It’s a nice thing that this place exists. Bookstores are disappearing. Ever since they put Wi-Fi on subways, people read even less than they did before. But some people must; this store is testament with its posters advertising author events and its shelves of Staff Picks. The woman at the counter is reading Anne Sexton, studying the old sadness. It must seem ancient, absurdly unmedicated. She underlines in pencil.
I scan the fiction, not even looking for new novels. Instead I pull down books I own, or have previously owned. I often feel this urge to re-purchase, as if reading a new copy means I’ll experience the book again for the first time.
The bookstore I’m in has a large children’s section. I guess they must have to. People still buy books for kids as birthday gifts. A picture book on display is called My Daddy Wears The Suit™. Adult nonfiction has a number of titles on the subject as well. For or against, they’re all cashing in.
A sign advertises weekday story time with a young guy who plays the French horn and has puppets. It would be nice to bring Olivia. She reaches for a stuffed monkey that sits in a basket with books about Curious George. The monkey and my daughter are the same size. I place the monkey in her stroller. Olivia rests her head on its chest.
I read aloud from a pop-up book about public transportation. So many of the books are New York–based. The store must traffic in tourists. Or maybe it’s that children feel secure seeing familiar locations depicted in print, reassurance that the world is a solid and permanent place. I know Olivia doesn’t understand what I’m saying, but it soothes me to read aloud, to trace my finger along the illustrations, wind the cranks and gears, push her fingers across the plush fabrics. As we’re leaving, I skim the periodicals. I like the images on the covers of the style magazines, the fierce eyes of the models. These young women seem built for this world.
Olivia’s hungry again and needs a change. I buy the Curious George book and an Edith Piaf postcard for Penny. Up close, I can see the clerk’s tattoos. On her arm is a list of men’s names. Each name has been crossed out. I relate to the sentiment. The crossing out can’t erase the names, it can only obscure them. The names are still on her arm, reminders of moments in time and their obliteration. I imagine my own arm marked with Michael.
“What’s her name?” asks the clerk.
“Olivia.”
“A little blonde heartbreaker, huh?”
I say, “The hair is her father’s.”
My father isn’t at his apartment. He and Ellen drove to a farmer’s market in Tarrytown this morning. They were supposed to be home by now. Maybe there’s traffic. Tonight, I’ll cook for the two of them with whatever they bring back. Lots of nice things are in season.
I’ve come around on Ellen. They seem happy. They’re planning to buy a place in Brooklyn. I’ll miss this old apartment. It’s my main point of connection to my mother.
I open the windows and take off The Suit™. I’ve worked enough hours today. At first, I took care to hang the garment in the closet. Now I let it fall. I like to feel the air on my chest as Olivia feeds.
After, she quickly falls asleep. I cover myself with a light cotton blanket. The overhead fan circulates air. When my father and Ellen get home, we’ll eat bread and olives at the kitchen table. They’ll coo over Olivia and take pictures on their phones. Ellen will try to teach my father to post the pictures to Facebook for the hundredth time until he gets frustrated and she does it herself.
A soft sound comes from Olivia’s mouth like the lowest setting on an air conditioner. Her ears wiggle. I hold a hand to her forehead. I hold a hand to my own.
On the floor sit the sealed boxes that contain my clothes and Michael’s. There are ten boxes in all, a life in four square feet. Penny and I picked them up from storage last week. I haven’t opened them yet, though I can’t say why. I should bring this stuff to my own apartment. I should throw it all away.
There’s a box cutter in my father’s hardware drawer hiding beneath Ziplocs filled with loose batteries and ancient screws and nails. The box cutter’s handle is the orange of warning signs. I cut into the packing tape and brace for bedbug holocaust. I picture dozens of the insects crushed between skirts and T-shirts, more falling loose with each item removed.
Not so. Only my clothes are in the package, neatly folded. Michael’s must be in another box. He shoved his in. I folded mine. I was preparing for this moment.
Acknowledgments
This novel’s vision of the future was influenced by a many texts, most notably: Rise of the Robots: Technology and the Threat of a Jobless Future by Martin Ford; Who Owns the Future? by Jaron Lanier; Eminem, Rap, Poetry, Race: Essays edited by Scott Parker; Whatever You Say I Am: The Life and Times of Eminem by Anthony Bozza; The Divide: American Injustice in the Age of the Wealth Gap by Matt Taibbi; Give People Money: How a Universal Basic Income Would End Poverty, Revolutionize Work, and Remake the World by Annie Lowrey; and Basic Income and How We Can Make It Happen by Guy Standing.
I’m extraordinarily grateful to those whose editorial insights were integral to this book’s completion. My agent, Erin Harris. My editor, Mark Doten. And my readers: Matthew Sharpe, Justin Taylor, and
