Sam Lipsyte - The Ask

"Sure," said Purdy, pinched a mass grave's worth of gummy frogs into his mouth. "We can do that."

"Which?" I said, waited for him to finish chewing.

"I don't know. All of it?"

"All of it? No disrespect, but-"

"You don't even know, man," said Purdy. He sounded a little sugarshocked. "My pockets run deep. Even these days."

He turned out a pocket and a few loose red hots popped to the pavement.

"Did I pay for those?"

"I think so," I said.

I had to take him at his word about the give, at least for now.

"This is great news," I said. "This is fantastic. We can go into greater detail later but it sounds like what you're saying is-"

"Shit, Milo, don't give me the boilerplate. Let's be people. I didn't hear you say anything about painting. Figured that'd be your interest. Need new studios or something? How about a huge prize? Don't be bashful. You want a sour worm?"

"No, I'm cool."

A police cruiser slowed beside us as we made our way down Madison and I wondered what the cops made of us, if they could see how much fucking candy Purdy was eating, if there were any laws about that. The cop peeled away and Purdy coughed. Dark gobs sprayed out of his mouth.

"Sorry."

"Won't that stuff keep you up?" I said.

"I can't sleep."

"Right."

We'd been walking in endless rectangles and now we were near the candy store again. The lights were out, the security gate down. We leaned up against the wall of a bank and I could feel the cool stone on my back, the billions of dollars thrumming through wires beneath and behind me, or on the night waves above. I wasn't quite sure how they traveled. Or how much they got out anymore.

Now a town car pulled up to the curb. The driver had one scrawny arm out the window. Something about his frizzy hair and enormous eyeglasses seemed familiar.

Purdy pushed off the bank wall.

"Hi, Michael," he said, turned to me. "Can I drop you anywhere?"

"I don't think so, no."

"Please, Milo," said Purdy. "Our meeting isn't over."

"Okay."

I slid in after him. We sailed down the avenue.

"Michael," said Purdy. "Do you want some chocolate or licorice? I know you don't approve of the gummy stuff."

The frizzy head shook in front.

"Your loss. So let's head down to the Fifty-ninth Street Bridge, take this man home."

"Good idea," said Michael.

"Really," I said, "you don't have to."

"I know," said Purdy. "But I want to tell you something."

"What's that?"

"I want to tell you a story."

"I don't like stories," I said.

"Everybody likes stories. It's part of being human. We tell each other stories."

"Then I guess I'm not human. Maybe I'm descended from ancient astronauts."

"Please, no ancient astronauts. No crop circles. Let's leave Maurice out of this."

"Maurice Gunderson?"

"He's a prophet, haven't you heard? A pied piper for the psychonautic Mayan rapture set."

"I heard him talk about this once. I didn't understand it."

"Forget Maurice. You were telling me why you don't like stories."

"They take so long," I said. "Most of them are a waste of time. I like jokes. Can you tell me your story in joke form?"

Purdy grinned.

"What is it?" I said.

"Nothing. You just reminded me of the way you were back in school. It's been a while."

"We had dinner last month."

"It's been a while."

Purdy tossed down some jellybeans, stared out the window where the towers on York shot past. This had always been my favorite part of driving over the Queensboro Bridge at night, catching sight of the lives in those lighted boxes, the chandeliers and paintings (always the same art-boom disaster in a shit brown study), the custom shelving, the enormous video screens, the well-off dozing on their leather thrones.

"Well, what's your fucking story then?" I said.

"So aggressive. I'm trying to put it in joke form here. Give me a second."

"How about just an elevator pitch?"

"Elevator pitch. Nice. Very 1989."

"What do you call them now?" I said.

"Stories. It's all about stories, man. Stories are money. Money is a story. I actually once hired a Ghanaian griot for our Friday meetings. It was great."

"Fine," I said. "Tell me the story."

"You don't like stories. Let's stay with the pitch."

"Wonderful."

"Good. Here we go. A rich boy goes to college. He makes a lot of friends. They all think they are special and that they suffer in distinct ways, but they are all hurtling down the same world-historical funnel. They will attempt to professionalize their passions, or else just get jobs. Some will do better than others. Some won't have to do better because of their trust funds. Despite what are often radically different fashion aesthetics, not to mention politics, they are all fundamentally the same."

"Elevator's nearing the lobby, pal."

"I do this for a living," said Purdy. "I know when the lobby comes."

"Sorry."

"They are all the same except for one girl, or woman, though, really, at this point, girl. Her name is Nathalie. Nathalie Charboneau. Scholarship kid. They meet in the library, the rich boy and the scholarship girl. In the smoking lounge of the library. That dates this, doesn't it? Anyway, they meet. They talk. They smoke. They keep talking. She's reading Schopenhauer. She tells the boy about Schopenhauer. He explicates some economic models he's been studying. They don't really converse so much as listen to each other. They like listening to each other. They agree to meet for coffee. She tells him a bit more about herself. She's from the area, a few towns away. It's a crappy town, the kind of town the town the college is in would be if there were no college in it. She lives in a crappy apartment above a crappy pharmacy with her mother and sister. Her bitter mother. Her junkie sister. But not quite those things."

"They fall in love," I said. "I think I remember her."

"You don't remember her."

"I think I do. I think I remember her, or saw her once."

"Trust me, you don't remember. You never saw her because I–I mean, the boy, not me, the boy-"

"Whoa, there, storyteller!"

"Fuck this," said Purdy, jerked back in his seat. "I thought you could do this for me. Help me."

"I'm sorry," I said. "Really. Please. Finish."

Purdy stared wordless out the window. The river glittered.

"Melinda's pregnant," he said.

"Congratulations."

"Thanks," said Purdy.

"Aren't you happy?"

"Yes."

"The drugs worked. You didn't have to go to Mars."

"That's true."

"You're going to love fatherhood."

"I don't need the line," said Purdy.

"Sorry."

"Let me finish my story."

"Your pitch."

"Yes," said Purdy. "My pitch."

It took a while. Maybe it had been designed for a very slow elevator. Or maybe it was really a story, no joke.

The rich boy, who of course became Purdy as the telling continued, fell in love with the scholarship girl. They had no secrets from each other, but Purdy kept her a secret from everyone else, from his country club set and his jet-set club and even from the faux-bohos he visited to cure his insomnia. The clubs and sets would never accept her, especially in lieu of one of their own. The arty types would, but in a manner that would be despicable, and he also might run the risk of losing her to somebody, like the ridiculous but faintly charismatic Maurice, or, more precisely, something, such as Billy Raskov's tremulous hunt for authenticity. Even Constance's revolutionary socialist pigtails seemed a threat.

"Shit," I said. "You were even more mysterious than I could have guessed."

"It wasn't a game," said Purdy. "I really cared about her. But I was too callow to handle it. She didn't want anything to do with my friends, though, so it was easy to just disappear together. We spent some time with her family. Her mom was sweet. Her sister was a little whacked. Of course, it ended after a few months. I didn't see it then, but the time limit was built into it. I'm not sure if that makes sense."