The Fugitivities, стр. 18
On the other hand, didn’t they, on balance, have a rather desirable existence? The things in this apartment were expensive and they were pretentious. But they were also nicely made; they looked cool, better yet they looked right. Hadn’t Jonah, in truth, been trying to make his own apartment look essentially just like it, only on the cheap? And couldn’t he, if he made the right connections, perhaps at this very party, have a loft of his own one day? Sure, it would mean living in a place where he’d have to turn the stereo down at ten o’clock or have the cops called on him for a noise complaint. And the cops might even be called on him as he was trying to enter the building, if, say, he decided to wear a hoodie. And it would mean having to listen to This American Life and other boring but important shows on NPR in order to make small talk over Pabst Blue Ribbon and hummus. But wouldn’t that possibly be worth it?
Even in its decline, there was a lingering aroma of achievement in this lettered world. Its nicer and more adult clothes; its confident intelligence and cosmopolitan circulation. It would snugly envelop his life, like a boutique-hotel bathrobe, making it richer and ready to be enjoyed discreetly, without the loud vulgarity that some other lifestyles would necessarily require. And naturally he would bring to it just enough of a mocha touch, the crucial note, so that his own contribution would be immensely and inevitably appreciated, perhaps without him even having to try that hard. With the right glasses (those being naturally the correct accessory), he might pull off a move like his father had in the art world—propping himself up on the stepladder of white guilt and taking the journey for all it was worth.
Jonah was drinking steadily, standing next to Octavio, doing his best to look interested and supportive as they talked to Sasha, an attractive reader for the magazine. The three were comparing college experiences, and Sasha was explaining the “rapey” social scene and how many times she had blacked out at parties. They had moved on to a vividly confessional discussion about antidepressants and feats rumored to have been accomplished under the influence of Adderall when Jonah excused himself to make an expeditionary foray back to the beverage lineup.
By now he was three or four drinks in, operating with a pleasurable motion that felt more graceful than it looked. On his way back to Octavio, a curator from a swanky Chelsea gallery thought she recognized him. She wanted to know what he was doing these days. “Teaching,” he said.
“That’s great!” she said. And since it was clear she had made a mistake and that he had nothing to offer her, she immediately broke off, leaping like a salmon toward whoever had the real pull, maneuvering adroitly across the trench lines of her possibilities.
Jonah needed to get some air. Smokers were directed back to the landing and up an extra flight of stairs that opened to an expansive rooftop. The view was tremendous. Midtown in profile. Power suit lines cutting into the darkness, the whole fabric softly pulsating. There wasn’t anyone around. Jonah lit a cigarette and walked to the far ledge.
He thought about Uncle Vernon’s letter, what Octavio was saying about cutting out altogether, and what Isaac meant about making oneself responsible to something here, now, where it mattered.
His life was absurdly gifted with choices, and here he was, lonely, drunk, growing increasingly bitter. Just then, he felt a tap on his shoulder.
“Excuse me, do you have a light?”
The man asking must have come across the rooftop without a sound. He had what Jonah thought was maybe an Australian accent and fine, pale features that made him suspect the high station and poor diet of English boarding schools. His eyes appeared preternaturally fatigued.
“Yeah, I got you.”
“Thanks, mate, so kind. I’ve been dying for a smoke, and I can’t seem to find anyone who does. My god, it’s ridiculous, you’d think at a launch party in New York…”
“Yeah, times change.”
“So, what do you do?”
“I, uh…I teach.”
“Oh, I see—like in bad areas type of thing?”
“Yeah, something like that. You?”
“I’m an editor at Minos Press.”
“Oh. Nice.”
“Yeah, I was in banking for years, and then I thought, ‘What am I doing?’ You know? I’ve always loved books, loved reading. So I changed it all up and now I’m practically running the place. Hit the jackpot. You know Esteban Riocabo?”
“I haven’t heard of him.”
“You will.”
“Oh.”
“He’s going to blow up, mate. Huge, and I’m the one that got him for us at Minos. The thing is, it’s all about timing. It’s a prestige economy, and what you do is you wait until these writers die, you know, and then their value explodes, right through the roof, man. He’s dead, plus he’s Latin American, like Uruguayan Mexican, so it’s got all the mystique built in. The edge becomes the product, the whole package. Practically markets itself, really.”
“Sounds like a good setup.”
“Best thing about it is that we bought all the material, and now we can just trickle it out whenever we want, control the buzz around it and so forth, extend the life of the brand, so to speak, so it keeps generating revenue long-term. I expect we’ll get about a decade’s worth of earnings out of it by the end, if not more.