to tell her heâd canceled his credit cards because, well, he wasnât exactly sure who those people at her place had been, nor could he trust Esko. Anaâs answering machine picked up but he left no message. He put the phone back in his pocket, but then took it out immediately because it appeared to be vibrating, which it wasnât.
Cackling squirrels chased one another up and down the trees. There was a pretty spotted pointer across the street, for some reason pointing at Joshua; the young man on the other end of the leash bent over to pick up a clump of shit. Joshua felt in his chest the emptiness commonly accompanying the sense that he was wasting his life and that all thisâthis porch, this body, this mind, this Mondayâwas part of a self-generating delusion, his own private Matrix . What if he woke up one day, after a night of unsettling dreams, and realized he was transformed into a giant, chitinous failure? If one day someone were to write his biography ( The Fall of Joshua Levin ), this morning might end up being the turning plot point, the moment of his demotion to the middlest of ages, of his realization that the spoor of his meaningful existence was as scant as that of memorable sexual experience. He called Ana again, and this time Esko picked up, his guttural grumble befuddling Joshua, who hung up instantly.
Bernie honked from his ferry-sized white Cadillac. In addition to the glaring absence of sun, Bernieâs shades were not age-appropriate at all: the frames were too narrow for his sagging face; there was fake-diamond glitter on the sides; and the lenses were far too dark even for a bright summer day, suggesting glaucoma rather than senior coolness. The shades were most likely Constanceâs present, just like the flannel shirt he was wearing with his sleeves rolled up, like a campaigning congressman feigning to be the American people. Constance bought things for Bernie Levin that made him appear younger (a razor-looking cell phone, many-geared bicycle, surfboard), thereby constantly setting up Bern (as she called him) for some kind of age-based failure. The next thing on her list was a spiffy car. She wanted him to get something smaller and sportier than his enormous Cadillac, which Joshua was presently entering and which wouldâve smelled like a pine-scented taxicab if it wasnât for the reek of Bernieâs rampant paradentosis.
âWhere are we going?â Joshua asked testily. Once heâd watched a nature documentary in which young chimps would strut around the uninterested older males making contemptuous chimp faces; and then, one day, they would dare for the first time to smack the elders.
âI donât know,â his father said. âArenât we having lunch?â
âItâs too early,â Joshua said.
âItâs never too early for being too late.â
Joshua was no strutting chimp, but Bernie annoyed him simply for doing what aged fathers did: asking Where are you? as soon as Joshua picked up, still confounded by the concept of the cell phone; always worrying about money, ever a Holocaust descendant; celebrating his Jewish heritage by imparting incomprehensible stories about obscure relatives; driving like a terrified lunatic, flying over speed bumps, hitting the brakes arbitrarily; insisting that he wasnât as old as he was, even if he was nowhere near as young as Connie wanted him to be. And then there were the anthological non sequiturs, whose frequency kept increasing since heâd retired and sold his dental office. The previous time Joshua had seen him, just before he took off for the cruise, Bernie proclaimedâover dinner, out of the blue, Connie squeezing his hand as if to show her forgiveness and understanding for his dementiaââthe future of the world is in a bag of dog poop, because thatâs where the bacteria that can eat plastic will evolve.â After heâd retired into a life of magazine
Cackling squirrels chased one another up and down the trees. There was a pretty spotted pointer across the street, for some reason pointing at Joshua; the young man on the other end of the leash bent over to pick up a clump of shit. Joshua felt in his chest the emptiness commonly accompanying the sense that he was wasting his life and that all thisâthis porch, this body, this mind, this Mondayâwas part of a self-generating delusion, his own private Matrix . What if he woke up one day, after a night of unsettling dreams, and realized he was transformed into a giant, chitinous failure? If one day someone were to write his biography ( The Fall of Joshua Levin ), this morning might end up being the turning plot point, the moment of his demotion to the middlest of ages, of his realization that the spoor of his meaningful existence was as scant as that of memorable sexual experience. He called Ana again, and this time Esko picked up, his guttural grumble befuddling Joshua, who hung up instantly.
Bernie honked from his ferry-sized white Cadillac. In addition to the glaring absence of sun, Bernieâs shades were not age-appropriate at all: the frames were too narrow for his sagging face; there was fake-diamond glitter on the sides; and the lenses were far too dark even for a bright summer day, suggesting glaucoma rather than senior coolness. The shades were most likely Constanceâs present, just like the flannel shirt he was wearing with his sleeves rolled up, like a campaigning congressman feigning to be the American people. Constance bought things for Bernie Levin that made him appear younger (a razor-looking cell phone, many-geared bicycle, surfboard), thereby constantly setting up Bern (as she called him) for some kind of age-based failure. The next thing on her list was a spiffy car. She wanted him to get something smaller and sportier than his enormous Cadillac, which Joshua was presently entering and which wouldâve smelled like a pine-scented taxicab if it wasnât for the reek of Bernieâs rampant paradentosis.
âWhere are we going?â Joshua asked testily. Once heâd watched a nature documentary in which young chimps would strut around the uninterested older males making contemptuous chimp faces; and then, one day, they would dare for the first time to smack the elders.
âI donât know,â his father said. âArenât we having lunch?â
âItâs too early,â Joshua said.
âItâs never too early for being too late.â
Joshua was no strutting chimp, but Bernie annoyed him simply for doing what aged fathers did: asking Where are you? as soon as Joshua picked up, still confounded by the concept of the cell phone; always worrying about money, ever a Holocaust descendant; celebrating his Jewish heritage by imparting incomprehensible stories about obscure relatives; driving like a terrified lunatic, flying over speed bumps, hitting the brakes arbitrarily; insisting that he wasnât as old as he was, even if he was nowhere near as young as Connie wanted him to be. And then there were the anthological non sequiturs, whose frequency kept increasing since heâd retired and sold his dental office. The previous time Joshua had seen him, just before he took off for the cruise, Bernie proclaimedâover dinner, out of the blue, Connie squeezing his hand as if to show her forgiveness and understanding for his dementiaââthe future of the world is in a bag of dog poop, because thatâs where the bacteria that can eat plastic will evolve.â After heâd retired into a life of magazine
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