None of this is the problem. Greg has dated gorgeous women before and is not intimidated, though he does prefer women who aren’t quite so confident. Height isn’t a problem either; women tend to be impressed by Greg’s Napoleonic confidence and the fact that he really makes being short work for him, style-wise. No, the problem today is that after they made their introductions, Sophia offered him a hit from her pen. If he declined, that would mean he was boring, and if he accepted, that would mean he’d be stoned.
Greg chose the latter, and Sophia encouraged him to take not one but something like five or six hits, and now they’re in the modern wing of the permanent collection.
“What do you think Rauschenberg was after with this one?” asks Sophia. “What was he getting at?”
Greg takes a long moment before answering, hoping the pause will be read as consideration of the question as he examines the piece and synthesizes his insights on some important connection between its texture and composition, rather than what it is: a bid for time while Greg tries to pull something vague and opaque enough out of his ass that she won’t realize he has no idea what he’s talking about.
This is Greg’s fifth date since Lillian took over his Tinder and matched him with women whose profiles suggest involvement with #Occupy. The plan is for Greg to disseminate a rumor about Jay Devor’s connection to the Gatsby Murder. He doesn’t know why Lillian wants him to do this, but he isn’t bothered; so far all the dates have been hot.
It was Sophia’s idea to hit the permanent collection. Greg would have preferred to see the group show from Palestinian photographers on the front lines of occupied Gaza because (a) his knowledge of Middle East politics, though by no means comprehensive, is much stronger than his knowledge of modern art, (b) he took two photography courses at Tufts and can fake his way through a discussion of the difference between journalistic, artistic, and portrait photography, perhaps pointing out that one of the photos—intentionally or not—seems to echo a famous Cartier-Bresson in terms of its indifference to light and angle at the behest of capturing emotional truth, and (c) the bigger exhibition would have been more crowded than the mostly empty modern wing, allowing Greg to express his previously practiced observations about the strangeness of art as public spectacle, and the impossibility of really seeing the work in this context, what with tourists snapping photos and kids running and crying; the sacred turned commercial, the exhibition a highway that leads to the gift shop where you can buy Jackson Pollock children’s paint sets, and Warhol temporary tattoos, and Keith Haring sneakers, and truly ugly kitchenware designed by Jeff Koons.
But Sophia wanted to escape the crowds and space out in front of the Rothkos—which, Greg must admit, look cool when you’re stoned—and get deep by discussing the true meaning of certain works like the Rauschenberg at which they currently stare.
“I think it’s about America,” Greg says, realizing as the words come out that it’s one of the more obvious and uninteresting observations ever made on the subject of art.
20.
The movie is set in a near future where, instead of being buried, skeletons are cut into small pieces, and bones and fragments are given as souvenirs to families of the deceased. The fragments are turned into key chains, coat buttons, necklace pendants, and smartphone cases. Teeth are worn on dental-floss bracelets. Heads are pickled and displayed on mantels. Hearts are hardened into molds and carried as talismans in heart-shaped pockets within heart-shaped purses. Coach was the first to produce this design. The film’s protagonist, a teenage girl, carries her dead father’s heart wherever she goes, and is dismayed when imitators begin carrying faux hearts in faux Coach bags because, unlike hers, their fathers aren’t dead. Coach spent millions on product placement and a rewrite that further emphasized the film’s anti-counterfeiting message. The New York Times called it Catcher in the Rye for Gen Y.
“Great flick,” says Michael. He got to the Berkshires this morning. The funeral’s not until Saturday, but after last night, he thought it worth giving Wendy time to cool down. She’ll take the bus tomorrow night, or early Saturday morning. Rachel looks up to reveal for the nth time, though it’s always a shock, the scorpion tattooed across her right cheek.
“Is it?” Rachel says.
Enter their mother. Lydia looks the same as always: elegant and slim, with razor-thin eyebrows, and a touch of mascara. A sweater-dress emphasizes her beanpole physique. She says, “Oh good, I’m glad you’re both here. I need to know what you want for dinner. The options are Chinese or pizza.”
Never an enthusiastic chef, Lydia gave up cooking when Michael went to college. Rachel was raised on boxed mac and cheese and foot-long subs. It might be why she’s a candidate for Type 2 diabetes. Michael doesn’t know his sister well. He left home just after her bat mitzvah, and by the time he returned for Christmas break, Rachel was unrecognizable, a purple-haired freshman who rarely showed up for school. The siblings never managed to reconnect. Rachel bore the brunt of their parents’ bad years, and she resents Michael’s absence during that difficult decade. Now she’s in her mid-thirties, stuck in Pittsfield doing drone repair, and living with Donny, her boyfriend, a short-order cook whose passion is extreme body mod. There’s not an inch of Donny’s skin that isn’t pierced or inked, and he recently had magnets implanted in his wrists for purposes that are unclear to anyone.
“Doesn’t matter,” says Michael. “Either is fine.”
“I’m eating out,” says
