Guy Read online

  About the Book

  Meet Guy, a successful talent agent who dates models, pop stars and women he meets on the beach. He compulsively rates women’s looks on a scale from one to ten. He’s a little bit racist, in denial about his homophobia and enjoys making fun of people’s weight. His only real friend, besides his dog, recently joined a pickup artist group in order to be more like Guy.

  Completely oblivious to his own lack of empathy, Guy’s greatest talent is hiding his flaws … until he meets someone who challenges him like never been before. Darkly funny, Guy is a brilliant study of toxic masculinity, exposing the narcissistic thoughts of the misogynist next door.

  Praise

  “Guy is devastating and hilarious. It’s brutal and destructive and life-affirming. It’s a must-read. Jowita Bydlowska isn’t just one of this nation’s bravest writers, she’s one of our best.”

  – Joseph Boyden, author of The Orenda

  “Being Guy felt horrifically natural, as if he stepped right out my own debased, politically incorrect sex fantasy. This book is unputdownable, full of sly, modern details that made me laugh and grimace right into the twist ending.”

  – Miranda July, author of The First Bad Man

  Also by Jowita Bydlowska

  Drunk Mom: A Memoir

  Jowita Bydlowska

  a novel

  Guy

  To no one.

  Contents

  PART I

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  PART II

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  PART I

  1

  THE BEACH IS FULL. IT IS ALMOST ALWAYS FULL THIS TIME of day. There are cars parked on the sand, some with their hatchbacks open, sudden buffets of beige and white food – the food of the people who come to this beach. The food of people who grow large and soft: children with apathetic eyes, women with chafed thighs, men with rolls of flesh over their hips.

  There are Fours and Fives everywhere. Their eyes flick over my face, flick away. Flick back again. I love them for it, but the nerve. It’s the media, the music videos. Every wannabe Britney Spears thinks she is Britney Spears. But if you were to stick the actual Britney Spears on this beach with no handlers? After a few hours she’d be violently pink from the sun, and her thighs would be as chafed as every other girl’s here. Unhandled, she’d be burping up yellow Cheetos. She’d deteriorate from a Seven to a Four just like that.

  A Four walks by, looks up from her phone. Small lips, big nose. Small breasts, a belly.

  “Hey,” I say. I’m feeling generous. Bored. And it’s a lovely evening.

  “Hey?” she says.

  “Great dress,” I say. “It looks really good on you.”

  “Oh, thanks,” she looks down at the dress. She blushes. It’s a simple one: on you. As if I’ve seen her in other dresses. As if I were familiar. She will now hope I am familiar. Me being familiar alleviates the suspicion. Why would I be talking to her? On you. Her eyes big and hopeful. The dress is roomy, like a tent. It’s a dress that hides things, thighs. The dress is pale green.

  I don’t ask for her number. I won’t ask for her number. I’m suddenly tired. Not tired. I want to keep on moving. I smile and say, “Have a good night, gorgeous.”

  Her mouth opens, “May I pet your dog?” she says. “Please?”

  “Sure,” I say. I do admire nerve. She thinks she’s a Seven, at least.

  She bends down to pet the dog. A wave of spasm zaps through the dog’s body. Pleasure. The girl’s back is covered in purple stains of old acne.

  “Our neighbour had a –”

  Dog like this, or something. I look over to the boardwalk. The boardwalk shops are a chaos of hues. It’s a landfill of flip-flops and inflatable seahorses. And plastic sunglasses and plastic pails. And dripping ice cream and the sticky fingers of children, fingers that like to reach for the dog, like the Four here.

  I snap the leash, the dog’s head snaps. “Have a nice day,” I say.

  I walk away. I don’t turn around to see if she continues standing there, but I’m sure she’s still standing there. I imagine soon she’ll dislodge herself from our encounter, go back to her fat husband named something like Steve or Dave – Steve or Dave who will always remain confused as to why they had a horrible fight on their way back home to Dinktown, South Carolina, or wherever they’re from – somewhere close by, as Steve/Dave is a nervous driver. Was it something he said?

  I head toward the edge of the water. The sun is behind us, giving the ocean an orange tint. The sand is white during the day. Now it’s deep yellow. Later, brown. Everything looks very nice. Everyone takes a picture with their phone. There’s a grating beat of trance music in the distance.

  A Two walks by. I turn to watch the back of her. You rarely see a Two, especially in a bikini: this one is a fluorescent green contraption that refuses to contain the body. Bits of her escape between the strings – an accordion of flesh. Her mouth is open, an enlarged-tonsils mouth. The one next to the Two is at least a Five. She turns around. She has a sweet face with bugging out, slanted eyes. Long, full lips. She’s even odder-looking than her friend. She grins at the dog. Then it clicks for me. Of course. They must be on some kind of field trip. Short-bus field trip.

  I pull the leash. The dog looks up at me. When he looks at me like that, I imagine he’s winking at me. So I wink back at him. I bend down and pat his black head, sharp, black ears above a white face. A wet brown nose and blue, not brown, eyes.

  My eyes, like the dog’s, are blue. Women love my eyes. There are a lot of other things about my face that women love, I’ve been told. I have good cheekbones. My mouth with its corners curling up a bit, a wide smile.

  Then there’s the rest of me. A strong, well-defined body. Lean and muscular. You might think: athlete. No tattoos, no scars except for a pale line on my shin from a bike accident. Tall enough, the third-tallest boy in class. Caucasian. Dark hair. Slightly tanned. A nice dick, seven-plus inches, cut. Shoe size, eleven; chest, forty-two regular; waist, thirty-four – an eight-inch drop. The neck, sixteen-point-five. Perfect proportions. But we’re not shopping for clothes here, so all of this simply means I look good.

  Presently, I get to the end of the sandy patch where there’s a small shack, a beach eatery. It serves “healthy smoothies.” This is a euphemism for thick, mud-green liquid. Brutalized fruit and veggies. Protein powder. A sticky, sugary taste in your mouth.

  I’m not here for the smoothies.The real reason I’m here is because the smoothies are the perfect girl snack. The place is swarming with girls. Sunburned, giggly girls that come from the beige inns. Or from the cheaply built beach houses. Or they come out of the hatchbacks of their parents’ cars. Giggly, jiggly girls determined to atone for last night’s beer and pizza with sugary mud. Girls keen on shedding their parents’ white-food values. Girls promising their growing belly bulges that they will eat better from now on: smoothies, wate
r, grass.

  There are a few tables outside the shack and a couple of smaller tables inside where there are computers. Girls in their cheapo beachwear squirm around screens watching videos of the latest pop sensation, whoever it is – lately, $isi. The smoothie cups sit empty, abandoned on the window ledges.

  Today, there’s the usual throng of girls gathered around the computer screens. $isi’s latest hit, “Brokenhearted,” bounces off the walls. There’s a coconut smell of tanning oil in the air. The girls sweat and vibrate with excitement. The song has a cocaine line of a hook. I remember a producer saying that a song is a success if you can’t imagine you could ever stop listening to it. But then you run out of your high, and only $isi can give you the right fix again.

  And only people like me can give you $isi.

  I have a sudden image of $isi tiptoeing to a bathroom. We’re in a hotel. A dark room, a vast white bed, me in it. She is holding herself between her legs. There’s sunlight cutting through the slit in the curtains. It divides the carpet in a straight, bright line, $isi’s brown feet turning white as she steps through it. She says, “I always thought that was a cliché, sleeping with people to get ahead in life.”

  “You feel used?”

  She turns toward me, “Not at all. Make me a star.”

  I can’t see her after staring at her feet, at the bright line for too long. Everything – her face – has vanished. Then it all comes back slowly, the contours of her face. Small and narrow, a mouse face. The clamped mouth. She looks like a child pretending not to be a child. But she is no longer a child. I’m not her downfall; I am her saviour. I will make her into a star.

  I do make her into a star.

  ***

  I line up behind a Seven and a maybe-Four and a solid Three.

  There’s some problem with the smoothie machine. Panicked bustling behind the counter.

  “She was so sad when I saw her in that video,” says the Three.

  “How do you know she was sad? Oh my god, it’s all just for show,” says maybe-Four. She’s got a look that’s all wrong. Her hair is wild and curly. There’s a lot of it, uncombed. Glasses, too. She’s either a lesbian-in-training or this is a pretty-girl-trying-to-be-ugly thing. Some men consider that cute. I don’t. I consider it tiresome.

  The Seven says, “I read on Perez that she, like, had a big breakup, but she won’t talk about it because she’s, like, becoming media-smart, so she’s just giving hints and stuff to the press.”

  “Please,” the maybe-Four says.

  “I don’t know, I just read it online.”

  “Yeah, when I saw her in the video, she really seemed totally genuine,” says the Three. In the same moment she looks up and sees me. She blinks. Looks down.

  The maybe-Four says, “Dolly, look at me, look, look. Guess if I’m sad or not, come on, look.” She relaxes her forehead, her dark eyes suddenly turning softer, bigger, bushy eyebrows going up a little above the glasses.

  The Three shakes her head, “Very mature.” She looks behind the Seven. Looks at me again. She does this quickly, nervously. It’s like a tick, that quick glance.

  I take in her face. It’s perfect. It’s round and a little flat with zero cheekbones. The chin is round, but already propped up by a promise of a second fold. She’s not fat. She’s well nourished. For now. Her eyes are the best feature. Round, doll-like eyes with supremely white whites, sugar whites, baby eyes.

  It’s almost always in the eyes. The hope and belief and freshness that nothing can recreate as a girl gets older. Sometimes you see it in celebrities, the baby-bright eyes. But that’s all artificial, mechanics at work. Armies of professionals and products: the liquids and lights that hide the yellowness of spray tan, the paleness of heroin, tiredness and heartbreak.

  “This is so annoying,” the maybe-Four says to no one in particular. She says it loudly enough to get one of the women behind the counter to look up in our direction. The woman’s eyebrows knot and unknot.

  “Em, be quiet,” the Seven hisses.

  The Three looks at me again. This time I invite her eyes into mine. I don’t look away. I don’t smile yet either. I just let the eyes do the talking – mine pulling and hers coming forward. Closer and closer until it’s pupil to pupil, my eyes engulfing hers in the sort of promise that she’s just started to look for in life. Open wide. My engorged dick in your mouth, I say with my eyes.

  I can sense the internal squirm: she wants to blink. But she doesn’t blink.

  Let me fuck you. Let me show you, teach you. Let me free you from your dumb, sad life for at least a few moments. Turn you over on all fours. Tell you I love your breasts, your ass. Pull your hair a little, make you gasp.

  Her head twitches, eyes down.

  There’s more noise behind the counter, near the smoothie machine. Someone shouts that it’s working. The girls in front of me stop talking. The line moves forward and they move with it.

  The Three looks one more time, and now I smile: Put your hand right here. See how hard you’re making me?

  ***

  Outside the shack, the dog is panting in the sun. An aggressively serious woman with yoga gear enveloping her flat, athletic body walks by and stops abruptly. Her face softens when the dog jumps with a stifled bark as I come out with my smoothie. A former Six, now a Four; she’s slowly turning into a thoroughbred horse; you can see her youth falling off her.

  I go up to the dog to make a show of petting him. I tell him he’s a good dog.

  I praise my dog for things like sitting and shitting and eating. If he could sing, I could make him a pop star. Same IQs.

  I check out my Facebook page to see if anyone’s commented on the rockfish with tomato sauté and brown rice. No one. When I look up, the woman is walking away. Her ass is nice, but she probably hates its plumpness that refuses to be processed by the gym equipment.

  The three girls come out and start to push patio chairs around one of the tables. They’re talking in whispers. I can feel the excitement.Without looking, I know they’re looking at us, my dog and me.

  I check my Facebook again. Homemade ravioli, one comment: “nice!” Someone named Cassandra. I have a vague memory of armpit stubble scraping my nose.

  There’s a scrunch of sand and clacking of flip-flops behind me. “What’s your dog’s name?”

  I turn around. It’s the Seven. Her face is a triangle of well-arranged cheekbones. Pointy chin, full lips. There’s hardness in her eyes that only comes from knowing that you’re pretty.

  “Dog. The dog’s name is Dog,” I say and her hard, clear eyes widen for a second and then squint.

  She says in a flat voice, “That’s funny.”

  “It’s very funny.”

  “Actually, my friend wants to know. She’s obsessed with dogs,” she says.

  “Well, it’s Dog. It’s easy to remember.”

  “Dolores, come over here,” she shouts.

  Dolores, the sweet, well-nourished Three, blushes a big blush that comes right through her sunburned cheeks. She gets up from the table.

  Who names a girl Dolores? It’s mean, like naming her Gladys or Bertie. It’s like naming a girl after her grandmother who was courageous because she survived the Nazis. Or had many children on the prairie somewhere and once amputated her own leg in the dead of winter, while running. But Dolores it is, and it’s perfect. It’s perfect that she’s stuck with the name of an old lady, more humiliating somehow.

  I watch Dolores walk. She’s got the barely-lifting-her-feet walk. In her flip-flops, she shuffles. It’s the walk of weekends in pajamas, evenings in front of the TV – a bowl of Lucky Charms and a glass of warm milk – the walk of slouching from class to class, panting runs around the gymnasium and moving side to side if forced to dance at the school prom, where she went with her gay best friend. It’s the walk of a girl who doesn’t want to be noticed, and I notice every single thing about it.

  “Hi,” she says, to me or to the dog. She sits down on the wet sand, facing the dog an
d stroking his stupid, happy face.

  “Hi. He likes you,” I tell her, and she looks up. Our eyes do their thing – mine telling hers that I like her. Hers unsure, but already rushing in, getting swallowed.

  “Dolores used to have a dog but it got hit by a car, right?” the Seven says. Dolores blinks and nods solemnly and says, “His name was Punky. It was my dad’s dog. An Akita.”

  I’m impressed. I know enough about dogs to know that an Akita is not an easy dog. It’s a large animal. Bigger than mine, with muscular though slim shoulders and paws twice the size of Dog’s. It’s a dog of single guys or couples – never couples with children. I wonder if Dolores’ parents are divorced. My dad’s dog clearly suggests that.

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  The Seven says, “Dolores was pretty bummed out, right?”

  “It’s okay,” Dolores says. “This is Kelly,” meaning the Seven, who looks a little startled by suddenly being introduced. She thrusts a little pink-nailed paw at me.

  I say, “Hi, Kelly. I’m Guy, nice to meet you.”

  “Guy’s your name?”

  “Yes.”

  Ready? One, two, three!

  “That’s funny. So you have a dog named Dog, and you’re a guy named Guy?” Kelly says.

  “That is funny,” I say. “And you’re Dolores?” I say to Dolores, who nods. She has broken eye contact to look into the eyes of the dog named Dog.

  “Dog. Nice to meet you,” she says to the dog, who says nothing.

  The maybe-Four remains at the table throughout this exchange. She’s absorbed in her phone, slurping her smoothie, but now she looks up. She wrinkles her forehead. I consider smiling. But no. I can tell she’s the kind of girl who’ll call me a perv to her friends the moment I leave: “Did you see the way that perv was smiling at me? Fucking gross.”

  It’s time to go anyway. I’m sure I got this. Just look at Dolores trying not to look at me.

  Kelly moves her hand to shield her face from the sun, “So you live around here?” She’s trying on confidence.