However, I fear the trauma of this double loss will make them into goddamned pious stylites like their smug father. I fear that if I start to represent dissolution and the grave, I will lose them.
I need fresh air. I take my elevator to the ground level and walk around, smoking a cigarette. It is 4 a.m. in Brooklyn, and the only other people on the streets are drunk bros and shark-like hustlers, trying to see if anybody is good for a free cigarette or worth jumping for their cash or phone.
A thick young man wobbles up to me and stops, staring at me, blinking. He is wearing an untucked silk shirt and tight jeans that do not flatter his already poochy belly. Is it true that women outnumber men almost two to one in this city? He doesn’t seem to feel that he has to work very hard to be a viable male here.
“Hey, whoa, you are really hot,” he says.
“Thank you,” I say. “Keep moving, man.”
“Do you want to, like… come home with me?”
His massive insecurity is palpable. He wants to be the type of person who can command people into having instant sex with him. He wants to be the sort of person who can ask for instant sex without any repercussions.
I turn away from him, still smoking, hoping he’ll get the hint.
“Oh,” he says, and I can hear his sneer even though my back is turned. “So you’re too good to even talk to me. Okay.”
It’s true, though. I am too good to even talk to him.
“Fine, whatever, I was giving you a compliment,” he says, sidling away, already forgetting our interaction, having gotten what he needed from it. I responded to him once. He proved he was not afraid of me.
It is only seconds later that a completely different sort of dirtbag comes shuffling around the corner. He sees me and his eyes light up with shrewd malice.
“Hey,” he says, leaning into my field of vision. “Hey, the thing is, I am trying to get twenty dollars so I can buy a bus ticket and I already got ten dollars so maybe you could give me a ten-dollar bill and I can get a ticket back home to my kids?”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I don’t have any cash.”
This is true. I don’t keep any cash in my purse. I move closer to the front of the building where the security guard can see me.
“Okay, god bless,” he says. “But could I at least get a few cigarettes, maybe?”
He knows I am going to say yes, and I know I am going to say yes, but I am resentful of this fact. I reach into my tiny purse and pull out the pack of Dunhills. His eyes gleam with glassy excitement.
“Whoa,” he says. “The good shit. Remember when these used to be, like, ten bucks a pack and we thought they were expensive, back when we were in high school?”
His familiarity shocks me. Are we the same age? I don’t remember the price of Dunhills. I don’t think I have ever tried to buy any other brand.
I hand him three cigarettes and shut my purse, heading for the building entrance. The fun of smoking has been squashed.
“Hey, wait, you got a light?”
“No, I’m sorry,” I say, slipping through the revolving door. As a percentage of my holdings, with the amount of money that most people give away as spare change, I could change this man’s life forever, making him weep right here on the street with permanent gratitude. Fuck him for not knowing that, for not knowing me.
I look back over my shoulder. The man is still there in front of the building, staring inside. He comes up closer and puts his face to the glass. I give a knowing glance to the security guard and the guard reluctantly gets up and slowly walks toward the revolving doors. The poor unfortunate gets the idea. He skips away, stuffing the three cigarettes I gave him into the pockets of his low-slung shorts. He gives me one last withering stare of pure contempt before he disappears from view.
Wait, did we literally go to high school together?
No, of course not, I tell myself. I’ve never seen the man before in my life. And hopefully I will never see him or anyone else like him ever again.
Why is it impossible to shield oneself completely from the ugly, disgusting world that hates you for no reason?
18
I finally fall asleep for a few hours but I am awakened at 7:30 by Peter sneaking into my office to deliver yet another batch of flowers, candy, and cards from fellow CEOs. I stumble to the closet and pick out some gray slacks and a summery blouse. I fix myself up in the bathroom and brew a pot of coffee, which I drink in my office while reading the business sections of the Times, the Journal, and the Financial Times, which Peter has separated from the rest of the papers like shelled pistachios or deveined shrimp.
I can’t postpone the Playqueen meeting. It has to be this afternoon or never. I can’t let a little thing like the murder of my youngest brother put me off.
It is about 9 a.m. when Peter walks in, sheepishly holding his phone in his hands like a hat.
“I am so sorry,” he says. “I was just reading the Post online.”
“Did they break the story?” I ask, sighing.
“Yes,” Peter says. “An elevator crash at the Empire State Building? That is so insane. You must be devastated.”
“I am not doing great,” I admit.
“I can cancel all your meetings again today.”
“Nope,” I say. “I’m having them.”
“Are you sure? I know everyone will understand. The amount your family has suffered lately… It is a little hard to believe.” Peter gives me an understanding smile, even though he can’t possibly.
“The meetings will continue as planned,” I insist.
He reads my mood perfectly and scuttles out. I squeeze my phone for a while
