front and picks up the umbrella. He raises it over his head and brings it down gently on the driver’s shoulder, as if he were bestowing knighthood. He does this three times, saying, in a cheery falsetto voice, “Turn to shit, turn to shit, turn to shit.”
At your apartment building you discover that you have no keys. They’re in the pocket of your jacket, which is back in the Department of Factual Verification. Much as you dislike your apartment, it has a bed in it. You want to sleep. You have attained that fine pitch of exhaustion which might make it possible. You’ve been thinking about that packet of instant cocoa in the kitchen, Family Feud on the TV. You were even thinking you might take some Dickens to bed with you. Run your mind over someone else’s pathetic misadventures for a change.
An image of yourself curled up on the sidewalk next to a heat vent with the other bums yields to the slightly less grim prospect of asking the super for the spare set of keys. The super, a huge Greek, has glared at you ever since you forgot to pay the customary tribute of cash or booze for Christmas. His wife is no less formidable, being the one who wears the mustache in the family.
Fortunately, the man who answers the door is one of the cousins, a young man whose lack of English and dubious visa status make him eager to oblige. You mime the problem and within minutes you are at your door with the spare set. An envelope with the logo of Allagash’s employer, an ad agency, is taped to the door. Inside, a note:
Coach:
Having this messengered to your digs after numerous calls to reputed place of employ. Don’t you keep office hours anymore? It’s tiresome, God knows, but one should try to keep up appearances and also be accessible in case of emergencies like present one. To be brief:
A long-anticipated tryst with the libidinous Inge—pin-up Queen manquee—is endangered by visit of cousin from Boston branch of family. I know what you’re thinking: A Boston branch of the Allagash clan? But every family has its dark secrets. Said cousin is doing academic gig at NYU and laying over at the Allagash pad. Must be entertained in grand manner. A well-bred young woman, something of an intellect, who would not be charmed by some junior account exec with toothpaste market surveys on the brain. This assignment calls for nothing less than a speaker of French, a reader of The New York Review of Books and that inexpressible guileless charm with which your name is synonymous. Don’t let me down, Coach, and everything I possess, including a portion of Bolivia’s finest, not to mention my undying gratitude and fealty, is yours. Have taken liberty of informing cousin, one Vicky Hollins, that you will be meeting her at the Lion’s Head at seven-thirty, to be joined by self and Inge at earliest possible convenience. Described you as cross between young F. Scott Fitz-Hemingway and the later Wittgenstein, so dress accordingly.
Yrs. in Christ, T.A.
P.S. Should you get lucky with cousin or inflict rare social disease this office will deny all knowledge of your actions.
The presumption of Allagash appalls you. When you call his office to decline the invitation, he has already left. Well, it’s his cousin and his problem. The thought of the Allagash genes and the Boston climate is a frightening one. His brief description suggests a prig, a wearer of plaid tartan skirts, a former contender on the green New England hockey fields and a noncontender in the Looks Department. Born into the manner that Clara has been faking ever since she went to Vassar. You will unplug the phone and say you never got the letter.
You switch on the tube and throw yourself on the couch. Much fun on Family Feud . Ten grand rides on a question about garden tools; Richard Dawson flexes his eyebrows. But you keep glancing at the clock. By seven-twenty you are on your feet, pacing between the two rooms, kicking your laundry into the corners. If you know Tad, he won’t even
At your apartment building you discover that you have no keys. They’re in the pocket of your jacket, which is back in the Department of Factual Verification. Much as you dislike your apartment, it has a bed in it. You want to sleep. You have attained that fine pitch of exhaustion which might make it possible. You’ve been thinking about that packet of instant cocoa in the kitchen, Family Feud on the TV. You were even thinking you might take some Dickens to bed with you. Run your mind over someone else’s pathetic misadventures for a change.
An image of yourself curled up on the sidewalk next to a heat vent with the other bums yields to the slightly less grim prospect of asking the super for the spare set of keys. The super, a huge Greek, has glared at you ever since you forgot to pay the customary tribute of cash or booze for Christmas. His wife is no less formidable, being the one who wears the mustache in the family.
Fortunately, the man who answers the door is one of the cousins, a young man whose lack of English and dubious visa status make him eager to oblige. You mime the problem and within minutes you are at your door with the spare set. An envelope with the logo of Allagash’s employer, an ad agency, is taped to the door. Inside, a note:
Coach:
Having this messengered to your digs after numerous calls to reputed place of employ. Don’t you keep office hours anymore? It’s tiresome, God knows, but one should try to keep up appearances and also be accessible in case of emergencies like present one. To be brief:
A long-anticipated tryst with the libidinous Inge—pin-up Queen manquee—is endangered by visit of cousin from Boston branch of family. I know what you’re thinking: A Boston branch of the Allagash clan? But every family has its dark secrets. Said cousin is doing academic gig at NYU and laying over at the Allagash pad. Must be entertained in grand manner. A well-bred young woman, something of an intellect, who would not be charmed by some junior account exec with toothpaste market surveys on the brain. This assignment calls for nothing less than a speaker of French, a reader of The New York Review of Books and that inexpressible guileless charm with which your name is synonymous. Don’t let me down, Coach, and everything I possess, including a portion of Bolivia’s finest, not to mention my undying gratitude and fealty, is yours. Have taken liberty of informing cousin, one Vicky Hollins, that you will be meeting her at the Lion’s Head at seven-thirty, to be joined by self and Inge at earliest possible convenience. Described you as cross between young F. Scott Fitz-Hemingway and the later Wittgenstein, so dress accordingly.
Yrs. in Christ, T.A.
P.S. Should you get lucky with cousin or inflict rare social disease this office will deny all knowledge of your actions.
The presumption of Allagash appalls you. When you call his office to decline the invitation, he has already left. Well, it’s his cousin and his problem. The thought of the Allagash genes and the Boston climate is a frightening one. His brief description suggests a prig, a wearer of plaid tartan skirts, a former contender on the green New England hockey fields and a noncontender in the Looks Department. Born into the manner that Clara has been faking ever since she went to Vassar. You will unplug the phone and say you never got the letter.
You switch on the tube and throw yourself on the couch. Much fun on Family Feud . Ten grand rides on a question about garden tools; Richard Dawson flexes his eyebrows. But you keep glancing at the clock. By seven-twenty you are on your feet, pacing between the two rooms, kicking your laundry into the corners. If you know Tad, he won’t even
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