thriving restaurant (probably teeming with his parents’ friends and almost certainly on the Upper East Side). Another might have become a carpenter, but that’s all right, because he is not remotely like the guy who comes to your apartment and builds your custom cabinets; he is a “master carpenter” (this is a title deriving prestige from having been in use for centuries) whose exquisite furniture is advertised in the back of Architectural Digest and who was featured in a recent New York Times piece on the new craftsmen. One might have gone to Japan to learn an obscure form of glaze application for a rare type of pottery, which she now produces from her studio in western Connecticut and sells exclusively at Barneys, and which is so exquisite that all three of the Miller sisters registered for her pieces when they were married! Another might be farming in central Virginia, where he raises free-range, cruelty-free veal and has become a rising star in the post–Alice Waters generation of purveyors and an exemplar of the new green entrepreneur. Then again, some of them might do what Oliver has done, opened a shop or a business in which he or she does a very small specialized thing very, very well. Hence, Oliver is not “Oliver the florist” or even “Oliver who owns a flower shop,” but “Oliver who opened a darling shop in the West Village and is doing terribly well because he was always so gifted with flowers. Did you see that piece on him in Elle Decor? ”
They know that their parents are proud of them, but it was a close call—it could have gone either way. These Jewish boys and girls toil in uncharted waters and they have a lot to prove, but they are happy, and feel lucky. They are doing precisely what they want to do—in most cases what they have always wanted to do—and even if they suffer a lingering sense that they have missed some important opportunity and will now play catch-up for the rest of their lives, trailing their peers who boast retirement accounts and career prestige, they all know it could have been worse. Because their generation is not all accounted for in this room, large as it is. There are the missing ones, the not-mentioned ones, whose positions are no longer tracked by the chattering moms and dads. There is, for example, Jon Levine, sentenced by mandatory drug laws for selling grass at Wesleyan, still in some prison in Connecticut. There is Dana Friedman, who married a Farrakhan follower and moved to Detroit. There is David Rosengarten, presumed still traveling in Asia, presumed still stoned. And perhaps most fearful of all, there is Steven Nathan, who just failed at everything, who is still searching, who has not settled on the right path. What’s Steven doing? What’s Steven up to? How old is Steven now?
It could have been worse, Oliver thinks, looking around at his place. My place, he likes to remind himself. Where I live. And where the lilies of the field, though plentiful, do not toil, but I do.
Inside, the light of the refrigerator glows blue on the unsold dahlias, bittersweets, and hydrangeas. Branches fill the spaces between the bright tin containers, because the white plastic of the refrigerator has an ugly, deflating quality, and he likes to obscure it. There are large buckets of Black Magic roses, deeply red, and Spicy, the orange rose he prefers. The population of Hocus Pocus red roses has diminished since he left this morning, and this encourages him; Oliver is fond of the variety, which is red with yellow flecks, and he would like to be able to increase his weekly order from the Argentinean supplier. The room is long from side to side and short from front to back, unpolished and dark with age. It’s empty, but turning on the overhead light, Oliver notes the general disarray cast in the wake of Bell, who worked until five this afternoon: frayed ribbons on the floor, cut stems of flowers underfoot, and a fat roll of brown wrapping paper left in a puddle of water on the
They know that their parents are proud of them, but it was a close call—it could have gone either way. These Jewish boys and girls toil in uncharted waters and they have a lot to prove, but they are happy, and feel lucky. They are doing precisely what they want to do—in most cases what they have always wanted to do—and even if they suffer a lingering sense that they have missed some important opportunity and will now play catch-up for the rest of their lives, trailing their peers who boast retirement accounts and career prestige, they all know it could have been worse. Because their generation is not all accounted for in this room, large as it is. There are the missing ones, the not-mentioned ones, whose positions are no longer tracked by the chattering moms and dads. There is, for example, Jon Levine, sentenced by mandatory drug laws for selling grass at Wesleyan, still in some prison in Connecticut. There is Dana Friedman, who married a Farrakhan follower and moved to Detroit. There is David Rosengarten, presumed still traveling in Asia, presumed still stoned. And perhaps most fearful of all, there is Steven Nathan, who just failed at everything, who is still searching, who has not settled on the right path. What’s Steven doing? What’s Steven up to? How old is Steven now?
It could have been worse, Oliver thinks, looking around at his place. My place, he likes to remind himself. Where I live. And where the lilies of the field, though plentiful, do not toil, but I do.
Inside, the light of the refrigerator glows blue on the unsold dahlias, bittersweets, and hydrangeas. Branches fill the spaces between the bright tin containers, because the white plastic of the refrigerator has an ugly, deflating quality, and he likes to obscure it. There are large buckets of Black Magic roses, deeply red, and Spicy, the orange rose he prefers. The population of Hocus Pocus red roses has diminished since he left this morning, and this encourages him; Oliver is fond of the variety, which is red with yellow flecks, and he would like to be able to increase his weekly order from the Argentinean supplier. The room is long from side to side and short from front to back, unpolished and dark with age. It’s empty, but turning on the overhead light, Oliver notes the general disarray cast in the wake of Bell, who worked until five this afternoon: frayed ribbons on the floor, cut stems of flowers underfoot, and a fat roll of brown wrapping paper left in a puddle of water on the
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