Convergence Station

What do you do when someone you care about falls in love with a liar?

I’d barely seen my best friend Calvin in months. His first serious girlfriend, Phoebe, had him pinned to his mattress with, “The meaning of life, dude.” They’d met at work at the hospital uptown. All my friends were pairing up and splicing their genes, but I wasn’t worried about Calvin marrying Phoebe, I was worried about his heart. Phoebe could never look me in the eye. Calvin deserved to be happy, to get lucky, but Phoebe felt like bad luck.

Doing things without Calvin made my life feel like a spinoff. In one episode, I took my eight-year-old niece Gia to the multiverse. Convergence Station is a gargantuan interactive art exhibition at Meow Wolf, Denver’s premier surrealist attraction. Weaving our Saturday afternoon through its blacklight caves, spaceship interiors, and hidden passages felt like an acid trip without the brain cell stir-fry.

“What is all this?” asked Gia, pointing at everything. “Is this real life?”

“Sure. I mean, sorta. It’s art.”

“Like the art you make?”

“Ohhhhh, I suppose,” I said, admiring a DeLorean strapped with a rocket booster.

“Wanna check out that sick rocket car?”

“I want pizza!”

Interstellar Mozzarellar was an extraterrestrial diner. We sat in a booth decorated to look like we’d been served purple calzones and hologram-green salads. Gia belched the alphabet while I looked out the window. I saw Phoebe in the back of the DeLorean, making out with some guy with a broccoli cut.

“Got you,” I mouthed, recording them on my phone.

I’d always suspected Phoebe of being a cheater. Still, it didn’t feel real watching her stretch Broccoli Boy’s lower lip like a gummy worm. I should have confronted her, but who needs smoke when you have fire?

Texting the evidence to Calvin felt downright mean, so I took him out for some Korean barbecue that night to show him in person. I told him it was an emergency.

“Damn.” He stared at my phone. “Damn, dude. Dang it.” His cheeks were rash-red.

“Recognized the mystery guy?”

“No,” he shook his head. He looked like a confused rabbit, his front teeth turning his lower lip white.

The server came over. I ordered for both of us since Calvin was still processing. “Wings for me, black goat stew for him. More beer.”

“What are you going to do?” I asked Calvin.

“I’m going to call her.”

“On my phone?”

“Sorry,” he said, giving it back. “I’m going outside for a sec.”

He had his phone pressed to his ear as he speed-walked past the row of waving Maneki-nekos. Our food came, and I waited a few minutes before digging in. By the time I crunched into my fourth wing, he texted that he was heading to Phoebe’s.

“Hit me up later,” I texted back.

He didn’t.

Over the next few days, I kept texting him, asking how things were going, letting him know I was around. I figured he was taking it hard because the first time someone stomps your heart, the dent never fully pops back out. But Calvin was smart; he wouldn’t do anything crazy, like, you know, forgive her skanky ass.

Then, Sunday afternoon, I got a text from an unknown number, always an annoying thrill.

“Get over here.”

“Over where? Who dis?”

“Phoebe. Come to Calvin’s. We need to talk. Now.”

It had fight-me-energy. How could I say no? I put on pants, jumped in my truck, and tore through the rain to Calvin’s, feeling like I needed to take a cold brew dump.

Calvin was renting a loft downtown above an empanada place, so his apartment always smelled spicy. I knocked, and Phoebe answered, looking frigid with her Wednesday Adam’s braids and purple lipstick, a glass of wine in her hand.

“Well, well, well,” she said, not looking me in the eyes.

“Well, well, what?”

“If it isn’t the artist.”

At the time, as a side hustle, I was selling commissioned artwork online. We don’t need to get into it, but they were custom-made, and most of them involved Disney characters.

“You literally summoned me here. Can I come in?” I almost pushed by, but didn’t until she stepped aside.

Calvin was washing dishes, a gauze bandage taped to his cheek.

“Sup, dude?” I asked.

“Hey man.”

“You good?”

“Dermatologist. Had a close shave with Melanoma.”

There was a cute girl on the couch wearing round glasses, a pink beanie, and her jaw was defiantly set.

“I don’t think we’ve met,” I said, flirting.

“Jill.” She smiled, then seemed to remember not to.

“Nice to meet you, Jill.”

“Thanks.”

The atmosphere was charged.

“Have a seat,” Phoebe said to me, pouring herself more wine next to Calvin. They looked like a study in light and shadow as she led him into the living room. I sat next to Jill while Calvin and Phoebe sat on the loveseat across from us.

“So,” said Calvin, rubbing his palms together, looking at me. “We figured it would be better to do this in person.”

“Do what?”

“Hash this out,” said Calvin. “This whole situation.”

Phoebe snorted into her wine glass.

“Situation?” I asked.

“Fabrication,” said Phoebe.

“Fabrication?”

“Are you a parrot?” asked Phoebe.

“No?”

“Ok, ok,” said Calvin. “Bill, I understand you have something to confess.”

“I have something to confess?”

“About the video you showed me.”

“I think the video speaks for itself,” I said.

“Told you,” Phoebe nudged Calvin. “He’s not going to admit it.”

“Admit what?”

“That the video is fake,” said Phoebe. “It’s fuckin’ AI.”

We all sat there, a strained still life, while rain splashed the windows.

“Phoebe, that’s absurd. What are you doing?”

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Who’s the parrot now?”

“You’ve always hated me for no reason,” she said. “Oh, wait, I know why you hate me. Because I won’t fuck you, that’s why.” Her speech was fast and frenetic, like her tongue was lashing beyond the control of her jaws.

“Whoa! No!”

“Yes!” said Phoebe. “Why else would you be creating images of me on your phone? To jerk off to!”

“I recorded you!”

“And where exactly did you record me? I’ve had acid trips that looked more realistic than that.”

“At Meow Wolf!”

“Well, I’ve never been to Howl Golf, so yeah, no.”

“She’s gaslighting you,” I said to Calvin. “Look into your heart, bro. It’s not AI. You know it’s not.” I was trembling.

“Making hentai for gooners is no longer enough, so now you’re trying to wreck our lives,” said Phoebe. “It’s actually unhinged.”

“Unhinged,” echoed Jill, who I’d forgotten was sitting next to me.

“I’m sorry, why are you here, Jill?” I asked.

“She’s my friend,” said Phoebe. “And she’s getting her B.S. in computer science at Metro.”

“I’ll say.”

“Jill watched your little video. What did you say to me when I showed it to you, Jill?”

“It’s AI,” said Jill. “An obvious dupe.”

Phoebe held out her hands like she was weighing justice. Her lips were smug and pouty.

I grabbed my hair and pulled it a little, which I hadn’t done in years.

“Can you just admit it, bro?” asked Calvin. “I’ll forgive you if you come clean.” He kept rubbing his palms together, which always grated on me. I stood up and started pacing.

“Look at him. He’s got nothing,” said Phoebe. “All he can do is waddle around, yanking his hair, crying.”

“Shut up, Phoebe. My eyes are watering because it’s so goddamn spicy in here.”

“Don’t tell her to shut up,” said Calvin.

“I was at Meow Wolf on July sixteenth. Seventeenth? I can show you the transaction on my bank account. Facts!”

“Doesn’t prove shit,” said Phoebe.

“Show us your transaction history,” I said, pointing at Phoebe. “It’ll prove you were there too.”

“I’m not showing you my finances.”

“Look, if the burden of proof is on me, then let me prove it to you, Calvin.” I pulled up my shitty banking app. “Yep, right here, July 18th, 12:01 PM. I was there. So was she.”

Phoebe held her phone for Calvin to see. He studied it, then his weary eyes flicked to me. “No Meow Wolf,” he said. “Says she went to Dave and Buster’s that night, though.”

“So he bought her a ticket then they went to Dave and Buster’s.”

“Who?” asked Phoebe.

“I don’t know, Phoebe. Mr. Broccoli Boy.”

“Phoebe took me to Dave and Buster’s,” said Jill. “Facts.”

“Jill, I don’t know you but, just by looking at you, I can tell you are not a Dave and Buster’s fan.”

“I am.”

“Prove it! Prove you love Dave and Buster’s.” I said.

“How?”

She had me there.

“Phoebe took me out for my birthday,” said Jill. “We were having such fun until Calvin called, crying about your AI video.”

“This is the craziest shit ever.”

“So stop acting crazy,” said Phoebe, taunting me.

“Wait,” I said. “Show me your ID, Jill. Is it going to say your birthday is on July 18th?”

“Show me this, show me that,” said Phoebe. “He’s scrambling. People can celebrate their birthdays even if it’s not on the exact day.”

“I don’t have it on me,” said Jill. “Sorry, I didn’t expect to be carded.”

Calvin got up. He stopped short of putting his arm over my shoulder. “It looks like you’re not ready to admit you messed up,” he said. “So I’m asking you to leave.”

I spent the next few days waiting for him to come to his senses. No dice. Phoebe posted bedridden selfies of her wrapped around Calvin, filtered to make them look revoltingly cute. After a week, I texted him, “I miss you so much,” but he blocked me. Her infidelity had made them stronger.

My spinoff continued. I went to a company outing at Coors Field wearing Oakleys, a backwards baseball cap, and an overpriced jersey. I got drunk and grossed everyone out by sticking my straw through a hotdog to drink my beers. After the Rockies lost, we roved over to Coyote Ugly on 16th Street.

“Is this the most underrated bar in Denver?” I asked the bartender with the orange wig dancing on the bar.

She squatted in front of me, showing off the sailor tattoos on her inner thighs. “People ask me that every day.”

“Love the tats.”

“Henna. How about a shot, Magic Mike?”

I opened my mouth like a baby bird. She dumped out way too much Casa Migos and got some in my eyes.

“Oh, shit!” I took my sunglasses and hat off.

She gave me some napkins and when I was done wiping my face she said, “Oh, shit! You’re Calvin’s friend Bill. I didn’t recognize you with the hat and sunglasses.”

I squinted. “Jill?”

“Guilty.”

“Didn’t recognize you either. Your hair, uh, wig looks good.”

“I’m never myself here.”

“Putting yourself through school?”

“I’m always putting myself through something.”

On the drive back to her place in Aurora, I passed out in the passenger seat. In the carport, she shook me awake saying, “You can sleep out here, but you won’t get lucky.”

The next morning, I drew circles on her backside while we laid in bed and talked.

“Do you think I’m fat?”

“Ass is fat. Now that you’re sober, do you still think I look like Magic Mike?”

“I meant Street Magic Mike. Wanna go again? Then I need to make myself presentable for work.”

“Coyote Ugly does brunch?”

“Second job. Skeleton Key on South Broadway.”

I knew the vintage store and its bus smell. Robyn blasting on the sound system, worker-hipsters folding piles of clothes, shopper-hipsters throwing them into new piles.

I rolled Jill on her back and bowed under the sheet.

After a while, she said, “I haven’t been to Dave and Buster’s since high school.” Her fingers gripped the back of my head. “Hiiiiiiiiiiiii never saw the video! Phoebe paid me fifty bucks to lie! I’m going through a rough patch. We’re not even fffffriends! She comes into Skeleton Key to donate c-clothes. The store credit is a really good deeeeeeeal!” Her hips spasmed like she was possessed. “God, that felt good!”

It was Saturday, so I didn’t have work. I scooted away from the wet spot and leaned against the headboard while Jill threw on leggings and a Green Day T-shirt. She said I could stay if I wanted. “Just don’t do anything crazy while I’m gone.”

“Like what?”

“Dude, I don’t even know. I didn’t expect this.” She polished her glasses and held them to the light.

“You scared of Phoebe?” I asked.

“Not really. That money is gone now so I have nothing to lose except…”

“What?”

“I’d like you to be here when I come back.” She put on her glasses. I raised my eyebrows. She held up one finger like, Please shut up, ok?

“Are you some kind of computer wiz, though?” I asked. “Like, are you even in school?”

“Adiós.” She snapped on a purple fanny pack and left.

I couldn’t figure out how to work Jill’s shower, so I washed my cock in the sink, then ate tortilla chips nude on her couch. I put on Disney+ for background noise and tried thinking things through. Jill had never even seen the video. It only existed on my phone because I hadn’t sent it to Calvin, so he never sent it to Phoebe. And yet, Phoebe knew exactly what Calvin was talking about when he confronted her about it. Then, when I played into her little setup, Phoebe had him block my ass. I let go of my hair and sat on my hands. What do you do when someone you care about falls in love with a liar? Can he be convinced otherwise? Did Calvin actually know the video was real? What’s worse: being brainwashed or pretending to be brainwashed? I got up to hunt for more snacks.

I looked at pictures stuck to the fridge under bottle cap magnets. No wonder I hadn’t recognized Jill at Coyote Ugly; she looked like a different person in every picture. Short hair, long hair, wigs, glasses, colored contacts, yo-yoing weight, makeup, no makeup, and more costume changes than a hitman. I unstuck a picture of her standing in front of a blue aquarium, a chubby shark loomed behind her. I had an idea.

I went back into Jill’s bedroom and laid under the sheets. With the picture of Jill and the shark on my chest, I held my phone high, in portrait mode, and snapped a picture. “Interesting development,” I typed for the caption, then hovered my finger over the send button. I wanted Phoebe to know that I wasn’t going to disappear with the truth. Then I remembered Jill’s parting plea: “Just don’t do anything crazy while I’m gone.” Was I being crazy? I felt a little crazy, so I saved the text, and went back to sleep.

Jill came home and we had another great night. Then another. We started spending all our free time together. When you start spending all your time with someone, anniversaries happen, days you share with only them. These days become the meaning of life.

I never texted Phoebe; Calvin never texted me. The truth took on a life of its own. Jill and I got to know the world. We took Spirit Airline flights to Mexico City, Big Sur, and New York; a pregnancy was terminated, leases signed, barn weddings attended, gender reveal parties endured. We got a beagle and named him Quint. Sometimes I made Jill cry. We quit drinking. I made her laugh more. One Sunday afternoon, we were watching a horror movie on the couch with Quint snoozing on her lap. I hadn’t noticed I was pulling my hair until she gently took my hand and held it in both of hers. That’s when I realized Jill was my best friend.

On anniversary number six, I proposed to Jill in a bathtub in Paris. We eloped City-Hall-style. When work got less crazy, we threw a proper rager at Meow Wolf. To bury the hatchet, I invited Calvin, plus one. He showed up late with a little girl, cute as can be, with her mother’s Dutch braids. We hugged, teary-eyed, and caught up while his daughter, Rosie, danced with Gia.

“How’s Phoebe?”

“Caught her sexting with some guy.”

“Damn, dude. Dang it.”

“Long time ago. She denied it, of course. I was going to leave her, but…then she was diagnosed.”

“Cancer? She died?”

“No! Wow, no. Phoebe is very much alive.”

“Sorry. I mean, good.”

“Did you know she was bipolar?” Calvin asked me.

“How would I know that?”

“That’s fair. I knew. I mean, I suspected for a long time. The signs were painfully obvious.”

I remembered the last night I saw Calvin at his apartment, the puffed-up bandage on his cheek.

“You met her at work,” I said, figuring it out. “But you never said you were colleagues.”

“Turns out, a manic pixie girl can charm the pants of a virgin.”

“Facts. So what happened?”

“Once we had Rosie, I had to be honest with myself. I realized I could recognize Phoebe’s mental illness, but I didn’t have to bow to it. We got divorced.”

“You got married?”

“Eloped the same afternoon she took the pregnancy test. I really should have taken a day to…check the calendar.”

A little telepathy passed between us; maybe you’re thinking what we were thinking. We watched Gia lift and twirl Rosie, both of them laughing, doused in disco lights.

“But I wouldn’t have it any other way,” he said.

“Is she ok now?”

“She’s great, I guess. Remarried to a pilot, had another kid, lives in a dumb cabin mansion Granby. Being sick doesn’t make her a bad person, but she doesn’t seem interested in being a better person either.”

Gia put Rosie down, then Rosie face-planted, only to get back up triumphantly, just in time for “Intergalactic” to let the beat drop.

Calvin said, “I’m so happy for you, dude. So happy it doesn’t feel real.”

“Same. And it is.”

“I know. Now I know.”

He threw his arm over my shoulder and pulled me onto the dance floor.