Sam Lipsyte - The Ask

"No, he didn't."

"What about Schopenhauer?"

"What about him?"

"Give me the capsule."

"The what?"

"The takeaway."

"Pardon?"

"You're not the enemy, Charles, but fuck you."

"You're incredibly drunk."

"To tell you the truth, I'm not even clear on whether I'm standing up or sitting down right now."

"Then maybe you should sit down."

"No," I said. "I think that would be a bad idea."

That sleeper fiend, my hangover, had given notice at the smelting plant, deposited his family under the floorboards of his garden shed. He stood over me now in Claudia and Francine's guest room, his eyes fish-dead behind the barrel of his skull-mulching gun.

"Please don't shoot," I moaned.

"It's nothing personal."

"But why?"

"Why what?"

"Why are you here?"

"You sent for me."

"I did?"

"You're an alcoholic."

"No," I said, "I'm just a heavy drinker."

"Maybe," said my assassin, "but who's got the gun?"

I stood dazed in the shower for forty minutes, half dozing, half soaped, loosed wet, scorching farts, muttered things like "Christ," and "swill," and "malaise." When I'd wasted enough water to hydrate an Eritrean village for a year, I remembered the climax of the previous evening, the appearance of Don, his truncated challenge, those stylish goons under stern Floridian command, Michael Florida himself hauling Don out, and to where, exactly? Worry got me onto the rose-embroidered bath mat and into my clothes. I called Don's cell and left a message. I called Purdy's cell and left a message. I texted Purdy to find out if he had gotten my message. Then I staggered over to Claudia's wicker lounger and collapsed.

Later, misery beaten back into temporary cover with a pot of coffee and some Valium from Francine's dresser, I made my way to Jackson Heights, stabbed Don's buzzer, sat on the stoop to wait. A basement door banged open and a young guy in a basketball jersey stepped out.

"Hey," I said.

The man waved.

"Nabeel?"

"Do I know you?"

"No. My friend lives here. Said your name once."

"Oh, yeah? Why did he say my name?"

"Just talking is all. Telling me about the crazy boiler."

"The boiler."

"Yeah," I said. "So, you like basketball?"

"Basketball?"

"Your shirt."

"Shit, man, it's a shirt. Not a statement."

"Sorry, just making conversation."

"Don't do that. And why are you smiling? You stick out. You see anybody smiling around here?"

Nearby an old lady in a calico dress knelt on the sidewalk, slid a dog turd into a Ziploc bag. Though maybe it was some other order of turd, as I saw no dog.

"No," I said. "I don't."

"I rest my case."

It was not clear to me what, for this kid, constituted a case.

"I'm waiting for a buddy of mine," I said. "Seen him?"

"How would I know if I'd seen him?"

"You'd know," I said. "He's got metal legs."

"Sure he's your friend?" said the man.

"What do you mean?"

"The guys here last night, they said they were his friends. Don's been pretty quiet. Suddenly he has a lot of friends."

"Who was here last night?"

"Like I said, some guys."

"Have you seen Don today?"

"No."

"Let me into the building, I need to see him. You can come with me. I need to see that he's okay."

"I can't do that. My uncle would be pissed."

"Please," I said.

"I can't do it."

"How much can you not do it for?" I said.

"I can't do it for between one and fifty-nine dollars."

I slid three twenties from my wallet.

"Here."

We climbed through the hot stink of the stairwell.

"Don," said Nabeel, knocked hard on the door. "Don!"

The way he called the name, the intimacy of tone, made me wonder if they'd talked some, if Don had told him anything about Purdy.

"You ever rap to Don about his life?"

"Rap? What kind of word is that? Are you a cop?"

"No."

"So why are you asking this stuff? It's weird."

"I just want to help Don," I said. "Did he tell you anything?"

"Don invited me up for beers a few times."

"Did you talk about anything?"

"We talked about pussy. Maybe he said something about the war a few times. But really we talked about pussy. We had good talks. We each had our insights, you know? So, what's the deal?"

"Pardon?"

We stood there for a moment, silent. A TV roared, a toilet flushed, somebody maybe dragged a child into a room.

"Open the door," I said.

"I don't have the key."

"Of course you do. He could be OD'd in there."

"If he's dead, he's dead."

"He could be alive. People hold on for hours. A day, even. But nobody comes. Open the fucking door."

"Okay," said Nabeel.

Then the door swung open and Don stood before us, his pants held up in his fist.

"Milo," he said. "Come on in. I'm just finishing up a shit. Make yourself at home. Nabeel, you're welcome, too."

"No, I should go," said Nabeel.

I followed Don into the apartment. He slipped back into the bathroom, shut the door. The room looked brighter and bigger than last time, the red drapes heaped on the floor, the apartment stripped. He had never owned much, but now he was down to the card table, one folding chair, a saucepan, some smudged water glasses, a spoon. Papers lay curled under the radiator. I picked one up, a pencil sketch, a fairly good one, of a World War One-era military officer with a bushy mustache, his legs sheathed in shiny black boots. Phone numbers and email addresses and odd bits of math sprouted in the spaces around and between the soldier's thighs. One number was circled, the same figure I'd seen on the cashier's check in Lee Moss's office.

I picked up the spoon, saw burn marks on it, heard Don's girls creak on the floor behind me.

"Could have used that spoon in the john just now. Colon needs a serious scooping."

"Thank you for not sharing," I said.

Don flopped on the bed. "We're going to scoop shit and we're going to cook dope," he said. "The trick is to use different spoons."

"The teachings of Lee Moss," I said.

"That dude," said Don.

We sat in silence for a moment.

"So," said Don, "did you come here to tell me what a fool I was last night? Because I already know. Some others from your crew have already been by. It's all been explained."

"They're not my crew."

"Oh, no? Well, I don't care anymore. I'm leaving this goddamn city."

"To go where. Pangburn Falls?"

"That's right, Bangburn Balls, baby."

"Don, there could be more for you in life than that."

"Than what?"

Don stared at me, tapped his knuckles on the wall behind his head.

"I don't know," I said.

"No, you don't. Why would you even say that kind of thing? Did it ever occur to you that unless you have money, every place is equally shitty? You know, those guys, my father, they just wanted to pay me some money to shut me up. Like hell I'll take it, but at least it's understandable. It's scumbags of one breed dealing with a scumbag of another. But you, what are you about? What are you selling? Or are you buying?"

"I've never been clear on that."

"Don't work it out on me. And don't try to humanize me, you fuck. It's insulting. Why did you come here?"

"I wanted to make sure you were okay."

"I'm never going to be okay. Now leave, leech."

Back at the Mediocre suite, I slouched at my workstation and wondered how I'd gone so wrong. Where was my dignity? Also, where was my computer? I noticed now that my workstation lacked its primary instrument of work. The telephone looked forlorn by itself on the desk. I slid a pad and some pencils beside it, wrote: "Ask about your computer. And ask for more Post-Its. It's your time."