Simon Rich - Spoiled Brats - Stories

“Fuck,” Rip said.

His phone began to vibrate in his hands. He waited for it to stop, but it kept on throbbing, like a bird trying to escape from his clutches. Eventually, after five or six minutes, the shaking subsided and a line of text flashed nightmarishly onto the screen. Rip’s eyes widened. He had over four thousand voice mails.

He brewed a pot of stale Blue Bottle and spent the afternoon catching up. Stinky was managing accounts at BBDO, one of the biggest international advertising agencies on earth. Fish had gone to law school, taken a job at White & Case, and moved into a brownstone in Park Slope. His sister was married with a daughter, and his parents had moved to Boca Raton. The Jacob Fred Jazz Odyssey had changed lineups. The year was 2014. Rip wasn’t twenty-seven anymore.

He was thirty.

“Sorry I’m late,” Rip said. “The G took forever.”

“Why didn’t you take a cab?” Fish asked.

“What?”

“A cab, ” Stinky said. “So you’d be on time.”

Rip stared blankly at his friends. He was confused and frightened.

“Well, we’ve lost our table,” Fish said, throwing his manicured hands up in frustration. “So I guess Ruby Foo’s it is.”

“Whoa,” Rip said. “That place is kind of pricey. Can’t we just, like, go to Burritoville? They’ve got free chips and those sauces.”

His friends ignored him and bounded south, their black loafers slapping against the pavement.

“I’m so hungover,” Rip said. “That Four Loko fucked me up big-time.”

Fish nodded. “You should do a cleanse.”

“A what?”

“A cleanse,” Fish said. “I’ve been on one for six weeks. No alcohol, no caffeine, no refined sugar. I feel fantastic.”

They got to Ruby Foo’s and sat down in a booth.

“Sparkling or tap?” asked a waiter.

“Sparkling,” Fish and Stinky said in unison.

The waiter carefully poured them Pellegrino. His cheeks were full and rosy, and some pimples were clustered around his hairline. Rip winced at the realization that the waiter was younger than he was.

“You guys know I slept for three years, right?” he asked his friends.

Stinky sipped his Pellegrino. “You should see a doctor,” he said. “Someone good.”

“My guy’s fantastic,” Fish said. “He made New York ’s Hundred Best this year. What insurance do you have?”

“I’m not sure.”

“You’re not sure? ”

Rip felt his cheeks flush beneath his beard. He opened the menu and anxiously scanned the prices.

“Do you think they’ll let me have just the extra chicken, but not the salad?”

“What?” Fish said.

“It says, Chinese cabbage salad, fourteen dollars, but then there’s six dollars if you want to add chicken. Do you think they’ll let me just have the chicken? For six dollars?”

“You want a plate of loose chicken?”

“I mean… I don’t know.”

Stinky and Fish started talking about the new Malcolm Gladwell book.

“His thesis is pretty counterintuitive,” Stanley said.

“That’s why it works,” Fish said.

“Guys, I slept for a long time,” Rip said. “I’m scared.”

The waiter returned to the table.

“Have you gentlemen decided?”

Rip cleared his throat.

“Can I just have the chicken that you can add to the cabbage salad but not the salad?”

“Excuse me?”

Rip stared down at his lap. He could feel his friends’ eyes on him.

“Never mind,” he mumbled. “I’m not hungry.”

The waiter turned to Stinky.

“And for you, sir?”

“Sashimi,” Stinky said.

Fish held up two fingers.

“Two sashimi,” the waiter confirmed. “Good choice.”

“I hate it when they comment,” Fish said when the waiter was out of earshot.

Stinky nodded in agreement. “It’s unprofessional.”

Rip looked on dumbly as his friends resumed their conversation. Their words were strange to him: Roth IRA, Shelter Island, Roberto Cavalli. He couldn’t follow any of it.

His stomach rumbled as his best friends ate their sashimi. He hadn’t eaten breakfast, or any other meals, for several years, but he was too embarrassed to ask them for a bite. Within a few minutes, every sliver of fish was gone.

“So what are you guys doing tonight?” Rip asked during a lull in a discussion of gyms.

“What do you mean?” Fish asked.

“After this,” Rip said.

Stinky and Fish squinted at him.

“It’s almost ten,” Stinky said. “I’m going to bed.”

Fish nodded. “I’ve got two breakfast meetings tomorrow.”

“Come on,” Rip said, grinning desperately. “Let’s go back to my place and jam.”

Fish chuckled. “I don’t think my fiancée would approve of that.”

“You have a fiancée?”

“Her name is Lisa.”

“How is Lisa?” Stinky asked. “Is everything… resolved?”

“The doctors say her thyroid is fine,” Fish said. “But it was quite an ordeal they put her through. She had to have a biopsy.”

“That’s so traumatic,” Stinky said. “Please tell her I’m thinking of her.”

“Thank you,” Fish said. “That’ll mean a lot to her.”

Rip cleared his throat.

“So… are you guys… like… not into jazz anymore?”

“I love jazz,” Stinky said. “I gave to Lincoln Center this year.”

“So did I,” Fish said. “I’m in the Patron’s Circle.”

“I’m in the Angel’s Circle,” Stinky said. “You should do it. Once a year there’s a luncheon with Wynton Marsalis.”

“What’s he like?”

“Lovely.”

“What the fuck is going on?” Rip said. “Why are you guys talking like this? What the fuck is happening?”

“Whenever you’re ready,” said the rosy-cheeked waiter as he subtly slid the bill onto the table. Fish and Stinky flicked down a pair of MasterCards and glanced at Rip expectantly.

“I didn’t eat anything,” Rip said.

“I thought you had sashimi,” Stanley said.

“I didn’t!” Rip said. “I didn’t have a single piece!”

His voice came out a lot louder than he’d meant it to. Fish and Stinky glanced at each other.

“Don’t worry,” Stanley said. “It’s on us.”

Rip followed his friends as they headed for the exit, buttoning their blazers as they walked.

“We should do this more often,” Stinky said as he climbed into a cab. “It would be nice to make it a monthly thing.”

“Or at least bimonthly,” Fish said.

He shook Rip’s hand and hailed a cab of his own.

“Bye, Fish,” Rip said.

“It’s Fred,” Fish said.

It took Rip three hours to get back to his apartment. The G train had deteriorated since the early 2010s. It had always been slow, but now it was downright decrepit, like a sick old man lumbering around in the dark.

Rip trudged up the stairs to his apartment, pausing to catch his breath at every landing. Eventually, he made it up to the sixth floor. He stepped over his pile of bills, snorted his last two Adderalls, and flipped open his laptop. It was getting late and he had a lot of work to do on his jazz blog.

There aren’t a lot of jobs out there for elves. You can work in the toy shop, a nonunion hellhole, and handcraft Hess trucks until you get arthritis. Or you can become an Elf on the Shelf. For me, growing up, the choice was easy. I know it will be challenging to monitor a child’s behavior 24/7 and report every detail to Santa. But I want the opportunity to leave the North Pole. I want adventure and excitement. So the first chance I get, I hop in a box and let them ship me to a Walmart.

I wake up on a boy’s shelf in Tampa. His face is smeared with Hot Pocket meat and his hair is cut into a rattail. As soon as I see him, I start to wonder if I’ve made the right decision.