Colson Whitehead - Apex Hides the Hurt

Lucky welcomed him into his office. His eyes adjusted to the daylight. This was the best sanctum yet, nicer than Albie’s Gothic fun house, certainly roomier than Regina’s car, nosing down nostalgic avenues. Each member of the city council had taken him where they felt at ease, but the sheer abundance of ergonomic furniture in Lucky’s office made it difficult to make the case for a more comfortable confrontation. A glimpse of the miraculous chairs and couches made his lumbar region vibrate with pleasure, as they appeared capable of cupping any cuppable part of his body. Three walls were mostly glass, introducing him to treetops. On the fourth wall, Lucky displayed an exhibit of factory novelties: rusted tools of inscrutable purpose, wedges of riveted metal. And of course examples of Winthrop wire, short strings of the stuff artfully arranged beneath a longer string of the stuff that spelled out ABERDEEN. Prickly to the touch, the man’s name, what with the barbs and all.

A trophy wall. Scalps. He steeled himself for Lucky’s pitch.

“Hello, friend. Are you ready for some barbecue?” Lucky patted his chest enthusiastically. “‘Cause I myself am starving.”

“Sure,” he said.

“Glad to hear it! Just called you up here for a quick hello. You getting along all right? Anything you need?”

“I’ve been getting along fine,” he said.

“That’s great.” Lucky nodded to himself and looked around the office. He clapped his hands together loudly. “Let’s head on down then!”

“That’s it?”

Lucky looked insulted. “You’re a professional,” he protested. “I trust you to do what’s right. Why else would we bring you down here?” Lucky walked over to the closet, ducked his head in, and withdrew a long silver briefcase. He motioned him over. “Check this puppy out,” Lucky said.

Instead of nuclear triggers, bearer bonds, or the key to the executive washroom, the briefcase contained barbecuing implements. They gleamed and sparkled in their cozy foam berths, tongs short and long, sauce brushes, spatulas, ornate skewers with odd symbols engraved along them. “They gave me this for my birthday last year. They all pitched in.” His eyes misted briefly. He lifted a two-tined fork and considered its weight in his hand, giving the impression that a samurai sword could not have been more magnificent. “Stuff like this makes it all worthwhile,” he croaked. “The love you feel sometimes. Sometimes it’s almost equal to the love you put out there.”

Before this unsettling moment could unfold into true awfulness, it was interrupted by a loud cheer from outside. He imagined tails pinned on donkeys, or battered piñatas.

“We should get going,” Lucky said, pulling an apron over his Indian Vest. “Gotta hit that grill.” He shut the briefcase and they started downstairs.

He felt disappointed somehow. No complaints about Albie’s antiquated worldview, no tortured descriptions of his eleventh-hour betrayal by Regina. No impassioned soliloquy on the spectacular rightness of New Prospera. And in the magic treasure chest? Only barbecue tongs and, he discovered later, the special recipe for an astounding vinegar-based sauce, which was folded in a special anti-humidity nook in the briefcase. The man had no reason to believe that the hired consultant would do other than what was expected of him. After all, as Roger had pointed out, Lucky had worked with his identity firm for years. So why waste the breath?

A young redhead race-walked around the corner, flushed and intent. Lucky’s face beamed out from her T-shirt. Out of charity, he assumed that the shirt was a promo item from the book tour, and not part of the mandatory uniform of Aberdeen employees. As in the town library, Lucky’s motto was cut off, asserting that DREAMING IS A CINCH WHEN YOU — before folds of fabric covered it up.

Lucky raised a hand. “Almost showtime!” It was unclear whether he was talking to the girl or to his own face.

She squealed naturally. “I’ll be there in a minute!”

Lucky looked at him and grinned. “I love these kids!” he exclaimed. Then his features pinched together. “And hey, I’m sorry about that interview,” he murmured, laying a hand on his shoulder. “It’s great to have employees who really believe in the product, but sometimes they get carried away. I take all responsibility, of course.”

“Of course,” he said.

They were about to hit the outside when Lucky paused, his palm level on the emergency exit. He could hear Help Tourists, Aberdeen employees, and who knew who else making noise out there. He winced at the notion of participating in a mandatory group activity, and hoped that eating would not be contingent on such a thing.

“Can I ask your professional opinion about something?” Lucky asked him, serious for the first time.

“Shoot,” he said. He should have known he wouldn’t get off easy. They all had the same lot number stenciled on the back of their necks, his clients, they were the same make and model. All of them so anxious to be heard, desperate to be soothed. He braced himself.

“Do you think Charred and Feathered would be a good name for a chicken joint? Like a nationwide chain, big sign: Charred and Feathered. Mascot and everything.” He looked strangely energized. “Came to me in the shower this morning. Been bugging me ever since.”

. . . . . . . .

Outside the hotel entrance, Bridget tapped her foot on the pavement. He was late. He coughed, apologized, and they made their way up to the banquet room on the second floor. She took his arm and he imagined energy flowing through that contact, as he siphoned off her health and prospects. And the nominee for Best Parasite is. .

He relished the feeling of déjà vu when he saw the doors. The last couple of years, this room had meant good tidings. Opened half an inch, the doors loosed a welcome symphony of chatter. Chatter — cocktail of conversations, disconnected mutterings, and non sequiturs of dingy social interaction — chatter was healthy, chatter was life, and a tonic for him in his state, fortifying him for a spell. He staggered forward eagerly and almost tripped.

Bridget grabbed his arm. “You okay?” she asked, sizing him up.

“Favorite night of the year,” he grunted.

Her palm was on his forehead. “Now you have a fever.”

Had he seen her worried before? He couldn’t remember, it was all fuzzy. He pulled her hand away from his face and squeezed it. “I’m great,” he said, and they were quickly inside the room. Swallowed up. He greeted, was greeted. He introduced Bridget to people who didn’t bother to remember her name, because they knew him and knew this would not last.

Eyes dipped to read name tags on breasts. Over and over again, bodies disappeared and people were reduced to white name tags levitating in the air before they became people again. This was a natural law in action. People kept pumping his hand and slapping him on the back and he had to fight back a scowl and struggle to keep himself upright. He imagined termites in his wooden leg. He left a trail of sawdust wherever he went. But no one could see it. He was grateful when it was time to be seated, and everyone scrambled after the tented rows of cardboard table assignments. The calligraphy was quite splendid. Everything in its right place.

Theirs was a small industry and they did not need a large room to congratulate themselves. Even if you had never heard of them, you could figure out the character of each firm by looking at its table. If you had a seating assignment, you were a flimsy metonym for your larger concern. Moniker Inc. pimped all things shimmering and diaphanous and hip. The old joke was that they wrote off their haircuts as business expenses, but he had been surprised a couple of months ago when he’d heard tell of the in-house stylist, and the mandatory biweekly adjustments. Morgan, Franklin, and Stern, the blue bloods, were dressed in conservative three-piece suits that functioned as space suits — bespoke tailoring keeping them safe from the hostile vacuum of a changing world. They were legendary for their political consulting, as the things they came up with occasionally won higher office. Morgan and the other dead boys were up for Best ReImagining, for saving TelKing following the indictment of their entire board for accounting fraud of new, almost supernatural proportion. (Rechristened UnyCom, the company was a Dow darling again.) New Partnership, over there in the corner, served the burgeoning multicultural and eco-conscious market, and the folks at their table appeared to have been beamed in from some politically correct future Earth. If only their ideas were not as 100 percent recycled as their clients’ products.