I know, because I saw one of the drafts lying on Liam’s laptop bag. You know, I didn’t even read it. I just remember staring at all the arrows crisscrossing it, all the dense, intricate loops of red ink in the margins, a record of all their second-guessing.
So, no, I can’t tell you what Spaceco stands for. No, scratch that, I won’t . I know a lose-lose question when I hear it, or when I see it glowing out on a screen in front of me late at night. And anyway, spokeswoman is never a role I’ve been comfortable with. It doesn’t matter how much I believe or think I do—I always feel like I’m lying. I always feel like everyone can tell. It never ends up working out. As we’ve just seen.
It’s not like I don’t get that those students have a point. The timing is pretty terrible. The country’s coming out of its worst recession in years. There are people out there who can’t afford $60 for the blood pressure medicine that will keep them alive, old people who are getting liens on their houses because they can’t pay a measly $100 in property taxes. And here are our nation’s best and brightest dropping a couple hundred grand to play astronaut for a day. You don’t have to be an idealistic twenty-year-old naïf, or some bourgeois hipster taste-testing the social justice flavor of the week, to be troubled by the profound unfairness of this situation.
But you know what—I don’t want to talk about this anymore. It’s so fucking late. I was supposed to complete my quest to find my single strand of pearls, which I’m pretty sure Paula put away for safekeeping. (I’m betting that wherever they are, they’re so safe that I’ll never find them.) Instead I spent the evening digging up some stones out of the greenhouse trench and then writing you, and now I have nothing to show for myself.
Arthur, I hope you sleep tight, don’t let the bedbugs bite, etc.
Jess
From: Jessica Frobisher
Sent: Thursday, May 15, 2014 11:33 pm
To: Arthur Danielson
Cc:
Bcc:
Subject: Re:
That’s not how I meant it. I just meant that there are only so many hours in a night. And no matter how hard you grind them out, there’s never enough. You know that. You’ve worked (and/or caroused?) your way through a few wee hours yourself, if I recall.
And no, I’m not sitting around “polishing my jewels.” (Which sounds vaguely obscene, btw.) The pearls are for the press conference. Normally you’d never catch me dead in that kind of getup—you know that perfectly well—but I’ve been ordered to wear them. I’m simply doing what I’m told.
I have to go to bed now and try to actually sleep sans medication. The Ambien’s been some seriously bad juju the past few nights, so I’m going cold turkey.
Wish me luck,
Jess
From: Jessica Frobisher
Sent: Friday, May 16, 2014 2:29 pm
To: Arthur Danielson
Cc:
Bcc:
Subject: Re: pearls before swine
Yes, Paul Bunyan. I know it’s hard for you to imagine because right now you’re probably sitting around in the same flannel shirt you’ve been wearing for days. I’m imagining your cuffs practically fossilized with tree sap. (I remember you said once that tree sap was one of your favorite smells in the world, that it smelled like resilience. One of your favorite smells, you repeated, looking at me and waiting for me to ask the obvious question. I heard you, Arthur. I was still playing dumb at that point. I still didn’t want to hear the answer.)
Anyway, if I’m imagining this correctly, then take a tip from someone who’s spent her fair share of time doing triage in front of the laundry hamper with a tube of Resolve Stain Stick—you might as well bury those clothes when you’re done with them. You’re never going to get that stuff out.
My presence, along with that of all the other Spaceco wives, has been formally requested by
So, no, I can’t tell you what Spaceco stands for. No, scratch that, I won’t . I know a lose-lose question when I hear it, or when I see it glowing out on a screen in front of me late at night. And anyway, spokeswoman is never a role I’ve been comfortable with. It doesn’t matter how much I believe or think I do—I always feel like I’m lying. I always feel like everyone can tell. It never ends up working out. As we’ve just seen.
It’s not like I don’t get that those students have a point. The timing is pretty terrible. The country’s coming out of its worst recession in years. There are people out there who can’t afford $60 for the blood pressure medicine that will keep them alive, old people who are getting liens on their houses because they can’t pay a measly $100 in property taxes. And here are our nation’s best and brightest dropping a couple hundred grand to play astronaut for a day. You don’t have to be an idealistic twenty-year-old naïf, or some bourgeois hipster taste-testing the social justice flavor of the week, to be troubled by the profound unfairness of this situation.
But you know what—I don’t want to talk about this anymore. It’s so fucking late. I was supposed to complete my quest to find my single strand of pearls, which I’m pretty sure Paula put away for safekeeping. (I’m betting that wherever they are, they’re so safe that I’ll never find them.) Instead I spent the evening digging up some stones out of the greenhouse trench and then writing you, and now I have nothing to show for myself.
Arthur, I hope you sleep tight, don’t let the bedbugs bite, etc.
Jess
From: Jessica Frobisher
Sent: Thursday, May 15, 2014 11:33 pm
To: Arthur Danielson
Cc:
Bcc:
Subject: Re:
That’s not how I meant it. I just meant that there are only so many hours in a night. And no matter how hard you grind them out, there’s never enough. You know that. You’ve worked (and/or caroused?) your way through a few wee hours yourself, if I recall.
And no, I’m not sitting around “polishing my jewels.” (Which sounds vaguely obscene, btw.) The pearls are for the press conference. Normally you’d never catch me dead in that kind of getup—you know that perfectly well—but I’ve been ordered to wear them. I’m simply doing what I’m told.
I have to go to bed now and try to actually sleep sans medication. The Ambien’s been some seriously bad juju the past few nights, so I’m going cold turkey.
Wish me luck,
Jess
From: Jessica Frobisher
Sent: Friday, May 16, 2014 2:29 pm
To: Arthur Danielson
Cc:
Bcc:
Subject: Re: pearls before swine
Yes, Paul Bunyan. I know it’s hard for you to imagine because right now you’re probably sitting around in the same flannel shirt you’ve been wearing for days. I’m imagining your cuffs practically fossilized with tree sap. (I remember you said once that tree sap was one of your favorite smells in the world, that it smelled like resilience. One of your favorite smells, you repeated, looking at me and waiting for me to ask the obvious question. I heard you, Arthur. I was still playing dumb at that point. I still didn’t want to hear the answer.)
Anyway, if I’m imagining this correctly, then take a tip from someone who’s spent her fair share of time doing triage in front of the laundry hamper with a tube of Resolve Stain Stick—you might as well bury those clothes when you’re done with them. You’re never going to get that stuff out.
My presence, along with that of all the other Spaceco wives, has been formally requested by
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