outside and the tips of Manhattan skyline visible from my bed appeared intact. Rain beaded on the window, the first sign of an approaching storm. I made a mental note to remember my umbrella. A box truck had stopped in the street and its paunchy, middle-aged driver was kicking at a very flat back tire. Another unwary victim of my street's potholes, which could swallow a small child with ease. I checked my phone. It was 7:23.
My overloaded nerves kept me from falling back to sleep, and I got dressed and went to make breakfast. Today was Elly's last day of school—she was graduating from the sixth circle to the fifth. The Expert believed the nomenclature of institutional organization had a great impact on one's psychology, and so she sought to motivate her students to strive to enter increasingly exclusive circles. You aim for the number one school, not number twelve, and introducing this concept to young students helped them align their future goals with the realities of life. Or something. Numerology never appealed to me.
James had left on the kitchen lights. He had also fallen asleep at the table, shirtless, facedown, and using a book for a pillow. An easel he'd bought yesterday stood beside him, covered with printouts of neon-blue graphs notated in his inimitable scrawl. Other books lay scattered across the table and several more had migrated to the floor. I picked one up: Chimerica: Deconstructing the Decoupling Fallacy . The cover had an animal emerging from an egg. Its split heads—a dragon and an eagle—glared at one another.
That morning was the first time I had any hope James might succeed. Every day for the past two weeks I'd leave to pick up Elly and he'd been on the couch, either taking a nap or watching videos on the tablet. With the exception of his harassing Ruth I hadn't seen him do anything that could be mistaken for productive activity, and I had begun keeping an eye out for someone else I could fob him off to—maybe a girl who saw in him some hint of a quality worth trying to salvage. But these stacks of books, which I'd known he'd bought but had never seen him open, instilled in me a glimmer of optimism. I rarely woke up before eleven; maybe he worked while I slept.
Feeling charitable, I put on a pot of coffee and scoured the fridge for breakfast. Some bacon, a lone red pepper, two scallions, and a half-dozen eggs chopped, popped, sizzled, and scrambled. It might work out for James. He wasn't a moron, just overbearing and arrogant. Driven, but not a people person, a combination that no doubt compounded his job-searching difficulties. I could sympathize, which was why he came here and why I let him stay—our paths crossing in orbit around money and ambition, the twin foci of New York.
He slumbered through the entirety of my cooking, undisturbed by the noise I made. I scooped out the omelettes and bacon, poured two mugs of coffee, set everything on the table, and shouted, “James!”
He didn't stir, and I called out again, louder. Nothing. His pale, waxy face shone up at me, and for a second I thought he was dead. Then he burped, and shifted his head. I raised one hand high and slapped him on the back.
He jerked awake. “Hey man, why'd you do that?” he grumbled
“Breakfast's ready.” I said.
He grunted something low and indecipherable, but leaned over the table and grabbed a plate.
“Huh?” I said.
“I said, where's the forks?”
“Christ, are you serious? Get one yourself. I'm not your mother.”
“Come on dude. You're the one who woke me up.”
I excavated two forks from the sink and washed them. We ate in silence. James cut his omelette into quarters and ate the first piece in four bites, followed by a slice of bacon. Then on to the next quarter. Four bites. Bacon. Repeat. By the time he was done I'd barely had my first sip of coffee. Did he know how strange he looked? Probably—I hadn't seen him eat since our meal at the diner, and no way would I have overlooked this odd
My overloaded nerves kept me from falling back to sleep, and I got dressed and went to make breakfast. Today was Elly's last day of school—she was graduating from the sixth circle to the fifth. The Expert believed the nomenclature of institutional organization had a great impact on one's psychology, and so she sought to motivate her students to strive to enter increasingly exclusive circles. You aim for the number one school, not number twelve, and introducing this concept to young students helped them align their future goals with the realities of life. Or something. Numerology never appealed to me.
James had left on the kitchen lights. He had also fallen asleep at the table, shirtless, facedown, and using a book for a pillow. An easel he'd bought yesterday stood beside him, covered with printouts of neon-blue graphs notated in his inimitable scrawl. Other books lay scattered across the table and several more had migrated to the floor. I picked one up: Chimerica: Deconstructing the Decoupling Fallacy . The cover had an animal emerging from an egg. Its split heads—a dragon and an eagle—glared at one another.
That morning was the first time I had any hope James might succeed. Every day for the past two weeks I'd leave to pick up Elly and he'd been on the couch, either taking a nap or watching videos on the tablet. With the exception of his harassing Ruth I hadn't seen him do anything that could be mistaken for productive activity, and I had begun keeping an eye out for someone else I could fob him off to—maybe a girl who saw in him some hint of a quality worth trying to salvage. But these stacks of books, which I'd known he'd bought but had never seen him open, instilled in me a glimmer of optimism. I rarely woke up before eleven; maybe he worked while I slept.
Feeling charitable, I put on a pot of coffee and scoured the fridge for breakfast. Some bacon, a lone red pepper, two scallions, and a half-dozen eggs chopped, popped, sizzled, and scrambled. It might work out for James. He wasn't a moron, just overbearing and arrogant. Driven, but not a people person, a combination that no doubt compounded his job-searching difficulties. I could sympathize, which was why he came here and why I let him stay—our paths crossing in orbit around money and ambition, the twin foci of New York.
He slumbered through the entirety of my cooking, undisturbed by the noise I made. I scooped out the omelettes and bacon, poured two mugs of coffee, set everything on the table, and shouted, “James!”
He didn't stir, and I called out again, louder. Nothing. His pale, waxy face shone up at me, and for a second I thought he was dead. Then he burped, and shifted his head. I raised one hand high and slapped him on the back.
He jerked awake. “Hey man, why'd you do that?” he grumbled
“Breakfast's ready.” I said.
He grunted something low and indecipherable, but leaned over the table and grabbed a plate.
“Huh?” I said.
“I said, where's the forks?”
“Christ, are you serious? Get one yourself. I'm not your mother.”
“Come on dude. You're the one who woke me up.”
I excavated two forks from the sink and washed them. We ate in silence. James cut his omelette into quarters and ate the first piece in four bites, followed by a slice of bacon. Then on to the next quarter. Four bites. Bacon. Repeat. By the time he was done I'd barely had my first sip of coffee. Did he know how strange he looked? Probably—I hadn't seen him eat since our meal at the diner, and no way would I have overlooked this odd
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