She’s getting away with a crime. Marco Dondi from Romero, Italy, has already transferred the entire sum for a week on her couch.
Her first impression was an image of a handsome motorbike racer with dirty blond hair. It’s a crime to rent the couch to 23-year old Marco Dondi from Romero, because she doesn’t think Amron, Arizona is as good as it looks.
$222 a day, times 7, plus a cleaning fee of $100. She’s too nervous to calculate the entire sum in her head. Stevie would never let her do this.
America has always wanted to travel- not to sightsee, but to find a mineral that she’s heard would make her wrist grow. She was born without her left hand.
When Stevie broke up with her he said, “I’m afraid you’ll never be happy- with me- without your left hand.”
He didn’t think her left wrist would ever grow. She could do plenty without her left hand- typing, cooking, handstands- but she promised herself that she wouldn’t leave Amron until she’d decided where to find that mineral that would make her wrist grow. Or she’d need to have the money to travel all over the world looking for it. And not even a billionaire could afford those travels. She doesn’t even know the name of the mineral. When she was in the emergency room for a sprained elbow after practicing too many handstands, she overheard doctors muttering on the other side of the curtain- something starting with an “M,” – and they said there were minerals, in fact, for every dysmorphism, but when she got herself out of the bed and hobbled around the corner asking, “So where exactly should I go for my mineral?” they were gone. None of the nurses knew what she was talking about, and none of the doctors she’s seen since.
This is the tenth city she’s moved to in search of that mineral, inspired by clues that turned out to be red herrings. In Amron, her savings ran out and she got involved with Stevie. He said she was beautiful as she was and that he loved her, yada yada. She thought that meant he was taking the mineral seriously and might help her find it. Instead he became quiet when she brought it up, until she stopped bringing it up altogether. She wasn’t sure if it was the greatest, most valid goal of her life, or a crippling invalid neurosis. She saw neurologists who gave her medication to ease her neuroses, sat meditating on top of clay red rocks, stayed still spreading her arms like an eagle while her skin burned. The urgency for growing her left wrist subsided. She kept her wrist in her pocket while ordering coffee, learned how to kill fruit flies in Stevie’s apartment with one hand, and she posed for pictures at Janey’s wedding with her right side showing. And then, her neighbor returned from Peru, and a geologist who discovered an extinct animal’s bone started talking about rare minerals on the radio, and her chest burned. In these moments, the urgency came back, like a flame that rose through her chest into her head where it morphed into rationale. And when she couldn’t rationalize where to go next to find her mineral, the feeling went down again, like she’d just done a belly flop on a pool of water.
For now, she’s on disability, but with Stevie gone, she hasn’t had enough for food. So she’s renting her couch.
The couch looks fine and firm, but to America, this couch is in a barren city. The red ash covering the landscape seems beautiful to those who have never lived in metachromatic cities, but to America, she knows that red = not her mineral. People faraway talk about the red dessert, with its orange-bronze sunrises and peanut butter-colored turtles. Initially, she’d bought the couch out of optimism for the red- that this was it- a modern terracotta microfiber platform. And it’s a crime to rent it- she’s sure the only draw to this place is the striking red visual- which, frankly, looks better in pictures, and after days spent rubbing her body with red Amron oils, has proven futile. She is futile. She should be cautioning them that it’s likely the mineral isn’t here, instead of luring them to her couch for profit. She could send them an envelope of red dirt and save them the hassle.
She’s adding to the appeal that brought her to Amron, and she takes a guilty satisfaction in being able to control first impressions through pictures. America knows that close ups on fabric, angles to avoid backlight, and the right amount of sweeping floor instead of ceiling, can entrench an image of luxury in her customer’s mind that doesn’t go away, even when they have been there a week with dishes piling up in the sink, feathers falling out of the pillows, and so much red sun that their eyes start to bleed. She searches for an image of “happy smiling woman bouldering ruby rock,” and finds a photo for her profile. They can keep that in mind even when she passes through the living room in her dead-eyed pasty grey morning somber.
Tied to the top of her silver sedan, she’s got two flat storage containers that will fit under the couch, for her guests’ clothes. The ropes slap the sides in the dry air. She tries not to think about her amateurism at the age of 34. The whole car is duct-taped together and when she hears a scrape, she’s hoping her front bender’s still on. Marco’s arriving at midnight and she’s trying not to think about how she doesn’t have enough time to put a mint under his pillow. She calculates Marco’s situation. Is he looking for a mineral? What does he need a mineral for that could be worth $222 x 7 days + $100 fee?
The trees look like straggly sticks, and the air is beige-red by default. She’s driving through a cloud of blah in the desert. Deserts are glamorous, in theory. When they come out, sun and amethyst sky can cast a glitter over anything.
The same 222 dollars a day that Marco throttles into her account are the same 222 dollars that keep her in Amron, trapped to monotony. Short-term vacationers pay her ignominious rates for her long-term endurance.
She pulls into the carport of her stucco green high-rise- except it looks black under the red light. Looking at the stray drops of oil in her parking space doesn’t have to remind her of Stevie, but it does. He said she broke his heart. He was the one who dumped her. Her Heart/His Heart, but He > Her. It’s not okay to stay here, but she is 34 and doesn’t know where to go. She waits for the elevator with her bags of easy-to-open beans while looking up the cost of artificial insemination.
She lugs the groceries down a hallway with left arm hooked through handles, the wrist-knob barely holding onto the breaking plastic, knees bent in an even shuffle. The walls are peeling paint in pygmy fashion, and again she wonders why the hell Marco wants to be here.
*
She picks him up from the bus stop. She doesn’t have to, and she doesn’t charge him extra.
Her victim throws his 50 lb. orange suitcase in the trunk and gets into the front seat. She hides her left wrist below the seat- not because she’s embarrassed, just because she doesn’t want to get into it right now. She extends her good arm over the gears to hug him.
He calls her America, and she remembers, yes that’s her name now. America’s a pseudonym so the city doesn’t tax her for this criminal activity. It’s her damn couch, and there’s a cost to slowly stiffening springs.
“It’s so good to finally meet you, Marco.” She’s acting so natural. How manipulative. CUSTOMER SERVICE.
He’s not as good looking as she’d imagined, but good looking enough to sleep on her couch. He’s got dirty blond hair, but he’s short.
“How was your flight- did you sleep?” His face is buzzing like the skin on his cheeks is overeager to smile wider.
“I read a book we should hang out sometime,” says Marco.
“Sure,” she says.
“No that’s the book, we should hang out sometime,” says Marco.
“Oh, that’s the title of the book. We Should Hang Out Sometime. So you’re not asking me to hang out.”
He erupts into a laugh that’s even more about the facial expression than the sound. His face goes through all the stages of hilarity within ten seconds, full jack-o-lantern. Then it disappears.
At the red light, she turns to him, the night, the burgundy turning black, and the immobility shrouding them in privacy. The ideal setting for the confessional.
“What brings you here?”
“Vacation,” Marco sings.
“No I mean, what brings you here? What’s your purpose here?”
“Oh, I tell you, we will have time for the whole story,” he says, making circling motions with his hand. The light has turned bright green, which looks black under the red sky.
America gingerly adds weight to the pedal and they go up the hill. She’s 34 and doesn’t feel like she should have time for the whole story. The car goes down the hill and swerves into the garage.
“Rollercoaster!” She wouldn’t have said that if she were alone.
A laugh rips through Marco, loud, sudden, and fleeting as a sneeze.
*
The Tour: “Here’s the couch,” she says. She pats the terracotta couch. The couch looks like an extension of the kitchen, filled with stainless steel appliances and brown cabinets.
“It’s firm. I’ve fallen asleep on it many times myself.” She doesn’t apologize for the hum of the fridge, so close to the bed, because then there’s more chance he’ll notice it.
“Let me show you around the kitchen,” she pulls open the drawer of cutlery. One knife has a spot of dried basil and she whisks it into the sink. She opens the fridge with her right hand-
“Eat anything you like. I’m not possessive of my food.” She’s being manipulative again. Because she’s offering to share, he’ll share with her.
The bridge of his nose folds inward, his nostrils flare, and his face blows up into a sonic booming laugh.
“You have no hand,” he says. “It’s cool.”
Her face burns and that belly flop feeling hits her stomach.
“Use any of my soap or shampoo.” Manipulation again- the bottles are almost empty, and he’ll feel obligated to buy refills. “And you can hang your towel anywhere you want.” This ensures that he will hang his towel.
That night while she’s reading on the couch, Marco approaches her in his panties. He’s short and muscular.
“Ready to go to sleep?” America jumps like a steward being called by a bell.
“Do you have a hair dishwasher, by chance?”
“Hair what?”
“To take out the water in my hair.”
America used to dry her hair but she stopped when she gave up on the mineral. “I’ll get one,” she says, reluctantly.
“No worries dude.”
She gives a professional nod even though she doesn’t like being called “dude” by a man. She goes to the steam-filled bathroom. It smells like petunias. Through the fog she surveys Marco’s blue towel robe hanging from the corner of the brushed nickel towel bar. She hears his voice call out from the living room, “America, I try to stay up till you come back, but I faint in sleeping.”
He’s snoring! Increasingly loud. He has an impressive repertoire. It sounds like three different men are taking turns on her couch. She creeps into bed, guiltily.
*
“Thank you really, America, I feel really at ease,” Marco lowers a mug on the crate-repurposed-into-coffee table in front of the couch, vapor swirling around the rim. She grabs a coaster before the mug hits the wood and slides it under just in time.
“Do you want eggs?” he says.
“If you’re making them, I’ll have some.”
He makes 4 fried eggs and decorates them with shredded cheese in the shape of a happy face. She eats 2.
“I’m filled up like the moon,” Marco says.
“You made all this for me?”
“Of course.”
Marco provides entertainment while she eats. He sits on the crate-coffee table. He can imitate a racing motorcycle engine revving up. He clenches his fist on an imaginary handle and pumps his elbow up and down, his lips vibrating and punctuated by sputters. She claps her hand and her wrist-knob together, then sticks them under her chin, then in between her thighs, and leans over her lap, “Do it again!”
*
The next morning, before she brushes her teeth, she steps one foot into the living room, reaching for the stereo. Jazz music. Music does to furniture what orange skies do to buildings- sparkles it up. Silence between two acquaintances impels them to get to know each other, but two people and music is a party with no obligations. She’s being manipulative again.
Marco sits on the crate-coffee table with his cell phone on the couch in front of him. He’s shaking a pen between his fingers.
He walks across the room and leans down to gingerly turn the dial. “Can I quiet the music a little? Interview at 11. Fingers-arms-legs crossed as a pretzel.”
She turns it off completely, and the phone rings. “Ah hello, Teo? Yes this is Marco,” Marco’s voice booms.
“I’m very excited on it,” Marco is bouncing. “It’s my dream, it’s just my wish, you know.”
It feels like the room has filled with colorful butterflies.
“It’s my dream to be a gelato maker,” he says. “And I’m really, don’t matter the money. I’m not looking to be rich. You know when a children cries, the mother gives him gelato and right away, the children stops crying.”
Marco listens closely. “Ah I’m here for 3 months visa, then I can go for a week to another country, and come back to continue, if you wish.”
Marco paces, “Thank you very much, thank you, thank you.”
Marco hangs up.
“He’s a liar,” Marco says.
*
Teen sleepover vibe has come over them. America sits Indian style facing Marco on the couch. They watch a video of a young woman with long straight brown hair, crouched, speaking an Italian long monologue. America focuses on the girl’s long deep swallows, shuttling saliva down her throat.
“She’s me,” Marco says, “She looks just like me.”
Marco does not look like the girl in the video.
“I told her, we should hang out sometime,” Marco says, followed by his burst of laughter. “Get it?”
“What did you do?” America says.
“We enjoyed a battle of wine,” Marco says.
“I’m not sure what a battle of wine is but I want to have it.”
“Well, we introduced ourselves, we ate some piadino. We were not drunk, but real lazy. It was 1AM. We go until the end of the rocks, and the waves are crashing, after this moment…” Marco’s throat closes up and he makes an ogle-eyed expression, “Something happened.”
“What?” America shrieks.
“After that-“
“Wait! What do Italians do at the rocks?
“I decided- because the man decides- I took her in the waist, then I moved my head, my lips towards her lips,” America waits for Marco to finish his sentence, “Then, we kissed. It was a really good kiss. She grabbed me like an octopus.”
“And then?”
“We copulated.”
“How’d that go?”
“She really really really knows about copulating.”
“So why are you here?”
“I want to explain you something,” Marco puts his right hand over his heart, “The earth can dwell just one thing that you’re looking forward to have it. You know what I mean?”
“I just understood that you have the earth in your chest.”
“Yeah it’s like a body. In one body of a person, there can only be one heart. It’s abstract,” he cracks up and his forehead folds,
Technically, it can be more than one heart in a body.”
America claps, “Okay. You’re saying that in your heart, there’s only room for one dream at a time. So do you think you’re not naïve, leaving Italy, to come here?”
Marco clears his throat, “I’m mature. This is the best place for me to become a gelato maker.”
*
She’s lactose intolerant, so she’s never cared that Amron, Arizona has THE No. 1 gelato scene in the States. She teaches herself about the gelato scene. Jalapeño Raspberry flavor was invented down the street, Lucky’s is looking for an assistant gelato maker, and the biggest European gelato chain, EuroGelato King, is taking over the old butcher shop and opening its first location in the country. There are people waiting in dusty lines down alleyways. They are sweating, throats chalky, and thirsting for gelato.
She makes his resume, writes his cover letters, and tells him how to prep for his first interview. She puts “smiling woman on mountain” as her photo and EuroGelato King CEO accepts her Facebook Friendship. She gets Marco an interview, and before he moves into his own apartment, EuroGelato King is sponsoring Marco’s visa, and when he leaves, (manipulative CUSTOMER SERVICE), she promises to keep in touch.
The $222 x 7 days + $100 cleaning fee = $1,654 from Marco.
*
She raises the price to 500 a night. No. Make that 721 per night. She’s slaphappy, sitting on the couch with her feet on the crate, kicking her shoes around between her bare toes. She calls it Pricing Under the Influence. She waits for noon to take the photos, when the sun is brightest and the most manipulative.
And then one morning, there’s 2 requests for her couch. It can’t be real. They say they don’t mind to share the couch, same price. In 7 days she could make $10,094. Plus $200 cleaning fee! She gets a rush of shame. She quickly tells both she can’t accept.
Then she realizes this amount is another trap. She can’t buy a house with that money. She can’t grow a hand from her wrist. She can’t change her life.
She decides to delete the ad. She’s changing her ways, no more lawless couch days. It’s not worth the emotional rollercoaster of feeling rich and then poor, plus all that CUSTOMER SERVICE. She can’t do it anymore. She doesn’t actually delete the ad, per se, but she decides to make the price so ludicrous that it’s practically deleted, invisible. To put the price so ridiculously high that no one will ever ask to sleep on her couch again.
$1,000,000 per night. To sleep on America’s couch.
Plus $50,000 cleaning fee.
There.
She sleeps on her own couch that night, as a joke. She feels rich, rich enough to afford a $1,000,000 dollar stay on a couch. She’s in a long sleep, that involves having tea with Marco on her couch, and she asks him to make as many flavors as possible. Tea has become ice cream. Her apartment is filled with rows and rows of ice cream tubs. They cover the row of appliances in the kitchen, and the couch, all white, and she doesn’t know what flavors are inside. She sticks her fingers in one pint even though she’s not hungry and tastes it. Coconut cream. She knows if she were to taste this same pint in the store it would be very expensive. Ridiculously expensive. It seems like she should eat it all, now, get the better deal, even though she’s starting to get sick from eating too much. She knows she’d enjoy it more if she could have it later. Sitting as a customer in his gelateria.
She’s woken by a buzz.
She has a taker. Ton from Louisiana is arriving tomorrow, wants to sleep on her couch for 2 weeks. She starts doing the math.