Sam Lipsyte - The Ask

"Holy shit," I said. "That's it. You're good."

"When we return from the break," said Jane, "we're with our celebrity chef in the prison kitchen. The prison cooks watch with bemusement as the chef's shock at the meagerness of utensils mounts. Don't they even have a paring knife? A goddamn strainer? Yuckety-yuck. So now the chef speaks to the camera about his philosophy of food. Food doesn't need to be fancy. It just needs to taste good. Especially in bad times. It's all about simplicity. Fresh fruit, fresh vegetables, good bread, cruelty-free meats. It's sad how out of reach these things are for so many Americans. As to the prisoner's last meal, well, the chef has been doing a lot of soul-searching. The worst thing would be to take too big a gamble, to prepare something wonderful but too foreign to his taste. Those of us not about to be executed can afford an adventurous though vaguely disappointing dining experience, the ostrich steaks and persimmon spaetzle not nearly as scrumptious as advertised. But this one has to be right on the money. So, we will work with all the tastes and textures that Clarence-Clarence, right? — already craves. The only purpose of this meal is to take him back to maybe the one brief moment in his sorry life he felt loved. We may have a little fun with presentation, but the grub will be solid, familiar, though much fresher, juicier, more savory, than this food-court castoff could ever have imagined. Now come the snafus. The hurdles, the drama. What do you mean we have to go all the way to Lubbock for thyme? I said Syrah, not Shiraz! No, they're not the same! The usual diva hilarity, but with this incredibly compelling undertone of impending death. We intercut the chef in the kitchen with the prisoner penning his final thoughts in his diary, or kneeling with his prayer group. The executioners test the straps on the gurney. The warden stares out his office window at the new moon, ponders the price of justice. And then the moment we've been waiting for. The prisoner sits at a cute little table set up in, no, not his cell, but in a little conference room near the warden's office. White tablecloth. A rose in a vase. Our chef brings out the meal, explains what he's prepared and why. The prisoner takes a bite, begins to cry. He had a mommy once. The chef begins to cry. He still has a mommy, but he's so busy chasing those Michelin stars he doesn't get to visit her enough. The warden stares. His mommy used to lock him in a manure bin. We cut away. We'll let the man eat his last meal in peace. Commercial. Come back to final thoughts from the chef, back in his restaurant now. The whole experience has changed him. But he hasn't forgotten the victim or the families. He thinks about them, too. He thinks about the whole sad tragedy of it all. Maybe if everybody could eat well there wouldn't be so much hate in the world. But he will keep doing what he's doing, cooking meals with love, doing his little part to bring peace to the planet, dish by dish. Fade out to words on the screen: Clarence Howard O'Grady was executed on blah blah for the murder of blah blah and blah blah. His last words were these: 'I am sorry for what I did and the pain I caused. I wish I'd had Jesus in my life sooner, and more omega-3s. In my next life I'll wash dishes in Chef Gary's fancy restaurant in New York, so I can have artisanal baloney every day. Sleep tight, you world, you motherfucker."

Jane smiled, drained the rest of her Bellini.

"Is that basically it?" she said.

"That's it exactly."

"Thought so."

"That was amazing."

"Thank you."

"So. . do you think. . I mean, could you be interested in something like that?"

"If my name were attached to something like that I would commit suicide."

"Oh."

"But here's my card."

"Oh, okay."

"Please pass it along to your friend. The deck builder. A documentary about how reality television has warped the fantasy life of everyday Americans, that could be interesting."

"Very," I said.

"Case studies."

"Yes, right."

"So, did Purdy put you up to this?"

"Purdy?"

"Pretty funny. He's a sick puppy."

"Well, if you need any help with your documentary. You know, legwork."

"Legwork."

"Right."

"Take care, Milo. Nice to see you."

Jane turned, moved off into the crowd.

"Where's my fucking knife?" I said, but she was already gone.

I went back to the bar for another round.

"The same?" said the barman.

"Yes," I said. "A double."

The kid filled my tumbler to the rim.

"Oh, damn," he said. "I forgot the ice. Now there's no room. I'm really sorry."

"How are you going learn if you don't make mistakes?"

"But I'm in the field. This is live liquor."

"Don't worry. I'll take this bullet for you."

I winked, walked. I was not a winker. This worried me.

"Milo," Purdy called from the fireplace. "Come back over here. I want you to meet somebody."

He stood with a generically stunning woman in a black silk dress. There were thousands, or at least several hundred, just like her in this part of the city, on Hudson and Chambers and Franklin and Worth, perfect storms of perfect bones, monuments to tone and hair technology. Around here she was almost ordinary, but you could still picture small towns where men might bludgeon their friends, their fathers, just to run their sun-cracked lips along her calves.

"Melinda, this is Milo. I told you about Milo."

"Yes. Welcome."

"Great to meet you at last," I said. "I've heard so many wonderful things."

"By all means, begin transmission."

"You look beautiful. Purdy said you'd been having a hard few weeks."

"Oh, it's fine," said Melinda. "I'm not the first woman to get knocked up and puke."

"Well, I think it's very exciting. The home birth, all of it."

"I always dreamed it would be like this. Purdy has been so fantastic about meeting my desires. I'm afraid I've been really demanding. But we worked so hard to get here. I'm not ashamed to say how many times we tried, how many ways. But finally I'm pregnant, and I've never been happier in my life. Really. You are the best, baby. And we are going to have the best baby! Ha!"

"But not at the Best Place," said Purdy.

"I'm just so excited," said Melinda. "And I'm learning so much. I won't bore you with it all. But the doctors and midwives have been tremendous."

"So have you, Mel," said Purdy. "You've been tremendous, the tremendousist, the tremendousiast, of them all. And I speak as a husband and a grammarian."

"Is it weird to say how much I love this man? You have a wife and son, Milo, don't you? You know this feeling."

"Sure," I said. "The feeling. Absolutely."

"Why don't you two enumerate my amazing qualities," said Purdy. "I'll be right back."

We watched Purdy walk away, join Charles Goldfarb at the bar. He glanced back at us, waved.

"Would you like to feel?" said Melinda, tilted the tight swell of her belly.

"You're barely showing."

"It's okay. Touch it."

"Really? Most women I've met hate that convention."

"I never knew this."

"They don't understand why any man would feel entitled to-"

"Just put your fucking hand on it." Melinda smiled.

I laid my palm on her stomach.

"So tight," I said. "You could bounce a dime off that."

"Sounds fun. So, tell me, Milo, how is it all going?"

"Well, it's going great. I'm sure Purdy told you about the new arts pavilion and I just have to say-"

"Not that," said Melinda. "The kid. Purdy's other darling child."

"Excuse me?"

"What do you think, I'm just some clueless bitch? Ever been to Elizabeth, New Jersey?"

"Driven past it."

"Exactly. But it's where I'm from. Now I'm here. You want to know something? I really do love Purdy. I was always going to marry for money, but I had choices. I chose Purdy. I wanted Purdy's child. I wanted his first child, but I guess I'll have to settle. He could have told me from the beginning, I would have been fine with it. I would have made a place for that kid in our family. Theoretically. Now that I've met him I'm not so sure."