Joshua Cohen - Book of Numbers

All information offered by my employer, sin costo.

The info both explained, and became, my surroundings: The darkness was cypress, juniper, madrone. The trailside eruptions were of manzanita and sage. The interfaces scattered around the property obtruded with names, in English, in Spanish, their Native American names and Genus, species . I trackballed one: “Tell me more about chaparral .”

The interfaces served dual functions: to educate, sure, but for the more curious — to mark the perimeter of the wild. No Trespassing. Be content with what vantage you have. Go beyond, get a foot stuck in a conquistador helmet, a tomahawk wedged in the head.

I had the sense, though, that those woods were where the real party was — the real debauchery, I mean. Those woods were made for culty fucking, if not for fucking then for fireside circlejerking, critter sacrifice — who had the coke? what’s a Cali dally without pot (without unrefined hemp utensils, dishes, and stemware)?

I was about to make a break for them when the apéritif/hors d’oeuvres sampling was called by the perky MC, Conan O’Brien ( Late Night with Conan O’Brien ) — the only chair vacant was mine. I had to either leave or confront — a round table, Finnity counterclockwise from me, lagging always a moment behind.

“Yo,” he said.

“Eloquent,” I said. “Yo back.”

He took it, he grimaced but took it. Perspiration down my crevice, already.

“So,” he said, “a surprise?”

“I think our host knows it’s his birthday.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Sure, my life’s been nothing but surprises — for what’s it been for us? A decade?”

“10 years Aar’s filled us both in on.”

“What’s left to say then?”

“That ever stopped you before?”

“It wasn’t you I was avoiding in line, it was definitely Gwyneth.”

I didn’t mean to be so rude, just I felt — cornered, even at a circular table. Babysat, boosted.

“You want to know why I’m here?”

“I want to know why you think you’re here, Finn.”

“I thought it would be nice to talk.”

“I was going to say frequentfliers, I was going to say points.”

“I trust you’re keeping your receipts.”

“You came to intimidate me into getting to work — but you’re staying for the favors, the swag?”

Conan ( The Tonight Show with Conan O’Brien ), loosened tie, hair swept up like someone had jizzed it, told a joke about some Silicon Valley Social Media PR summit happening now “at the Best Western in Menlo Park,” but empty, unattended — not because everyone was here, but because it hadn’t been publicized.

“One dork, one geek, one nerd, all male, just hanging around polishing the icecubes.”

He told a Gwyneth joke funnier than mine — when Finn leaned in: “You might’ve made time for me in NY.”

We got sommeliered by a guy with a cowbelling tastevin. Finn went white, I went red, both of new autochthonous vintage.

His cheers: “To your book,” mine: “To your book.”

To ours, to theirs, earthy, hints of bile.

“Josh — this is us doing the mending, OK? Healing up? It’s enough. No more grudges. No more blame.”

“Sure, why not? How to argue that? Edit away — you’re the editor.”

“Keep lying to yourself — you’re the writer.”

“Finn, you can return to your prixfixe friends at Café Loup in peace. Your ambush was successful.”

“Enough, Josh? What did you expect me to do back then — take out a fullpage color ad in The New Yorker saying ignore the tragedy and read this book?”

“I get it.”

“Fuck it, I tried for you — OK? I had the Times chasing you for a feature, didn’t I?”

“The angle was like author victimized.”

“OK?”

“Wasn’t exactly dignified.”

“Nothing was dignified then except to shut the fuck up. Still I leaned on them to let you write it.”

“Promote myself — not exactly tactful either.”

“That was the choice — whore or be whored. But you went lofty.”

“But there could’ve been a rerelease. There could’ve been a goddamned paperback.”

“That was shit luck — it’s not like I landed so smoothly either. The quarterlies came around and we all had to explain our no sales and why we hadn’t been signing up Islam books all through the summer like we had warning. The publishers were acting like they’d all known about the attacks forever — why didn’t we know? Why weren’t we prepared with books on how to cope with jihad or the infrastructure of hawala or a comprehensive history of the House of Saud, or, fuck it, a Guantánamo tellall by the fucking 20th hijacker, OK?”

“Got it.”

Finn iced himself down and sipped, whispered, “You haven’t met our Principal, have you?”

“I was expecting you to introduce me.”

“He doesn’t know I’m here — I begged an invitation off an exgirlfriend from Gopal,” and he nodded a radius through the table at four brunette romcoms.

“Get her to introduce us, all four of them.”

“She doesn’t think he’s here.”

“I don’t think I’m here either.”

Our server approached.

She was wearing a stetson and roper boots, denim overalls underall which I’m not sure.

“Your preferenced meals will be out momentarily,” she said. “For now, does anyone need anything?”

Finn said, “Nada.”

“Just as an update,” she smiled, “for dessert you’ll be having the birthday cake, which is glutenfree, the candles are sustainable beeswax.”

“Muchas gracias.” Finn reached out to tug straight her bandana.

“Also keep in mind,” she was saying as she swatted his hand, “with continued climate change, drought will affect over half of the world in this century alone. That’s half of the whole world, not just the developing. So, we’re doing all we can to moderate our water waste. By not changing your plates, you’re changing lives. Snap the QR on your napkin rings to get involved.”

I excused myself behind her: pretense was the toilet, purpose was the bar.

I trailed, and turned past the wagonwheel tables of every industry’s pioneers, destined for the dimming. Passing fame, passing actual fame. Not the observed in the park, but the celebrated globally. People — what’s more than people? more like businesses, companies, corporations, states unto themselves? — whose reps, even, whose lowliest brand ambassadors, would never return my calls.

It was a reality show — an actuality show — a making of a behind the scenes collision. Two Nobel laureates (Physics, Peace), two models whose models, unlike the laureates’, I understood (thanks, Rach), the actor who got top billing in something Adam was in (won’t drop a name, but rhymes with “Mom Thanks”), another who won an Oscar for directing a host of somethings Adam was never in (rhymes with “Even Spielberg”), an andrologist with an infomercial system, a copyright attorney who commented on extremist cable, and Oprah? Fat Oprah and her skinnier double? Everyone lounging, chatty, bingey purgey — entouraging one another, giving interview, posing, thronging the serapedraped vitamix stations, mingling the dancezones, Tethelding selfies in pic and vid while decrying the paparazzi.

If they were invited, they were a celebrity. Even if this was just a job for them, they were a celeb. They had to be, the fame was contaminating. The wraithy freckled red bandanafied servergirl, all the servers, they were moonlighting microphenoms not only by moonlight but in their true industries too, with even the busboys, the prides of Sonora, maintaining their own stalky followings.

I joined, danced through — no one else had my moves — toward a holographic bonfire lighting up the forest. Finally, a pit of the party’s only stiffer provision, a makeshift cantina camp pitched twinkly out in the night like the last settlement before everything went savage — calling a younger crowd, guzzling heirloom beers and heritage cocktails of one part freerange to two parts forage, muddled into mason jars out of the back bays of circled Conestogas.