Sam Lipsyte - The Ask

"He mentioned that."

"It's funny. I can tell you're a no-account putz, but you and I, we're on the same side of the fence. We serve the same liege lord."

"I didn't realize we lived in a feudal system."

"You must be kidding. If you didn't learn that going to school with the likes of Purdy, what did you learn?"

"I learned about late capitalism. And how to snort heroin."

"That's cute."

"I used to think so."

"You're growing up. All you need to remember is that nothing changes. New technology, new markets, global interconnectivity, doesn't matter. It's still the rulers and the ruled. The fleecers and the fleeced."

"Which are you?"

"I'm a piece of expensive equipment. You, too. Maybe not so expensive. Do you have any other questions?"

"What is Purdy trying to do? What does he want me to do?"

"Containment, I think, would be one word."

"But to what end?"

"I don't think I'll live long enough to make an informed conjecture."

"How about uninformed?"

"You feel caught somehow. You want to honor the terms of your employment. But it's difficult because you've been shut out of the whole story."

"So, what's the whole story?"

"None of your beeswax."

"That's helpful."

"I do what I can."

"Well, if you won't tell me," I said, "I'll just have to go with what I think would be Don's version. It's pretty grisly."

"Are you threatening your employer? Our employer? Why don't you do it like a man? Did they teach you anything about being a man while you were learning about late capitalism, whatever the fuck that is?"

Lee Moss plucked a phone from his suit pocket, angled it to his ear.

"Hello, young Stuart!" he said. "Yes. Yes. Okay, I'll take care of that. He's here, though. Here he is. He has something to tell you. For you."

"Hello?" I said.

"You dog."

"Excuse me?"

"Billy Raskov here just told me that you used to bone that hot art professor, what was her name?"

"I don't know," I said.

"He doesn't remember her name!" Purdy called to somebody.

"No, I remember, it's just-"

"I'm playing with you, Milo. You're always so sensitive. So nervous. Don't be so nervous."

"I'm not nervous."

"You are, you're nervous. Come to my thing next week."

"What thing?"

"Don't eat. I hired this incredible chef. He dehydrates everything into these little figurines. He does a menagerie. The best part is it's not nearly as expensive as it looks."

"What time?" I said, but Purdy was already gone. I handed the phone back to Lee Moss.

"His father used to beat the living shit out of him. Can you believe it? Embarrassing."

"Purdy never mentioned that," I said.

"Of course not. Walter Stuart was a monster. You don't beat your son. You alienate him, distance him from any sense of self-worth, force him toward the womanish and then berate him for latent faggotry, but you do not beat him. That's for people just off the boat. Purdy was a tough kid though. Learned how to be a monster, too. Which is the point of the exercise."

"I see," I said.

"I really doubt you do. Here's a cashier's check. Look at the figure. Ask the Charboneau boy if he accepts. If so, he can come here to pick it up. He will be required to sign a number of documents. Waivers. This isn't to cover up any crime. That's why it pains me to pay out so much. I don't mind paying to cover up a crime. What else is money for? But this is just to protect Melinda's feelings. And she's a goddamn gold-digging twat. But her feelings must be protected. That's at the top of my to-do list. And as long as Purdy pays you, it's at the top of yours. Here's your check. The check for you. Read the amount written on it. You can see it's quite a bit more than you probably expected. When the boy has signed the documents, you will receive this check. And one final thing. Here's a coroner's report stating that Nathalie Charboneau died of complications arising from injuries sustained in a car crash. No foul play. So you can put your mind at ease. No crime. Just feelings. Pretty despicable, really."

Lee Moss closed the folder in his lap.

"I don't need a check," I said.

"Everybody needs a check."

"No," I said. "I need Purdy to reach deeper than this. I need him to make a big give to the university. Then I will get many checks. Paychecks. From my job."

"A sizable give might not be prudent for us."

"But that's what this is all about for me. That's what I've been eating the shit for."

"If you don't like what I'm telling you, you can walk away. This isn't the mob."

"Purdy promised."

Lee Moss dipped his head, reached for his lapel, spoke into it.

"Shatz, some of the Brazil nut carob chip, please." Lee Moss's eyes seemed lit with a new kind of joy. "It's a wonderful ice cream made by some young farming people upstate. It's keeping me alive."

"Of the pancreas, Purdy said."

"In my pancreas, yes," said Lee Moss.

The door opened and a stern young man in a suit carried in a tray with two bowls and two spoons and a periwinkle pint carton that read: "Blue Newt Creamery."

"I hope you'll join me."

"I ate before I came."

"Don't pass up life's treats, son."

"Okay."

"Wonderful."

The sounds of our spoons on bone china mingled with Lee Moss's hard breathing.

"My advice is to follow this through. Follow-through is the most important thing in life. Go see Charboneau. Tell him the number. Report back. We will see where we are. And perhaps, despite the volatility in the market, Purdy will be in a good enough position to make you a beloved man at your third-tier college. My grandson's at Harvard right now. He's a dummy. But then again most of them are. I went to City College on the GI Bill. This was back when there was America. How is your delicious treat?"

"Delicious."

"We are going to eat ice cream and we are going to eat shit. The trick is to use different spoons."

A firebird of new need had soared from the ashes of the need creation memo. Maura was stuck late at the office, couldn't pick up Bernie from Christine's. Maura's message made no mention of our trouble. All this searing silence, I worried we might be selling out, going Hollywood.

There was no time to visit Don before I got back to Astoria. The train climbed out of the tunnel, broke into a vista of rail-yards and brick. I called Don's cell phone.

"The flunky."

"Hi, Don."

"Greetings to you, sir."

"I need to speak with you. Can I make you lunch at my house? I'll have my kid at home, but I can keep him busy with a movie while we talk."

"Sure you want to show me where you live?"

I hadn't thought of that, though this was the first time Don, for all his posturing, had swerved into unadorned menace.

"Why not?" I said. "We have happy things to discuss."

"I have yook in my mouth," said Don.

"I'm sorry?" I said.

"I'm yooking in my mouth."

"Excuse me?" I said.

"I don't know," said Don. "What is it they say now?"

"Who?"

"The people I went to war for."

Bernie sat alone in Christine's concrete yard. He was chewing on a chunk of tire. The minivan was gone.

"Daddy!"

"Where's Christine?"

"She said she'd be right back. Told me to wait here."

I knelt to the pavement, put my arms out.

"I'm sorry, buddy. Come here. Everything's okay."

Bernie did not move. He picked up a candy wrapper, studied it.

"Daddy, look, it's a superhero."

"Bernie, I love you. I didn't mean for it to get like this. It'll never happen again. I promise."

"Aiden pooped on his winky."

"When was this?"

"I don't know. A million days ago."