Christopher Sorrentino - The Fugitives

“People do not say this directly, Kat, but I can tell sometimes that they believe I possess secret knowledge. They come to me with questions about this and about that, important questions as well as insignificant ones. And yet there’s nearly always a subtext present. The subtext has to do with what is the knowledge I seem to possess. You cannot work in a position of some responsibility for as long as I have done without being able to detect this subtext. Subtext is perhaps everything. Some might say context. I would argue subtext. Context provides a valid means of interpreting subtext, yes, but the one informs the other mutatis mutandis . Are you familiar with this once-common phrase?”

A man wearing a reflective orange vest appeared in the roadway about thirty yards in front of her, carrying himself with the slow and unselfconscious bearing of men and women who stand amid herds of traffic for a living, pointsmen and toll plaza attendants. He signaled to her to detour left: the airport was shutting itself down, section by section.

Nables went on. “In either case, people may be correct. They may be correct that there is a certain knowledge I possess. But this knowledge only can be acquired empirically. One thing I do know for certain is that journalism is not a metaphysical undertaking, Kat. Possibly it seems to you that it is. I have little doubt that much of what you learned in college shunted aside reasoned argumentation in favor of brazen assertions. Conventional wisdom is always going to favor the brazen assertion. It is going to favor the utterances of men and women of unwavering self-certitude. Some might say that the modern condition calls for this. That it is in the nature of the times. But historically, Kat, it has been ruinous. I need refer only to the best-known examples of destructive dictatorships to demonstrate my point. Certitude is an understandable comfort to a species as physically and morally fragile as we are, but it is ruinous when applied when it is reason that is required. The point is that I possess neither certitude nor secret knowledge. I possess the experience that enables me to act in a way characteristic of myself and worthy of the position I occupy.”

The snow was falling heavily. Kat hunted for the wiper controls in the rental, twisted the climate control knob to direct the airflow at the windshield and drive back the fog spreading from its edges into her field of vision.

“Are you still there?”

“Yes.”

Nables drew a breath. “I believe that I have earned a measure of respect from those with whom I work, Kat. To be clear: respect is not something that is doled out in accordance with mystical beliefs. One earns it. Respect needs to be earned. Beyond the basic conceptual framework of it as something of which we are all deserving, respect is not something we come to automatically, nor is it something we apportion equally. We do not put it on a scale and then cut it into wedges for equal distribution to all. Personally, I find respect to be a challenge. A true challenge, as stern a challenge as any my mother encouraged me to step up to as a young boy. How do I respect this person with whom I disagree? Who observes unfamiliar customs? Who simply looks different? How do I grant them the benefit of the doubt, which perhaps is all respect adds up to in the end? How do I find a way to do this?”

The large white flakes descended thickly, falling at a slight angle; decorous and individually distinct in the streetlamps, swarming and chaotic at the level of the headlights. They massed on the windshield between swipes of the wiper blade.

“Rising to this challenge has given me a certain ability to empathize, Kat. I mentioned subtext earlier. For any event in reality, there is a subtext that is equally real. Perhaps more real. Perhaps reality is nothing but subtext. Human beings offer up very little that can be trusted on the basis of appearances alone. One could argue that what we call reality often is no more than the setting in which subtext thrives. Look at us in our clothes. What are you wearing right now?”

“Excuse me?”

“Never mind that. I am suggesting only that beneath our outward appearance, things often are quite different, radically different, than what one might anticipate. I wear a sign that says ‘Midwest Editor.’ You wear a sign that says ‘Staff Writer.’ Do you understand what I’m trying to get at?”

“Not exactly.”

“What I am trying to express is that the outward signs say that we are not equals. But inwardly, we are equals, in many respects. And therefore, because we are equal inside, it should go without saying that you should, out of respect, grant me my authority.”

“I still don’t understand.”

At the top of a slight rise a stoplight appeared suddenly out of the snow, and she braked, fishtailing slightly. She thought she’d try the Holiday Inn this time. Something out of the glide path. Although nothing’ll be landing tonight.

“Ahem. I mentioned challenges earlier. One challenge that I encounter in my position of responsibility is the subordinate, the protegé, if you will, who does not bother to consult with me. Do you know what it is that troubles me most about this? The fact that, deep down, these persons know that my experience and my judgment are sound. Deep down inside, these persons know that it is my sound judgment, developed from years of experience, that stands between them and their doing exactly as they like, no matter how foolhardy it may be. Does this sound familiar to you, Kat?”

“I don’t know. Should it?”

“Oh, I should think so. I should think so, Kat.”

“You’re breaking up,” she said.

She imagined him sitting in his Steelcase enclosure, the phone pressed to his ear, listening into the white silence. The long-suffering Nables. It occurred to her all at once how badly he wanted her to be on his side. It was mildly insulting.

SHE ASKED FORa room facing the water. Once inside, she discovered that the bay window was neatly cut off by a wall dividing her room from the one next door. Standing in the awkward little alcove formed by the remainder of the window — more like an abrupt 45-degree convexity in the wall — she noted that her view consisted of a tiny sliver of the harbor and a large section of the mostly empty parking lot below. Snow fell through the night. She called room service and ordered a BLT.

Time to deal with Justin. She said it singsong to herself. He would likely be eating now, fragments of barely edible dreck, stored leavings in plastic sacks shoved into a corner of the freezer and stiff with cold. There was an eloquent blank white rectangle provided on some of the sacks suggesting that an industrious homemaker might, if he or she so desired, write down the name of the thing the bag contained and the date on which it had been stored. Around their house, no one so desired. This was how the gourmet fed himself when she was away: she knew his rebuke so well. Discomfort food, she called it.

There were times when she entertained herself by inventing a third party, always biased in her favor, to whom she could explain the situation: a licensed counselor in some homemade space on the lower floor of a two-flat, sometimes a judge in an open court pastiche that was strictly the product of her imagination’s collision with Hollywood. Tonight she invented parents, a solid pair of hazy ethnicity and class background. Mom bustled. Dad brewed coffee. She sat at a dinette table. Bits of tender routine. It was safe, with no sign of struggle; she could pour herself into it completely. He won’t even feed himself, Dad. Forget that he can eat anywhere he wants anytime. Forget that about six of his hipster friends own gastropubs and tapas bars. He won’t even go to Jewel and pick up a barbecue chicken. I mean, whatever. Bla bla bla, I know it sounds corny. To you guys it must just seem like a rough patch. But I swear rough patch sounds good compared to this. I feel honestly like I’m going crazy. He follows me around. He’s always talking . Everything is a disappointment but he doesn’t really want to change anything. Except me. I’m always in the position where I either have to lie or get yelled at. I’ve never had so many secrets in my entire life. Even from Danhoff. Danhoff wanted me at least, whoever I really was.