furniture in the years I’d known him. All those years, alone, no children, no American overabundance, devoting himself to only one idea, the personification of which sat half a foot away from him, one leg tucked under her, a sign that her distress was abating. One thing Joshie could always communicate was the fact that he wasn’t going to hurt you. Even when he did.
They were talking youthfully: AssDoctor, girl-threshing, Phuong “Heidi” Ho, the new Vietnamese porn star. They used words like “ass hookah” and teenaged abbreviations like TGV and ICE that brought to mind high-speed European trains. The wrinkle-free, wine-blushing Joshie, his body run through with new muscles and obedient nerve endings, leaned forward like a missile in mid-arc, his mind likely flooding with youthful instincts, the need to connect at any cost. I wondered, heretically, if he would ever miss being older, if his body would ever long for a history.
“I really want to draw, but I’m no good,” Eunice was saying.
“I bet you’re good,” Joshie said. “You have such a sense of-style. And economy. I get that just by looking at you!”
“This one teacher in college said I was good, but she was just this dyke.”
“OMFG, why don’t you doodle something right now?”
“No freaking way.”
“Totally. Do it. I’ll get some paper.” He pumped his fists into the sofa, propelled himself into the air, and was running for his study.
“Wait,” Eunice shouted after him. “Holy crap.” She turned to me. “I’m too scared to draw, Len.” But she was smiling. They were playing. We were drunk. She ran after Joshie, and I heard a sharp youthful yell-I could barely tell which of them was responsible. I went over to the abandoned sofa and sat in Joshie’s space, savoring the warmth my master had left behind. It was getting dark. Out the window I traced water towers and the unadorned backs of once-tall buildings leading up to the glass-and-cement scrim of development that lined both banks of the Hudson River, like two sets of dirty mirrors. My apparat patiently provided information on various real-estate valuations and compared them with HSBC-London’s and Shanghai’s. I pressed the wine bottle to my lips and let the resveratrol flood my system, hoping, praying for a few more years added to the countdown clock of my life. Joshie came back into the living room. “She wouldn’t let me watch,” he said.
“She’s actually drawing?” I said. “By hand? Not on an apparat?”
“Hell’s yeah, home-slice! Don’t you know your own gf?”
“She’s so modest around me,” I said. “FYI, no one really says ‘home-slice’ anymore, Grizzly.”
Joshie shrugged. “Youth is youth,” he said. “Talk young, live young. How are your pH levels anyway?”
She came out, blushing but happy, clutching a sketchpad to her chest. “I can’t,” she said. “It’s stupid. I’m going to tear it up!”
We raised the appropriate protests, outdoing each other with our thundering baritones, Joshie rapping his mug on the coffee table like some coarse fraternity brother. Shyly, but with a hint of flirtation probably borrowed from an old television series about women in Manhattan, Eunice Park handed Joshie her sketchpad.
She had drawn a monkey. A rhesus monkey, if I wasn’t mistaken. A bulbous gray-haired chest, long heart- shaped ears, perfectly dark little paws holding on tenuously to a tree branch, a whirl of gray hair on top, below an expression of playful intelligence and contentment. “How meticulous,” I said. “How detailed. Look at those leaves. You’re wonderful, Eunice. I’m so impressed.”
“She’s got you down, Len,” Joshie said.
“Me?” I looked at the monkey’s face once more. The red, cracked lips and rampant stubble. The overstated nose, shiny at the tip and bridge, the early wrinkles dashing up to the naked temples; the bushy eyebrows that could count as separate organisms. If you looked at it from a different angle, if you moved the sketchpad into half- shadow, the contentment I had previously discerned on the monkey’s slightly fat face could pass for want. It was a picture of me. As a rhesus monkey. In love.
“Wow,” Joshie said. “That is
Eunice said it was awful, that twelve-year-olds could do a better job, but I could tell she wasn’t entirely convinced. We each hugged him farewell. He kissed her cheeks for a while, then slapped me quickly on the shoulders. He offered us a digestif and some Upstate-sourced strawberries for the road. He offered to go down in the elevator with us and deal with the armed men outside. He stood in the doorway, clutching on to the doorpost, watching the last of us. During that final moment, the moment of letting go, I saw his face in profile, and noticed the confluence of purpled veins that made him look momentarily old again, that produced a frightening X-ray of what burbled up beneath that handsome new skin tissue and gleaming young eyes. That stupid male shoulder-slap wasn’t enough. I wanted to reach out and comfort him. If Joshie somehow failed at his life’s work, which of us would be more heartbroken, the father or the son?
“See, that wasn’t so bad,” I said in the Town Car as Eunice put her sweet, alcohol-reeking head on my shoulder. “We had fun, right? He’s a nice man.”
I heard her breathing temperately against my neck. “I love you, Lenny,” she said. “I love you so much. I wish I could describe it better. But I love you with all I’ve got. Let’s get married.” We kissed each other on the lips, mouth, and ears as we passed through seven ARA checkpoints and the length of the FDR Drive. A military helicopter seemed to follow us home, its single yellow beam stroking the whitecaps of the East River. We talked about going to City Hall. A civil ceremony. Maybe next week. Why not make it official? Why ever be apart? “You’re the one I want,
18 OLD MAN SPUNKERS
GOLDMANN-FOREVER: Hi, Eunice. It’s Joshie Goldmann. Whasss’uuuup?
EUNI-TARD: Joshie?
GOLDMANN-FOREVER: You know, Lenny’s boss.
EUNI-TARD: Oh. Hi, Mr. Goldmann. How’d you get my info?
GOLDMANN-FOREVER: Just teened around for it. And what’s with the Mr. Goldmann? That’s my dad’s name. Call me Joshie. Or Grizzly Bear. That’s what Lenny calls me.
EUNI-TARD: Ha ha.
GOLDMANN-FOREVER: So I’m writing to remind you of our little date.
EUNI-TARD: We had a date?
GOLDMANN-FOREVER: We were going to take an art class together. Duh!
EUNI-TARD: We were? I’m sorry. I’ve been so busy this week. I should be applying for Retail jobs and stuff.
GOLDMANN-FOREVER: A lot of our clients are in Retail. What kind of job are you looking for? The guy from Ass something just came in. That’s confidential, actually.
EUNI-TARD: Oh, I couldn’t impose.
GOLDMANN-FOREVER: Stop! Who’s imposing? Ha! I’m sure we can hook you up with some mad-ass job.
EUNI-TARD: Okay. Thank you.
GOLDMANN-FOREVER: So I got us into a summer drawing class at Parsons-Ewha.
EUNI-TARD: That’s very nice of you, but the summer session’s already started.
GOLDMANN-FOREVER: They’re making an exception. It’s just the two of us. Although maybe you shouldn’t tell that to Lenny. Ha ha.
EUNI-TARD: Thank you so much but I really can’t afford it.
GOLDMANN-FOREVER: WTF? I got it covered.
EUNI-TARD: That’s very kind of you, Mr. Goldman. But I think I need to concentrate on getting a job this week.
