to come say hello. Daniel forced a smile as he pulled in to the garage, then walked out to where Ted waited beside the Subaru Outback—the one he’d gone to great pains to tell Daniel was built at a zero-landfill plant.
“Hey, Ted.” Hoping to convey hurriedness, Daniel moved to check his and Cris’s mailbox at the edge of their small front lawn. It also gave him an excuse to avoid full eye contact and—he hoped—engagement.
“Daniel, listen, Danika and I are having another implosion-sculpture event in the back courtyard this Friday, and we’d love it if you and Cristina would come.”
The last one had been excruciating, everyone standing around slurping white sangria while the air was sucked from a giant steel cube, collapsing it in an ostensibly artistic fashion.
Daniel scooped out the mail and paused, collecting himself here in the gorgeous golden Pacific Heights dusk. He was smitten with more aspects of San Francisco than he could keep track of. And then there were Ted and Danika Shea.
Danika had been third-tier on a start-up that in the nineties had blown up sufficiently to turn third-tier stock options into professional-athlete money. Since then she and Ted had dedicated themselves to a life of unremitting self-focus, each trend embraced with the aggressive, authoritative air of the recently converted. Paleo one week, macrobiotic the next. Almonds for sex drive, açai berries for weight loss, fair-trade coffee for the soul. Cross-fit, suspension training, Bikram that will save your life. The celebrity chefs spoken of in intimate terms— You know how Emeril is with his andouille! And the causes brandished like weapons or NPR tote bags—carbon offset, female genital mutilation, orphans in Rwanda—each charity-of-the-week paid the same loving devotion as the newest windsurf board or Manchego. Five years ago the home births had started, with candles and doulas and tubs of body-temperature water, all recounted with inappropriate detail in bizarrely riveting holiday newsletters. The products of these mystical deliveries were indistinguishable mop-headed blond boys, Jayden and Lucas, who, armed with metal water bottles, were currently dueling over the head of their younger adopted sister, Simone.
Tonight Daniel’s irritation with the Sheas was closer to the surface than usual, perhaps because he’d been worn thin by the past twenty-four hours. Or perhaps it was in reaction to the fun-house-mirror effects his neighbors wreaked on his own values, the contradictions blown huge, the hypocrisies stretched wider. The Sheas were colossal phonies, sure, but Daniel had his own flickers of self-doubt, those mornings when he felt like he was faking it, too, dressing down and going out into the real world. Evelyn’s voice returned: How are you these days? Still rubbing elbows with criminals for a living?
Finally turning to face Ted, he mumbled an excuse for why he and Cris could not make the implosion-sculpture event.
“Well, do your best,” Ted instructed. “I mean, this is silly. We live right next door, and we never see each other.”
Jayden or Lucas bonked the girl on the head, and she gave out a strident wail. Ted crouched, took Jayden or Lucas gently by the shoulders, and said, “I’m hearing Simone say she doesn’t like that.”
Daniel used the diversion to slip away.
* * *
Rain hammered the wall of glass, turning the city lights into smears of orange and yellow and making the second-floor perch of their living room feel like a tree fort. Cris lay curled into Daniel on the couch, reading the Chronicle and sipping a Pacífico with lime. His feet were propped on the glass coffee table next to their dirty dinner plates, his knees forming a makeshift desk on which he attempted to fill out the termination agreement. Though he was doing his best to concentrate, his mind kept wandering back to that slightly ajar red door at Chestnut Street.
Except this time, instead of pausing, he kicks right
“Hey, Ted.” Hoping to convey hurriedness, Daniel moved to check his and Cris’s mailbox at the edge of their small front lawn. It also gave him an excuse to avoid full eye contact and—he hoped—engagement.
“Daniel, listen, Danika and I are having another implosion-sculpture event in the back courtyard this Friday, and we’d love it if you and Cristina would come.”
The last one had been excruciating, everyone standing around slurping white sangria while the air was sucked from a giant steel cube, collapsing it in an ostensibly artistic fashion.
Daniel scooped out the mail and paused, collecting himself here in the gorgeous golden Pacific Heights dusk. He was smitten with more aspects of San Francisco than he could keep track of. And then there were Ted and Danika Shea.
Danika had been third-tier on a start-up that in the nineties had blown up sufficiently to turn third-tier stock options into professional-athlete money. Since then she and Ted had dedicated themselves to a life of unremitting self-focus, each trend embraced with the aggressive, authoritative air of the recently converted. Paleo one week, macrobiotic the next. Almonds for sex drive, açai berries for weight loss, fair-trade coffee for the soul. Cross-fit, suspension training, Bikram that will save your life. The celebrity chefs spoken of in intimate terms— You know how Emeril is with his andouille! And the causes brandished like weapons or NPR tote bags—carbon offset, female genital mutilation, orphans in Rwanda—each charity-of-the-week paid the same loving devotion as the newest windsurf board or Manchego. Five years ago the home births had started, with candles and doulas and tubs of body-temperature water, all recounted with inappropriate detail in bizarrely riveting holiday newsletters. The products of these mystical deliveries were indistinguishable mop-headed blond boys, Jayden and Lucas, who, armed with metal water bottles, were currently dueling over the head of their younger adopted sister, Simone.
Tonight Daniel’s irritation with the Sheas was closer to the surface than usual, perhaps because he’d been worn thin by the past twenty-four hours. Or perhaps it was in reaction to the fun-house-mirror effects his neighbors wreaked on his own values, the contradictions blown huge, the hypocrisies stretched wider. The Sheas were colossal phonies, sure, but Daniel had his own flickers of self-doubt, those mornings when he felt like he was faking it, too, dressing down and going out into the real world. Evelyn’s voice returned: How are you these days? Still rubbing elbows with criminals for a living?
Finally turning to face Ted, he mumbled an excuse for why he and Cris could not make the implosion-sculpture event.
“Well, do your best,” Ted instructed. “I mean, this is silly. We live right next door, and we never see each other.”
Jayden or Lucas bonked the girl on the head, and she gave out a strident wail. Ted crouched, took Jayden or Lucas gently by the shoulders, and said, “I’m hearing Simone say she doesn’t like that.”
Daniel used the diversion to slip away.
* * *
Rain hammered the wall of glass, turning the city lights into smears of orange and yellow and making the second-floor perch of their living room feel like a tree fort. Cris lay curled into Daniel on the couch, reading the Chronicle and sipping a Pacífico with lime. His feet were propped on the glass coffee table next to their dirty dinner plates, his knees forming a makeshift desk on which he attempted to fill out the termination agreement. Though he was doing his best to concentrate, his mind kept wandering back to that slightly ajar red door at Chestnut Street.
Except this time, instead of pausing, he kicks right
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