call it
Real Time
.”
“Mose must be smart.”
“I can’t tell for sure. He’s witty and articulate, which non-smart people never are nowadays. Not Americans, anyway. Although now that I think about it, there are a lot of articulate dumb people in TV. This afternoon Mose said, ‘You know “The New Network for the New Century”? I want all of us to
mean
it.’ I don’t know if he’s brilliant, or just unafraid of sounding superficial.”
“What’s the difference? At his level. That’s what makes a good leader. Not being afraid of sounding superficial. Really believing your own bullshit. ‘Men believe in the truth of all that is
seen
to be strongly believed.’ ”
“You remember you said that to me when they first brought up executive producer at ABC? My little Nietzsche.”
“That was so long ago.”
“Nineteen ninety-five, only.”
“Exactly,” Lizzie says. “I think the guy from Hiroshima Boy’s here.
Rafaela?
” she shouts.
He stands, grabbing both of Lizzie’s hands with his right, and as he slides her off the couch, which they’ve reupholstered in black leather, her jeans squeak. “I’m fat as a pig,” she says. As he uses his teeth to pull the cork from a half-full bottle of Chardonnay, it squeaks, and squeaks again as he jams it back in. As they pop open their dinners, the Styrofoam sushi containers squeak. In the bedroom, as Lizzie reads and deletes each e-mail, the computer makes its
eep
sound, its electronic squeak. In his office on the top floor, his rubber-soled Ferragamos squeak across the bare white wood. On the table is the photograph of his parents, smiling fifties newlyweds, his father making it appear as though a giant Paul Bunyan statue way behind them is between his fingers and on top of his mother’s head. His father died of a stroke just after George and Lizzie’s wedding. George, his throat tightening, squeaks.
“What?” Lizzie shouts up from the bedroom.
He exhales. “Nothing.”
Back down on the third floor, he sits on the bed. “I feel awful that I don’t feel like—how I’m feeling about my mother.”
She comes out of the bathroom, wearing only black panties and holding a piece of floss in one hand. He holds her around the waist,and she, standing in front of him, presses his head to her chest, stroking his hair.
Down in the basement, the furnace ignites. “We have liftoff,” George does not say, as he often does when they’re alone together and hear that sound—the muffled bang, the deep rumble resolving into a continuous, quiet thunder. It reminds him of the space launches he never missed as a kid. Lizzie, born a year after the JFK assassination, doesn’t remember watching a space launch live until the one after
Challenger
exploded.
George sighs. “I mean, I was a wreck when my dad died. I could hardly function.”
“I know.” She rubs his temples. “With your mom, I think you’ve maybe already gotten kind of adjusted to the idea, you know? Because of the cancer.”
He looks up into her face. “And I hated it this morning when I tried to lie to you about Mose going to Seattle to meet with Microsoft. I mean, why did I do that?”
“Long day,” she says.
“Christ. Fuck.”
“I know.”
“I hate keeping secrets,” he says.
“Being a grownup,” she replies.
He kisses her belly and cups her left breast with his hand. She looks to see that the door is shut, kneels on the bed, and he pushes her over backward, deep into the comforter under her. As they squirm and pull and rub, squeeze and breathe and lick, and finally kiss, his sweater stays on. (It isn’t self-consciousness about the stump, he told her when she finally asked one night, right after they were married. But with only one hand, a demi-arm, he said, you sometimes have to do triage, make a choice between romantic momentum and romantic etiquette—and pants off trumps shirt off.)
Whimpering is so basic: whimpering is a sound of fear or grief, a starving man whimpers
Real Time
.”
“Mose must be smart.”
“I can’t tell for sure. He’s witty and articulate, which non-smart people never are nowadays. Not Americans, anyway. Although now that I think about it, there are a lot of articulate dumb people in TV. This afternoon Mose said, ‘You know “The New Network for the New Century”? I want all of us to
mean
it.’ I don’t know if he’s brilliant, or just unafraid of sounding superficial.”
“What’s the difference? At his level. That’s what makes a good leader. Not being afraid of sounding superficial. Really believing your own bullshit. ‘Men believe in the truth of all that is
seen
to be strongly believed.’ ”
“You remember you said that to me when they first brought up executive producer at ABC? My little Nietzsche.”
“That was so long ago.”
“Nineteen ninety-five, only.”
“Exactly,” Lizzie says. “I think the guy from Hiroshima Boy’s here.
Rafaela?
” she shouts.
He stands, grabbing both of Lizzie’s hands with his right, and as he slides her off the couch, which they’ve reupholstered in black leather, her jeans squeak. “I’m fat as a pig,” she says. As he uses his teeth to pull the cork from a half-full bottle of Chardonnay, it squeaks, and squeaks again as he jams it back in. As they pop open their dinners, the Styrofoam sushi containers squeak. In the bedroom, as Lizzie reads and deletes each e-mail, the computer makes its
eep
sound, its electronic squeak. In his office on the top floor, his rubber-soled Ferragamos squeak across the bare white wood. On the table is the photograph of his parents, smiling fifties newlyweds, his father making it appear as though a giant Paul Bunyan statue way behind them is between his fingers and on top of his mother’s head. His father died of a stroke just after George and Lizzie’s wedding. George, his throat tightening, squeaks.
“What?” Lizzie shouts up from the bedroom.
He exhales. “Nothing.”
Back down on the third floor, he sits on the bed. “I feel awful that I don’t feel like—how I’m feeling about my mother.”
She comes out of the bathroom, wearing only black panties and holding a piece of floss in one hand. He holds her around the waist,and she, standing in front of him, presses his head to her chest, stroking his hair.
Down in the basement, the furnace ignites. “We have liftoff,” George does not say, as he often does when they’re alone together and hear that sound—the muffled bang, the deep rumble resolving into a continuous, quiet thunder. It reminds him of the space launches he never missed as a kid. Lizzie, born a year after the JFK assassination, doesn’t remember watching a space launch live until the one after
Challenger
exploded.
George sighs. “I mean, I was a wreck when my dad died. I could hardly function.”
“I know.” She rubs his temples. “With your mom, I think you’ve maybe already gotten kind of adjusted to the idea, you know? Because of the cancer.”
He looks up into her face. “And I hated it this morning when I tried to lie to you about Mose going to Seattle to meet with Microsoft. I mean, why did I do that?”
“Long day,” she says.
“Christ. Fuck.”
“I know.”
“I hate keeping secrets,” he says.
“Being a grownup,” she replies.
He kisses her belly and cups her left breast with his hand. She looks to see that the door is shut, kneels on the bed, and he pushes her over backward, deep into the comforter under her. As they squirm and pull and rub, squeeze and breathe and lick, and finally kiss, his sweater stays on. (It isn’t self-consciousness about the stump, he told her when she finally asked one night, right after they were married. But with only one hand, a demi-arm, he said, you sometimes have to do triage, make a choice between romantic momentum and romantic etiquette—and pants off trumps shirt off.)
Whimpering is so basic: whimpering is a sound of fear or grief, a starving man whimpers
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