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Boner | Nov 27 2001

Rachel asked if I would betray my bathroom-mate Michelle for a million dollars.

Michelle, in case you don’t know, works for a famous publishing concern and is very nice. Twice she has given me color-laser copies of drawings she’s made, I believe with crayon. I liked these drawings enough to save them in a folder marked MICHELLE. Also, the bathroom we share abuts her apartment, so sometimes when I’m in there peeing or what-have-you, I notice the music she’s playing and invariably like it and feel pleased she lives there. Also, when I’m in a certain mood, I like looking at the things on her bathroom shelf, such as this yellow plastic carrying case she has with a giant bumblebee on top.

Rachel and I were talking about the $25 million award for Bin Laden, when the conversion segued to Michelle, a less abstract case. The idea was that Michelle was on the FBI’s Most Wanted list. We never discussed what she had supposedly done to get on that list, aside from probably killing several people, but I assumed a political angle, something along the lines of the Weather Underground. Not that Michelle is such a blatant politico; it’s just that I had trouble imagining her killing anyone for fun or profit. Well, I had trouble imagining her killing anyone for any reason, but that’s beside the point.

The question was whether we would turn her in, and my first thought, I’m proud to report, was to knock on her door and advise her to pack up that bumblebee and run. However, Rachel pointed out that if Michelle was really who the FBI said she was, she might very well kill me on the spot, for fear I’d betray her. Thus I amended the plan to include a reference to a note left with a trusted friend, to be opened in the event of my death. As soon as this came out of my mouth, I realized how stupid it was: What was to stop Michelle from killing me anyway? Fear of some idiot reading my note? She’d be long gone.

This is when I decided, fuck it, I’m turning her in. Who am I to mess with someone wanted by the FBI?

And then there was the money to consider. The money, I’ll admit, was the main thing. A million dollars equals a shitload of broccoli with fried tofu at China Star ($2.75 a pint), not to mention the opportunity to write full-time and not work and travel and maybe buy some land somewhere.

For Rachel, though, the money was irrelevant. You do the most moral thing, period. So if you think it’s moral to turn her in, you turn her in. Otherwise, you don’t. And in no case do you accept any money.

So what do you do when you’re having a perfectly nice discussion with your girlfriend and your girlfriend surprises you by taking the moral high ground, leaving you with no defense, basically, your greed sticking out like a boner?

You change the subject. I asked Rachel if she would eat a plate of shit for a million dollars, and she said would.

“Hey, me too,” I said. “That makes two of us. I’d eat a plate of shit for a million dollars also, sweetheart.”