Sam Lipsyte - The Ask

"Don't worry about it," said Goldfarb.

"Okay, I'll try not to. So, Charles, I think I saw somewhere you wrote a book?"

"Thanks, I appreciate the kind words."

"What kind words?"

"Sorry," said Goldfarb. "Embarrassing reflex."

"Poor Chuck," said Purdy. "He suffers from Post-Praise Stress Disorder. It's left him a wreck. I saw your thing in the paper last Sunday, by the way. Fantastic. Blistering. And thoughtful. Speaking of blisters, did you guys notice what's hanging over the fireplace?"

"Come on, Purd," said Billy.

"Check it out," said Purdy, pointed across the room to a large canvas, a luminous twilit landscape. "The latest Raskov."

A river coursed through a verdant gorge. The sky bled rich reds and blues. In the mossy foreground, a nude woman tongued the anus of an elk. Nearby, a figure in a shepherd's tunic lay disemboweled. A fawn fed on his viscera.

"It's called Renewable, Sustainable ," said Purdy. "Can't take my eyes off it. Billy's gallerist killed me, but I had to have it."

"I'm impressed," I said. "I didn't know you could paint like that."

"Thanks, buddy. I'll admit I still can't touch your technique, at least as I remember it, but I've been getting better."

"Billy's having another big show next month," said Purdy.

"That's great," I said.

"You should come to the opening."

"I'd like that."

"I was thinking," said Billy. "Are you in contact with Lena? I haven't talked to her in a long time, I'd really like to-"

"Yeah, I really haven't been in contact."

"Not since it was full contact, right, bro?"

"Excuse me?" I said.

"Just joking."

"I think it's hot," said Purdy. "Milo, could I have a word with you?"

"Sure."

"Over here."

Purdy led me away from the group. We passed the barman, who nodded. Maybe this private audience with Purdy confirmed my top-shelf status.

Purdy wheeled near the corner of the room, clasped my shoulders.

"Well?"

"A pavilion," I said.

"Not bad, huh?"

"I can't thank you enough," I said. "Really. It's so amazing. I'm still processing it."

"What's the matter with you?"

"What do you mean?"

"It doesn't seem like a very happy process, judging by your face."

"I am happy. I really am. I'm just spent. You know I collapsed? I collapsed from happiness. I had to be hospitalized."

"No shit."

"So. ."

"Don't tell me," said Purdy.

"Don't tell you what?"

"You're pissed."

"What are you talking about?"

"You're pissed I went over your head."

"No, I'm really not."

"It had to be that way. For your benefit. Shit, in a way this whole thing has become about you. I care about you. Don't you get that?"

"I do."

"You've got to stop resenting me. It's foolish."

"I know. And really, thank you."

"You're welcome, asshole."

"I deserve that," I said.

Purdy took a breath, gazed past my shoulder.

"Lee Moss died yesterday."

"Oh, man. I'm sorry. I just saw him."

"I know. He took a bad turn that evening."

"I'm really sorry, Purdy."

"He was an old man with cancer."

"I know he was close to you. Like family."

"Let's not get too sentimental. He helped my father defraud the government. Because of that my father had more money to leave to me, the boy he liked to beat senseless. Moss was the old breed. Took care of business. Ethics were for the Sabbath. Just a hardworking shark, a true Jew lawyer. No offense."

A tall woman in white walked up, tilted her Bellini in greeting.

"Oh, hi, Jane."

"Hello, Purdy."

"Jane, you remember Milo Burke."

The gray eyes of the governor's daughter seemed to sparkle as they surveyed the damage.

"Yes, of course, how are you?"

"Great," I said.

"Wonderful. What have you been doing with yourself?"

"Working."

"Very nice," she said.

"Be right back," said Purdy, pecked Jane's cheek.

"How about you?" I said.

"I've been working, too. On a few projects."

This woman's power had always resided in her courage. She'd defied her father, defied him still. She made her films to destroy his beliefs. Whether he also helped fund them was not the point. She'd been given an out at birth, a frictionless existence, refused it. I did admire her for this. But she'd taken my knife. Worse, she probably had no recollection of this fact.

"What kind of projects?" I said.

"I just finished a film about a family in a refugee camp in Chad. And I'm doing something about health care, the uninsured."

"They're being murdered," I said.

"It's true," said Jane.

"There was one woman upstate, our age. She was in a coma in a hospital, but her. . carrier cut her off. She died in transit to the state ward."

"That's terrible. Did you know her?"

"Not really. Some of her relatives."

"Really? Would they speak to me? We're doing a lot of interviews before we start."

"No," I said. "I don't think so. They're pretty private."

"Well, let me know if you think they would. These stories need to be told."

"I will."

"It was nice to see you again," said Jane.

"Wait," I said.

"Yeah?"

Here was my moment to ask about that night, the party. I didn't want the knife back. I just wanted to know if she remembered, to understand how one event could mean so little and so much.

"No, I just was going to ask. ."

"Yes?"

"I have an idea for a TV show."

"That's nice."

"Well, it's really my friend Nick's idea, but we're collaborating."

"Nick?"

"Nick Papadopoulos."

"I don't know his work."

"You might. You might have sat on his work. Though probably not."

"I'm not sure where you're going with this."

"He's a builder. A contractor. Builds decks."

"Is it some kind of home repair thing? I don't really do that sort of-"

"No, no," I said. "It's a cooking show."

"Cooking? I think we're full up on those. See that guy in there?"

"Right. So, take that guy in there, Mr. Kitchen Badass. Now put him on death row."

"Pardon?"

"I mean not him. I mean he's there, but he's not on death row. But he's going to cook a last meal for somebody about to die. Dead Man Dining . You know why those last meals are so crappy?"

"Because they all eat crappy food in those parts of the country."

"Yes, bingo. Now bring on the Kobe beef."

"Excuse me?"

"I mean. . wow, Nick is much better at this. It sounded different when. . oh, forget it."

"No," said Jane. "I'm intrigued. Let me see if I've got you right. America's best chefs come to America's worst prisons to cook lavish last meals for condemned convicts."

"Yes. That's what I was trying to say. Perfectly put."

"I can see it," said Jane, snatched another drink from a passing tray. "First we film the chef on the way to the airport, nervous but excited, and also moved by the gravity of the event. He reflects on crime and fate and society, how lucky his own life has been. Then he arrives at the prison and meets with the warden, who explains in somewhat disturbing detail what the condemned man did. Whether you agree with capital punishment or not, there's no getting around the fact that a court of law found this hick guilty of hacking the girl up in the forest, or mowing down the returns line at the shoe outlet. A sober few minutes. Then the fun. Our chef sits down with the maniac. They talk about food. While the unschooled but unquestionably bright killer talks about the staples he was raised on-chicken fingers, hamburgers, onion rings, cola, processed bread, and peanut butter laced with rat shit, we start to feel for him, his crime recedes, and what we are watching is a boy who never had a chance to taste the better things, to know possibility, to see a way out. It's sad, but a quick cut to the warden will remind us that we should be careful about where our sympathies lie. And what are the families of the victims eating tonight? Commercial."