That’s it?”
“That’s it. ‘This is the Hamptons.’ Silence.”
“Good line. And then?”
“Chaos, my friend,” I say. “Total chaos.”
Beamer doesn’t look at me, but I’m used to that. I know he’s hearing every word.
“A siege. One minute, the whole place staring at this guy, this massive security dude going ballistic, threatening to kick his ass—”
“Amateur,” Beamer snorts.
“—whole tent watching with mouths open, like the kid was some terror suspect sent on a jihad jet-set mission—”
“You’re a poet, man.”
“Fuck off.”
Just another day on the steps of Trump International. I lean into the rail, lift my chin, and let the sun warm my face.
“But soon as they know the truth? He’s the Second Coming. They’re on him, like white on rice.” Something occurs to me. “Hey, is that a racial slur? I always wondered.”
“For white guys who chase Asian pussy, maybe,” says Beamer, then gives a low chuckle. “Nah, just fuckin’ with you.”
Beamer is my go-to source on race relations, seeing he’s one of the only black guys I’ve spent a significant amount of time with. Except for my brother, that is. And Dahnay knows even less about his cultural heritage than I do.
“Asian pussy,” mutters Beamer, still laughing.
Unfortunately, half of Beamer’s insights serve solely to mess with my head. I give it back the best I can, but we both know the truth: he’s playing in the Majors and I’m still gunning for a spot in Little League. Not to mention he’s got twenty years, one hundred pounds, and a mixed-martial-arts title on me. I glance at him from the corner of my eye. That’s one of the rules. No eye contact and we can hang.
Despite his amusement at my idiotic questions, his expression remains unchanged. This does not surprise me. From what I’ve seen, he’s only got two of them: Pleasant yet Detached Hospitality Consultant and Scary-Ass Black Man You Don’t Want to Fuck With.
Pleasant Professional or Scary Mofo, he’s the epitome of four-star upscale doorman, an immaculately uniformed guy who will carry your bags, get you a car service, and, if need be, scare off trash attempting to infiltrate your pristine kingdom.
My expression? Doesn’t matter. Everyone who passes thinks one thing: delinquent punk with nothing better to do.
We make no sense, Beamer and I. Like a buddy-cop movie my mom might shit out between awards seasons. He’s the wizened badass in the precinct who was raised on the mean streets of East Harlem; I’m the spoiled rich kid who had a beach for his backyard and somehow fell into the job. Box-office gold written all over it.
But it’s kind of true. By fourteen, Beamer was running drugs for the local gang; at fourteen, I was stealing my first spliff from the B-list sitcom-star father of one of my Harvard-Westlake classmates. He’s done a stint in Iraq, got a private investigator license, served in high-level security, and can kill a man by placing one thumb to his pressure point. Okay, maybe not kill, but at least cause massive internal damage.
I’m a 2.3 GPA high school graduate with no foreseeable future other than holing up in his power-dyke mom’s Tower apartment until the trust fund is unfrozen.
If it were a police-buddy movie, you could call it Copposites, or something equally stupid. The setup is perfect: we bicker, I prove myself, he teaches me to be a man. Life lessons all around. Cue the music, do a Subway tie-in, and we got ourselves a hit.
Beamer’s most prized possession is his gold-plated Beretta. A gift from an influential Italian business associate, he once said vaguely. Mine was a vintage balsa longboard—extra kick in the nose, single box fin, sick blue thunderbolt on the tail—but someone stole it from the youth hostel in Bulgaria.
Who surfs in Bulgaria?
Right now, Beamer wears Pleasant Face, scanning the one-block domain of which he is ruler. He doesn’t miss a thing. Knows the apartment of every person who lives here, the make and model of the resident’s car, and, if chauffeured, the ethnic origin, temperament, and navigational skills of the hired driver.
115 K, he’ll say, 2013 Beemer S550. Russian dude with an attitude. Parks like shit, too.
What are you? I once asked. The Rain Man of Trump International or something?
Never seen it.
It’s a classic!
Never seen it, man.
Of course not, I said. It doesn’t star Tyler Perry in a dress. That’s what your people are into, right?
I see the glimmer of a smile. This is Beamer’s favorite game. Shut the fuck up, you little trust-fund white boy. What’s up with those dreads, anyway? You think you’re Bob Marley?
This is our version of bonding. Though nobody would have any idea if they saw us standing there. They’d never know we had conversations, let alone liked each other.
I was grateful either way. I’d take his friendship, even with stipulations.
There were more lonely hours in a day than I could ever have imagined.
At first, Beamer had been wary of my loitering, asking what I needed. Directions to the museum? A restaurant recommendation? Then he’d just ignored me.
One day, he’d finally turned to me, exasperated. Why you always hanging out here?
Nowhere else to go.
Don’t you have friends?
I shrugged, and he’d gone back to pretending I was another decorative plant lining the lobby steps.
I’m not that kind of brother, he said.
What kind of brother is that?
The kind who runs favors for little white prep school boys.
That’s cool, I said. Since I’m not that kind of boy.
He stared at me for a moment, then went back to scanning his turf, as though we’d never spoken in the first place.
Not much he could do about my presence, even if he wanted to. I might look like a street kid on hiatus from snorting bath salts and hooking up in abandoned buildings, but we both knew I was a resident and could sit any damn place I pleased.
I had been telling the truth with the shrug, though. I didn’t have friends, not really. Except for Annalise, and that was more friendly banter. A cursory How do you like New York? Settling in nicely? and What is your mother working on now, Phillip? as we passed in the hallway or shared an elevator ride.
Those first weeks, I’d made an effort to venture beyond Trumpdom, doing a few hits on the bong and wandering the MoMA, but my brain just felt scrambled by the Warhol faces and starry nights and circles of naked girls dancing through teal.
I tried Central Park, even engaged in a whole conversation. If you could call it that. Her name was Pixie Dust or something like that, one of those free-spirit street urchins who spent her days in Sheep Meadow, all unwashed hair and too-baggy clothing. Wanna hook up? she’d said, gazing at me. Her pupils were huge black spots through smudgy liner, like a little girl scrawling on cat’s eyes for Halloween with a marker.
Okay, I said. Because I was horny, felt sorry for her, and had nothing better to do.
She’d led me to a hidden spot between the boulder piles and dropped to her knees. I gazed into the trees as her chapped lips went to work. You’re cute, she said after, wiping her mouth. Hey, think you could loan me a couple of bucks?
In the end, I stopped leaving the Trump International biosphere altogether, my days spent circling the huge, empty apartment. I kept the place meticulous, not that it was difficult. Just straighten the sheet on the futon and clean up the take-out cartons.
For a while, I attempted a routine of study, meditation, and yoga, but it quickly devolved. Five minutes in lotus, then I was surfing for porn on my laptop or staring out the window at Columbus Circle. That weird concrete and bush island floating in traffic, the official marker they use to measure every distance in the city.
If I was stoned enough, it looked like the big-city version of an alien crop circle.
I couldn’t do this forever, that was clear, so I forced myself to leave the apartment at least once a day. Sometimes I’d stand outside Annalise’s door awhile, daring myself to ring the bell, which I never actually did. You’d think I was a psycho stalker in love with her.
Wrong. For so many reasons.
In the end, the pilgrimage always ended the same: with Beamer. But the day he’d asked if I had friends? That was the turning point.
Hey, I’d said, right after he’d turned away. Want to smoke a joint?
That’d get me fired, he said, still looking toward the street. A moment later, he sighed and reached in his pocket for something. When I get fucked-up, I gotta keep it covert. You dig?
That’s when I knew: he had so much to teach me.
Where you been? He smirked, holding out a vaporizer in his cupped hand. This is the future, white boy. Wall Street guys, housewives, the asshole sellin’ pretzels on Fifth Avenue. Out in broad daylight, doin’ their regular thing. And gettin’ fucked outta their minds.
That’s crazy, I’d said.
For a connoisseur, you don’t know much. Where you been, boy? The desert?
Yeah, actually. The Sahara. But only for a day or so. I was headed for Tamraght. Got killer waves there.
Welcome home, he’d said, passing me the vaporizer. Welcome to the new world.
You’re a good kid, Beamer declared. It was a day or so later, and we were stoned, staring into the street. August sweltered, heat waves rising from the grates.
I mean it, he said. I like you.
Buddy-cop movie, through and through. The climactic moment, when the rookie kid’s been shot and the old geezer has to admit he actually cares about the little snot-nosed asshole.
You ain’t like the other residents. But fraternizing’ll get me sacked. So you can chill out here with me so long as you keep a distance. And we can talk. But no eye contact, you dig? Don’t even look in my direction. That is, unless you need a cab hailed. But from what I’ve seen, that won’t be a problem. You ain’t going nowhere fast. Want to smoke up?
Now it’s Sunday afternoon and I’m telling him about the Hamptons. How everyone went from fear to adoration of Todd Evergreen, how it screwed with my head. He listens, watching the Fifth Avenue scene unfold before him.
It’s just like the movies. The real ones, from the ’60s and ’70s. Like every moment is a pickup shot from Midnight Cowboy or Taxi Driver, every person as clichéd as the character actor who played them. Cars race alongside stroller-wielding nannies, shopping-bag-laden tourists race to fill their insatiable hunger. Joggers rush by, headed nowhere in particular, the journey less important than the calorie burn.
“So, you finally got the hell outta here,” says Beamer when I’ve finished. “Some big fancy party for some famous geek. Not sure how that invite went down, but great. But here’s what I wanna know: Did you get your sorry ass laid?”
“That wasn’t the point.”
“That’s the point of everything. You’re a cool guy, Phil. I’m serious now. Got the dreads, good communicator. A little Afro-Saxon wannabe for my taste, but the rich bitches dig that down-with-the-brothers shit. So why the fuck didn’t you hook yourself up?”
“Purity or impurity depends on oneself, Beamer. No one can purify another.”
“Enough with that Buddha shit, too. Pretty sure he never got laid either.” He scans the street, stealthily removing the vaporizer from his pocket. He inhales from a cupped hand, so quick you wouldn’t know unless he wanted you to.
“Here,” he says, doing a low-armed pass-off. I’m a foot below him, leaning against the rails. “It ain’t so complicated, Phil. Get some pussy, eat a big steak. Pay your rent and there you go. Life can be pretty okay.”
I take the piece from his hand, eyes still focused in front of me. Lift it to my lips and suck in. Instantly, the hash oil aligns my chromosomes, vaporizing all the needless yearnings. The great equalizer, an odorless, clandestine revolution.
Life can be pretty okay.
“So, the party was a bust,” says Beamer. “But there’ll be others, right?”
Instead of answering, I inhale again, the railing seeming to flex and mold to my body. I lift my face to the sun and I imagine my tribe of brothers, the underground revolutionaries, those everyday guys who are firing up their THC at that very moment.
The dude at the cart, selling dirty-dishwater dogs and toking up between customers. The cabbie puff-puff-passing his vapo-pen to the Wall Street suit he’s toting in the backseat. More likely, the other way around.
All of us in the light of day, yet existing on an alternate plane of mind expansion. Doorman and cashiers and CEOs and world leaders.
Maybe Trump himself, at this very moment, is blazing up in his office fifty-two floors above us. Dude’s got a ruby-and-diamond doorway, according to rumor. I imagine him watching as the jewels seem to drip to the floor. Glittery lava.
I return the vaporizer with a slick, behind-the-back maneuver, like some CIA operative handing over secret intelligence documentation. From the corner of my eye, I see Beamer pocket the piece as stealthily as he removed it.
“Well, at least you got the hell out of here,” he says. “Was starting to worry you had some mental thing, like those guys on TV who stay in their rooms for fifteen years. Sick fuckers.” He stops suddenly. “There’s 47C’s weekly appointment.” His gaze is fixed a block away. “Two thousand eight Royce, Phantom Coupé. Four hundred K, right there. Just sailed a red light. Driver still thinks he’s in India.”
He takes his time down the steps, meeting the vehicle as it pulls up at the curb.
I watch him open a car door and hail the bag boy for the suitcase. Pleasant Face intact, he helps a woman from the backseat. She’s at least six feet two, and that’s before the heels, the dress so short I get surprised-flashed. No panties, just like those dumb Hollywood chicks in the magazines.
Look away, I think, but my brain is on stoner time. She catches my gaze for a second and gives me a small smile. That’s okay, the expression says. Look all you want.
Beamer escorts her to the door, then holds open the glass beneath the gold TRUMP TOWER sign. She giggles, slipping him cash and a smile before disappearing into Wonderland Trumpville.
“Wow,” I say, when he returns. “I think I saw her cooch.”
“Lucky for you. I’ve had more old ladies flash me than I care to remember. Open the town car and there it is, elderly bald poon-tang. And you know what they do? Say, ‘Thank you so much, Beamer dear,’ and then give me a wink. Now I’d take 47C’s weekly over that any day.”
“What kind of weekly was she?”
“The kind with a suitcase full of whips and latex. Goes by Mistress Damage. Big with the Wall Street guys. They spend all day beatin’ people up, so they pay her to give a little back. Or call them ‘little bitch’ and watch them clean the toilet with a toothbrush.”
“No fucking way. How you know?”
“She told me.” From the corner of my eye, I see the almost-flicker of an almost-smile. “Took her to the movies once.”
“You are an enigma, Beamer.”
“Bridget Jones, man. Would I make that shit up? Few years back. Not a bad movie, though. Even got her some Milk Duds. Extralarge.”
“Then she took you to her dungeon and smacked you around?”
“Somethin’ like that,” he says, and closes his mouth.
Game over, I think.
“Hey,” I say, suddenly remembering my stock is low. “Can you get me more of that stuff? The dark green with the fluffy buds?”
“Agent Orange. Tomorrow. But you can wait. Looks like tonight you’ll be covered.”
I follow his gaze. A car has pulled up, the window rolled down.
“Bentley Continental limo,” mutters Beamer with a low whistle. “Flying Spur, 2013.”
“Hey!” says M.C. through a cloud of smoke. “Hurry up, man! Desy’ll go double-bitch if we make her wait.” He notices Beamer. “How ya doin’, brother?” he says, all friendly.
“Fine, sir,” says Beamer mechanically. “Thank you for asking, sir.”
Miller’s head disappears.
I reach for my backpack. “You know him?” I ask casually, messing with the zipper.
“No, not really. Just seen him around, maybe. With 42C.”
“Annalise, yeah. His girlfriend. Probably former, but what can you do?” I sling the backpack over my shoulder. “Well, see you later, nigga.”
“Sure thing, peckerwood.”
“Never heard that one. You figured out how to Google search. Welcome to the New World.”
Then I’m gone.
I’d have given him a handshake or fist bump good-bye, but he’s not that kind of friend.
Weird, I think, getting in the back. For just a second, right after he called M.C. sir, Beamer’s face went from Pleasant to Scary Mofo.
Kif from the Rif!” says M.C. He slaps me across the back, all smiles. The limo is huge, or maybe it’s just the dark that makes it feel that way.
“Like the Bentley? Borrowed it from my dad’s collection. He won’t notice. Wait! I forgot the sound track!”
He hits a remote, the dark interior vibrating to life.
“Relax, Bentley seats in the back,” raps a voice. “Lil’ momma we rollin’ . . . rollin’ . . .”
“Rodney!” M.C. says, knocking on the divider panel. “You hear my man LL Cool? Let’s get this shit goin’!”
Immediately, we are in motion.
“The P-I-M-P, the pockets are filled deep . . . he hard to kill G, the God is real deep. . . .”
“You gotta love the original B-boys,” M.C. says. “Fuckin’ Lil Wayne and shit like that? They had nothing on the old-school bad boys.” Then he perks up, like he just thought of something really important. “And you remember our friend, right?” Miller motions to the corner.
Who? Maybe it’s the tinted windows and darkened interior, but whomever he’s pointing at fades into the seat like a human chameleon.
I squint, eyes adjusting. There he is. Same hoodie, same sheepish smile.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey,” says Todd Evergreen.
“We never met, but I know you. I mean, who doesn’t?”
Todd nods. At least I think he does.
“I mean, the party was thrown for you. That’s what I was saying.” Fuck, Phillip. Get your words right. Why are you nervous? You’ve had dinner with George-fucking-Clooney, and that was when you were twelve, for Christsakes. Who is Todd Evergreen, after all?
“Fuck, that scene was sick,” says Miller, stretching his legs out long. He’s closer, so I can actually see him a little. “Annalise freaks and I think, ‘Damn. Whole night is goin’ Titanic on my ass.’” He grabs my wrist, startling me, then forces my hand open and drops something in my palm. “Chill.”
A blunt.
“Light it up, Kif.”
For all the babble, I think, M.C.’s one hell of a host.
I blaze up. The lighter clicks and, for a split second, the interior is illuminated.
Todd is watching me. Not a flicker of emotion on his face. Except the eyes, maybe. There’s something there. What is it?
Curiosity, I think suddenly, and suck down smoke.
“Hard from the wars, he tough as a battle-ax . . . don’t hate him ’cause he hot, God put him where he at . . .”
“And I’m like, ‘Fuck this party. This party fucking sucks,’” says Miller. “And two seconds later, there’s my man Todd. Bustin’ in with that security douche, Old Man Hoff goin’ batshit. And then . . . fucking it’s on!” Miller grins at me, his teeth very white in the dark. “I mean, the music sucks, but the bitches are going crazy, Cristal flowing. Bottles and models, dude. Annalise drunk outta her mind and outta my hair. And, fuck, just like that, we got ourselves a blowout! The whole fucking place was bumpin’!”
For a second, I’m not sure what party he’s talking about.
“Lil’ momma we rollin’ . . . we rollin’ . . .”
If by blowout Miller meant slamming shots at the bar while pouting, then, yeah. If bumpin’ translated to muttering obscenities under your breath and getting progressively more fucked-up, then we’re on the same page.
And that was after the Annalise fight.
Fuck her, he kept saying. I’m talkin’ to Evergreen and then we’re gettin’ hella outta here.
By the time he finally got a window of opportunity—the only two minutes Evergreen wasn’t inundated by people asking if he’d play doubles at my club or come for cocktail hour—M.C. could barely stand up.
Wait, I said. But he was already gone. Striding over like a man on a mission. A death one, maybe.
M.C. talked excitedly, swaying a little, even spitting on the guy a bit. Evergreen listened politely, throwing in the occasional nod. The same conversation the guest of honor had been having all night; one that required no actual talking on his part.
Trade the word production for venture, I thought, and the Hamptons are just like Hollywood. The inhabitants so far up their asses they could check for proper kidney function.
Got his number, said Miller, holding up his phone proudly when he finally returned. Dude fuckin’ loved me.
Good job, I said. Delusional, I was thinking.
Now I’m gonna text Rodney, he said, fumbling with the keypad on his phone. Time to blow this shithole. Fuck! Why’d they make these keys so small? Here, you do it.
As we left the tent, he’d slung an arm over my shoulder, more a move for balance than a sign of camaraderie. My man Phil, he slurred. You asshole. Fuck you. I hate you. Seriously, you’re the best, buddy. You’re Kif from the Rif.
Ten feet from the car. Man, I’m busted, Miller said, then lay down in the mud.
I nudged his ribs with the toe of my hiking boot. Get up.
Whatever, he said, then passed out cold.
Dolna kuchka! A loud, annoyed voice. I turned to see Rodney. Don’t worry, he told me. I got it.
I watched as Rodney, with clinical precision, pulled the dead weight that was Miller Crawford III to his feet.
“Nah,” said Rodney. “I got it.” Only slightly stooped by the sagging body leaned on his left side, Rodney drag-carried Miller to the car and deposited him, snoring, in the backseat.
M.C. only woke up once the whole ride back. Annalise, he said, then looked me right in the eyes. That fucking cunt. I really love her.
Two seconds later the snoring resumed.
Which is why, when I’d gotten his text that afternoon, I’d been pretty surprised.
Well, I thought, putting on my shoes, I guess delusion is in the eye of the beholder.
Maybe Evergreen did love him, not that you could tell in the dark. And Todd himself sure wasn’t saying. We’d gone miles, and not a word from his corner.
Miller, on the other hand, was going by the sharing-is-caring model.
“So fuck her. It was over anyways. Besides, she’s still in high school. A junior, even. What, I’m gonna go to prom? I got important shit goin’ on.” He puffs the joint, then holds it out to Todd.
Evergreen shakes his head. At least I think he does.
“Just wait till you meet Desy,” he says, shoving it at me.
Like a bolt of electricity through him, a sudden burst of energy. He’s leaning toward Todd, his words coming fast. “Wait till you hear her shit. You’ll get it, man. The potential. We’re workin’ on her first single at this very moment.”
“Can’t wait,” says Todd.
“I mean, she’s like that chick from the Rock Exchange, only poppier. That one with a million investors. You know who I mean? Short black hair, from Iraq. Sexy little Iraqi punk chick, fuck, wuz her name?”
“Naaz,” says Todd. “And it was one point five million investors.”
“Naaz! That’s her. I like that one song. The dah dee dah one. ‘Blue . . .’ Blue something . . .”
“Blue Damascus,” says Todd. “It’s the capital of Syria.”
“Exactly! Desy’s a lot like her. Naaz.”
“So Desy sings lyrical ballads contemplating genocide and the subjugation of women?” I couldn’t help myself. It just came out.
Wait. Did Todd Evergreen smile?
I could be imagining it. All the dark and weed playing tricks on my mind. But I swear, just for a second . . .
“I wasn’t talking about the lyrics, man,” Miller says to me. “I was talking sex appeal. I’d bang that Naaz chick, for sure. And Desy’s got the same vibe, only throw in a little crazy. Not in a bald-Britney-umbrella-stab way. More I’ll-hold-this-knife-to-your-neck, but-I’m-just-messin’-with-you. Let’s-fuck-instead! way. Sexy/Mental, that’s her brand.” He drums his fingers across his knees, excited. “So, for her first video, this is what I’m thinking: asylum chic. Like heroin chic, remember that? But we up the booty quotient. Junkies don’t have booty, right? So . . . white walls, close-ups on medical instruments. Gleaming steel, intro beats. Drum goes bum bum bum thud! And there’s Desy. You seein’ this? Desdemona Goldberg—gotta work on the last name, little, you know, awkward on the tongue—her hair all messed up likes she’s been rollin’ in bed. Tight leather pants and—wait for it—a straitjacket. A straitjacket. But, like, a low-cut one that shows lots of titty.”
“And heels. Six inches at least. Insta Psycho-Ward Hotness. And maybe throw in some sexy nurses with stethoscopes as backup.”
He’s not kidding.
Finished, he takes a gulp of air, leans back, and looks at Todd eagerly.
Nothing.
“But tasteful, too, know? Classy vibe. We’ll get Spike Jonze to direct.”
Silence.
Awkward, I think.
“What’s the song?” The words burst out of my mouth, probably too loud.
“Still workin’ that out. Got this great guy on it. Done some of Kanye’s shit.”
Did Todd fall asleep? Die?
Next to me, Miller is holding his breath.
That’s when I understand: this whole thing is a pitch. The Bentley, the sound track, the weed. He wants Todd’s approval, his potential investment. Why did it take me so long to see? If anyone should have known, it’s me.
I mean, it’s been part of my existence since the day I was born, as familiar as the surf and palm trees. There it is, on every patio of every four-star restaurant during lunch hour: one tool pitching his wares, the other deciding his fate. And my mother? She’s the top decider, the queen of the Tinseltown ash heap.
My pilot script, says the gas-station attendant, then shoves a handful of pages at Mom after fueling up her eco-acceptable transport. My demo reel, says the bartender. My movie, says the film student after chasing us through the parking lot of Ralphs when second grade let out.
My website, my cross-media revolution.
I have the concept, they say. The vision. I’m creating a movement.
Your movement is redundant, I want to tell them. Your movement can suck it.
When I was six, my kindergarten teacher gave me her screenplay. Just give it to your mom, she said, then patted my head, gave me a cookie, and assigned me the coveted role of Wake-Up Fairy during nap time.
Shouldn’t have been so proud, looking back now. I mean, can’t they say Wake-Up Genie at the very least?
That moment, and so many others. One of the reasons I split LA in the first case, went as far abroad as my hiking boots could take me. I wanted to flee that insatiable American need, the drive to feed on the charred remains of what was once called art. The drive to create those remains by sucking any soul or dick in proximity.
So why am I here now? What does M.C. want from me? And does it even matter?
“I love it,” I say. “That video fucking rocks, M.C.”
From his corner, Todd gives a slight nod. This time, I know for sure. That’s how hard I’m concentrating on him.
It isn’t a yes nod, or a no one. Just a shift of the head in the up and down. Or a bump in the road.
Miller breaks into a smile. He’s beaming enough to light up the dark.
I’m glad for him. After all, that’s why I said it in the first place. Why I’d praised his video, even though it’s idiotic fluff with no redeeming value whatsoever.
What it comes down to is this: one force is more powerful than the reprocessed, reproduced, recycled concepts in the dump-yard of our modern cultural existence—hope.
And that’s what I’d saw, pure and unadulterated, on Miller’s face.
Living without hope, said Buddha, is burying oneself. Plug in drowning, and you got me. Or almost.
He may demean women and have no discernible talent, but Miller’s a good guy. And maybe—just maybe—a friend. So why take the thing he cares for most?
“Thanks, man,” says Miller, still grinning. “But guess you guys can see for yourself in a few.” He leans back and sighs, content. “But just so you know, Desy picked the place. So don’t blame me, ’kay? Could be a strip club.” He snorts. “Or the Four Seasons. With Desy, you never know. Crazy bitch.”