe.” That definitely was not true. “I don’t know; I feel like my life should be different by now. Anyway, aren’t you supposed to be an all-loving flower child? All earth love and shit?”

  “That’s Kenny. To be honest, I’m getting tired of his whole hippie health thing. Like fucking eat a burrito, Kenny. Everywhere we go he’s gotta find a goddamn tree to hug. You’re not supposed to weigh the same as your boyfriend. His boxers are NOT cute on me the way boxers are supposed to be on girls. I can’t roll over the top, you know?”

  “Who cares about that? Kenny’s a good guy. And that weight thing is shallow and not true. You used to be such a feminist.”

  “I know he’s a good guy. Hell, he’s more of a feminist than I am. I love him; I just want him to eat a cookie and some Fritos once in a while. We were out to dinner with friends the other night and my girlfriend offered him a bite of peanut butter pie. He acted like he was offended, then later said to me in the car, ‘I can’t believe you ate a bite of that pie.’ ”

  “What did you say to him?”

  “Wait, are you playing the guitar while we’re on the phone, Micah? You know I hate that. It’s distracting.”

  “I’m just practicing in case this architecture thing falls through.”

  “Practice later—talk to me now! It’s annoying.”

  “I’m just strumming. It calms me down. Unlike you, I can multitask,” I said. “Anyway, you’re just jealous ’cause Mom spent seventeen thousand dollars on piano lessons for you and you can’t even play ‘Chopsticks.’ ”

  She took a loud, irritated breath. “Yes, I can.”

  “Exactly, that’s the extent of your musical ability and you’re proud of it.”

  Melissa was a professional subject changer. “Why don’t you cave and sleep with Shelly, poor thing. Isn’t her husband gay?”

  “Because I don’t want to sleep with Shelly, I’m not attracted to her at all . . . and her husband is one of my bosses. It’s not about that anyway. I want something real, something meaningful, like you always say.”

  “Wow, Micah, that’s awesome, but what will Devin the devil do without his wingman?”

  “Devin will be fine. He has Jeff.”

  “Oh, how could I forget Jeff?”

  “Please do not talk about him.”

  I’ve walked in on my sister having sex exactly two times. Both guys were my friends. Before Kenny, Melissa was very . . . well, friendly. But the time with Jeff was the worst. It had just gotten dark, and he had texted me that he was going out. When I got home, everything was quiet. Apparently, my sister had knocked a wineglass off his nightstand in the midst of their coital exploits in his bedroom. I, of course, thought someone was breaking in, so I quietly opened the door while yielding a butcher knife, only to hear my sister’s final orgasming words. I also saw him ramming her from behind. I threw up, literally . . . on the spot. I’m not exaggerating; I threw up right there on his floor and immediately dropped the knife. My sister started laughing while she extricated herself from my roommate.

  She had said, “Get a nice show, perv?” For twins, she and I were not alike at all. I was passive; she was abrasive and crass, to put it mildly.

  I pushed the memory out of my mind and our conversation was back to my love life, or lack thereof. “Then sleep with the husband,” Melissa blurted out. “I mean, would you ever sleep with a guy? I get that you’re straight, and wouldn’t want to take it up the . . . you know, but if you’d give it to a girl in the heinie, why not a guy?”

  “You think I have brain damage? Did you forget I was born a healthy seven pounds, and you were struggling to live at four pounds, eight ounces?” Sometimes Mel was incapable of being serious. Everything turned into a joke.

  “Yeah, because you’re a succubus, Micah. You suck the life out of me with your indecisiveness and the eternally pensive look on your face. Also, you took all of Mom’s nourishment and her attention, too. You still do.”

  “A succubus is a female; also, that is the wrong definition. Did you get that from South Park? Anyway, it feels good to be loved by Mom.” I laughed. I loved teasing her about being our mom’s favorite.

  “Good for you. Then what do you need a girlfriend for?” She yawned loudly into the phone.

  “I’ll let you go.”

  “Micah, Mom always says you’re inside your head too much. You’ll never be in a committed relationship because of that. Learn to let go.”

  I heard Jeff and Devin stumbling around in the kitchen.

  “Jeff and Devin are back. Night, Mel.”

  I hung up and hoped the guys didn’t hear me awake. I wasn’t in the mood to hang out with drunk people.

  Quietly, I crawled into bed and continued to overanalyze the state of my life until I was finally feeling sleepy.

  Jeff burst through the door of my room just as I clicked the bedside lamp off.

  “What’s up, fucker?” he slurred.

  “I’m sleeping.”

  “Doesn’t look like it.”

  “Well, I’m trying
to. Do you need something?”

  A tiny blonde was hanging on his back. “We need a condom, and I know you don’t use yours, so could you spot me one?”

  I opened my nightstand, grabbed a full box of condoms, and threw it at his head. “Get outta here.”

  “He’s a dick,” I heard the little sprite say just as Jeff slammed my door, shaking our tiny shoebox apartment.

  After enduring the porn-like moaning from the room next to mine, I finally fell asleep, envisioning myself at sixty, sitting on a park bench, deaf from an untreated ear infection, and alone . . . utterly alone.

  4. Crooked Pillar

  MICAH

  Months flew by like I was living in a time warp. I had grown a very long and unkempt beard. Steve asked me to shave on more than one occasion and even started assigning me jobs where I wouldn’t have to interact with clients.

  “It’s my artistic expression,” I told him. “Just like how you wear khakis and tennis shoes every day.”

  “Will you at least groom it? Who knows what’s living in there.” He walked away down the hall toward his office.

  I laughed and said under my breath, “Who gives a fuck?”

  He turned on his heel. “What’d you say, Evans?”

  “I said I’ll take care of it right away, Steve.”

  “You better,” he said in his boss voice.

  I headed down to my cubicle. The one that had renderings of my dream designs tacked to every available space on the partition. None of the drawings had come to fruition. Not surprisingly, though, there were very talented junior architects who had been at the firm longer than me who had never even gotten a raise.

  Devin said from his cubicle, “Do you know how much fecal matter they find in beards?”

  “I don’t understand how shit gets in my beard, man. I mean, I wash it, just like the hair on my head.”

  “Don’t shoot the messenger; I read it on the internet. Dude, you’re kinda starting to look like Kaczynski.”

  My head shot back. “The Unabomber?”

  He shrugged and turned back to look at his computer.