A Little Trouble with the Facts by Nina Siegal

wheel; splatters of color and symbols and references to cartoons.
    “I’ve guessed wrong on hundreds of artists people went crazy for when the market was hot in the eighties,” he continued. “Japanese collectors would’ve paid hundreds of thousands for some of these. I was just a kid, but I had a pretty nice allowance and people offered me things cheap. I had the idea I was going to get really rich speculating on art, make my dad proud. Each one felt like a sure thing. Today, these wouldn’t fetch a nickel at a farm auction. These days I try to invest in tangible assets,” he said, taking a step closer. “I like something that’s a little out of my reach. This work of art, right here”—meaning me—“would be worth the risk, I think. But my bids keep falling flat. Tell me, what does it take to have a shot at this masterpiece?”
    I took a step back. This move was a bit corny, I knew. But I listened for the sound of my schoolmarm’s tapping ruler and didn’t hear it. “I don’t know,” I said. “Sounds like you might lose your shirt.”
    I bumped into an old rocking chair and the ghost of his grandmother revived. Jeremiah took another step forward and steadied the rocker. “And a few other garments.”
    My defenses were down. The attic was small, and he was so close. Plus, I’d lost my bearings somewhere back in Ilin Fischy’s bathroom, and now I couldn’t tell the difference between badinage and a corny come-on.
    Jeremiah backed me into the chair and I sat as gracefully as possible. He leaned over me. “Tell me what it takes,” he said, “to win you.”
    The rocker rocked again. His breath was warm on my lips. Why was I so resistant, anyway? After all, I wasn’t like the naïf back on East Fifth Street. I reached up and put my hand through his black curls. They were welcoming. He knelt down in front of me and put his hands around my waist.
    Just this once, I thought, for the second fatal time that night. He moved in to kiss me, and before my lips assented, I heard my schoolmarm’s ruler one last time. One final, distant tap.
     
    Now I had two new bad habits: Jeremiah and his ever-present companion, devil’s dust. At first, we were a happy threesome. Things looked simple through a haze of white. Life was happier without the constant tapping of that vigilant ruler. And I’d convinced myself that I was so good, I didn’t even need to be that alert.
    Jeremiah, too, made it all seem simple. Devil’s dust for him was de rigueur. How else could we keep up with our busy social schedule? Who cared if we spent half the day in bed? No one asked questions, and no one else mattered. If I started to make a few mistakes at The Paper, who was the wiser? People had learned to value Valerie Vane. A few corrections here or there wouldn’t fell me. And best of all: I no longer felt sad or angry, or anything, really, about that girl I’d left on East Fifth Street. Whocared where I’d come from? To live in Manhattan was to be born again and again and again.
    So, three months later, when we were sprawled on the floor of Ilin Fischy’s bathroom, snorting off the toilet seat, I found the opportunity to share my secret with Jeremiah. We’d been at it for three days. Hopping from party to party, bathroom to bathroom, dumping vial after vial on mirror after mirror. I’d blown off work for a few days as the stories I was working on were, I kept telling Buzz, “taking up all of my time.”
    Jeremiah gave me my cue. “You know what’s funny?” he said, sniffing and knuckling his nose. “Ever since I met you I’ve had this funny feeling.”
    “What’s that?” I slid across the floor and took the straw. We were running low again.
    “Like I’d known you before. Like we went to the same elementary school or something. You know? A weird sensation, like I knew you somehow before.”
    “You just don’t remember,” I said, getting on my knees over the toilet. “We met.”
    “We did?”
    I took the razor from