In a mid-century home in the American Midwest, in a city, in a basement without carpet, Malcolm Rimmel sat patiently waiting. For me. He was my sister’s sometimes-boyfriend who did jumping jacks when they weren’t talking. Also crunches. Squats. Burpees. He had a sofa in this basement, cigarette kissed with a rodeo pattern that bore cacti, broncos, and a cowboy lassoing a cleverly faced moon. There was a bucket in the far corner. An accompanying mop standing at attention. The basement’s sole lightbulb swaying stupidly from a pipe. Malcom’s mother’s Noel tableaux, her little miracles, she called them— the road to Bethlehem, the Annunciation of Mary, and, who could forget, the Wise Men, the shepherds and their flock, semi-circling the manger, where God’s newborn lay wide-eyed and fascinated–– were all Saran-wrapped, silent and unmoved, facing away from Him. The basement smelled like basement. Like a pond overrun. Disuse. You don’t gotta wash your hair, but you must brush your teeth, Malcolm had urged. That matters to girls. In November my sister started seeing Daniel Lowe and stopped returning Malcolm’s calls. That was tough. For my part, I’d stayed in his good graces, retained my standing invite to join him in the basement whenever I felt so compelled. For his part, he never asked about my sister. No. But he did tell me things. Other things. He told me he knew someone on death row. That dreamcatchers weaken over time. He said Oktoberfest was the Promised Land. And that only some dogs dream in color. He would not un-often tell me the story of the Phillies’s scout who’d driven down from Washington Square to sit with his parents in their kitchen, drink black coffee, and make them believe he was the highest rated prospect in the entire state. Sometimes things don’t work out, is how that one ended. He liked telling me about women. Other women who weren’t my sister. But could have been. He’d once ejaculated onto two sets of breasts that were smushed together. You ever seen four boobs?  He was sixteen when this happened. They were lesbians, but they liked me. He laughed. He waited for my laugh. He played vinyl records and didn’t admonish me for not knowing about backmasking. That “665” played in reverse has Cornell calling Satan the Christmas King. Then he showed me. And that was true. But a lot wasn’t. See, I think he lied a lot. I think a lot of what he told me was untrue. Like this one time–– a week before the residual wind from Hurricane Marco turned nasty and tore the roofs off the old gymnasium and furniture store–– Malcolm told me he’d fucked an actress. She’d just landed her first speaking role, after having done extra work for years. She’s in the background of the wedding scene in Mystic Pizza, he told me, lifting his feet onto the arm of the sofa. He laughed. I laughed. And then there was nothing else left to do. We watched Mystic Pizza. And rewatched Mystic Pizza. And rewatched Mystic Pizza. And rewatched Mystic Pizza. But we never could and never did find her. 

And if you’ve understood nothing else, understand this: I am Malcolm Rimmel. You are Me. And this is a story about how I really, really need you.