Amateurs by Dylan Hicks Page A

remember?”
    â€œIt’s, if you can work out what color your metaphorical parachute is . . . no, I can’t remember.” She turned to Maxwell. “But it’s about matching a career to your talents and interests. Like for you, your ideal career probably isn’t to be a concert violinist, since you don’t seem to be interested in playing the violin.”
    â€œI’m interested.”
    â€œNot in practicing.”
    â€œI would be if I didn’t suck so bad.”
    â€œThat’s . . . I don’t even—”
    â€œI feel you, though,” Lucas said, holding a piece of half-eaten bacon like a stumpy pointer. “It’s like, people are always trying to make ice cream or pop or whatever at home, and that shi—that stuff is never as good as store-bought.”
    â€œI’m not sure I see the connection,” Karyn said.
    â€œJust that not every labor is justified.”
    She laughed, a slightly mocking laugh, he feared. Already pegged as a bumbler. “You might want to strike school counselor from your list of career prospects,” she said.
    â€œYeah, no, you should definitely stick with the violin,” he said to Maxwell. “You could be the next, uh, Itzhak Perlman.”
    â€œOr Nero,” she said.
    He had so far asked two questions about her job. His goal in situations like this was five; he sometimes pictured hash marks in his head. “So are employees constantly asking you the same things about, like, their 401(k)s?”
    â€œWell, when I was a rep, they were, but now I’m not so much on the frontline.”
    â€œYou’re more management now?” he said.
    â€œNot management, just the second line. The reps will come to me if they can’t figure something out, and I deal with employees when something gets escalated.”
    â€œLike what?”
    â€œStuff no one pays attention to till there’s a problem at the pharmacy. Or someone dies and I have to deal with the family about life insurance.” She forked the last of her eggs on a corner of toast. “It’s nice of you to take an interest,” she said, “but it kind of bores me to talk about work.”
    â€œOh, sure, it’s—”
    â€œI don’t mean to sound crabby.”
    â€œS’all good.” He adjusted his posture to relieve the pressure from his jeans. For a few weeks he’d been wearing the pair with the thirty-six-inch waist instead of the thirty-sevens in hopes that the discomfort would be motivating. Maxwell began noisily rolling one of his many-faceted dice on the table.
    â€œTo tell the truth,” Karyn said, “I sometimes miss talking about work. One of the things about being married is—well, this isn’t always true, is it?—but hopefully you’re with someone who wants to hear the details of your dumb day. Like the exciting thing this month is that there’s a new guy who’s a pig in the kitchen.”
    â€œHe makes sexist remarks and stuff?” Lucas said, not really confused.
    â€œHe leaves food in the sink, crumbs on the table. I sent out a group e-mail but nothing’s changed.”
    â€œThis kid at robotics camp leaves food everywhere,” Maxwell said. “He hides it.”
    â€œMaybe he’s hungry,” Lucas said.
    â€œI seriously don’t think he’s hungry,” Maxwell said.
    â€œAre you saying he’s fat?” Lucas said.
    â€œNo.”
    â€œIt’s something hungry people do,” Lucas said. “Hide food.”
    â€œHe has mental health,” Maxwell said.
    Lucas asked for clarification.
    â€œHe told me, ‘I have mental health, FYI,’ and then ran away.”
    â€œHe means mental-health problems,” Karyn said.
    â€œYeah, ’cause mental health is a good thing,” Lucas said. “Or neutral.”
    â€œMay I be excused?”
    After Maxwell finished his clomping ascent of the stairs, Lucas