SARAH’S ONE-BEDROOM apartment in a row of apartment complexes on East Fifteenth was not the ideal place to host dinner parties. For starters, only students lived in the building. The landlord exclusively rented to students because of their habit of unquestioningly paying an exorbitant monthly rent and not calling to complain if the ceiling cracked or their water was occasionally brown. Because of this, Sarah’s building was a unique combination of college smells and sounds. The hallways smelled like lavender body lotion and weed, and on Fridays, her neighbor’s blasted songs about parties that ended in nonfatal car accidents.
Another deterrent to hosting dinner parties was the size of Sarah’s apartment. Her kitchen was tiny, with only room enough for two to stand in. A sofa and coffee table had been squeezed into the living room. Sarah usually ate on the couch, recently joined by her father and the stack of papers constituting his work.
Still, this was the only venue Harry could think of to throw his dinner party. He had a monumental announcement to make.
As far as venues for announcements were concerned, having a dinner party in your daughter’s condo was a pretty safe way to go. Originally, Harry had thought about using the cafeteria at Gray Gables, the nursing home where he worked—the residents were all in their rooms by 6:00 p.m.—but he worried about the veranda being visible from the dining room. By day, the veranda was a harmless, even picturesque place for Gray Gables’s residents to contemplate the wisdom they’d accumulated during their lifetimes. But once the sun set, glowing from the landscape lighting, the veranda became the setting for Mrs. Thompson and Mr. Polski’s nightly trysts. If there was one thing Harry had learned in more than twenty years working at the nursing home, it was that senior citizens have very dirty imaginations.
Since the dinner was to be at Sarah’s, Harry had to cut the guest list considerably. He could no longer invite the governor, the mayor, the dean of sciences for Indiana University Bloomington, the thirty-seven dignitaries from the world of science, politics, and popular entertainment who, he was convinced, would be interested in his announcement; nor could he invite Bloomington’s favorite native son, David Lee Roth. Harry’s guest list had been whittled down to Sarah, Timothy, Amanda, and Dennis. He would have liked to invite Beth, Sarah’s longtime girlfriend, but she was out of town. He would have to remind Sarah to text her a transcription of his announcement, complete with hand-clapping emojis in the places where there was deafening applause from his four guests.
Having decided on the venue and the guest list, Harry was faced with another problem: he was a terrible cook. Sixty percent of his meals came out of the microwave burned or frozen, and the other 40 percent were coffee. Fortunately for Harry, Sarah, out of necessity, had from childhood developed into an excellent cook. It was either be a malnourished fifth grader or grab the unused cookbook off the shelf and follow a recipe.
With the three components of a successful dinner party set, Harry sent out the invitations in the form of a group text: Sarah’s at 6 for a major announcement, followed by dinner and a brief Q&A.
None of the recipients knew what this meant. Over the years, they had all received cryptic text messages from Harry—usually requests to borrow a lawn mower or jumper cables—but this was the first one promising food, so they all confirmed out of curiosity. Dennis rolled his eyes and cursed at the ceiling before confirming.
Harry planned for a short cocktail hour, during which his guests would mingle, then dinner at seven, when he would make his grand announcement. The host of one of the cooking shows Sarah and Beth watched had explained this was the standard dinner party timeline. While planning, Harry ran a quick calculation to determine if following proper dinner party etiquette would lead to his paper being published. He took the amount of food they were serving, in calories, and multiplied it by the years his paper would be considered the top scientific theory in the world, which he felt was infinite, and concluded the dinner party would lead to innumerable dinner parties in his honor. It was the first of many calculations Harry would make during the evening.
The living room had been transformed into the dining room of a luxury hotel—or as close as they could get to a luxury hotel on a motor lodge budget. The couch had been moved into the bedroom, and Sarah had borrowed a card table and some folding chairs from her neighbor. She’d draped it with a tablecloth with sunflowers on it gifted to her after she received her undergraduate degree.
At 5:30 p.m., Timothy arrived, coming straight from campus and causing Harry to adjust his calculations. Timothy seemed tired but upbeat. Harry hadn’t seen him like this in a while. He figured it was because of their plan to go to Chicago that weekend. He patted his friend on the shoulder and invited him in. Then Amanda and Dennis buzzed Sarah’s intercom, which was as harsh and shrill as a dental drill operated by a coked-out howler monkey. Harry buzzed them in and left the front door cracked.
“If my tires get stolen”—Dennis shook his coat as he took it off—“I’m suing somebody.”
“What’s with this business about stealing tires?” Amanda asked, handing her coat to Harry, who took them both into the bedroom and tossed them onto the overturned couch.
“They’re high performance radials.”
“No one steals tires anymore.”
“Porsche specifically recommends them for the Cayenne S.”
“Sarah, do people steal tires? Kids don’t do that, right? And who are you going to sue, anyway?”
“I don’t know, the neighborhood association.”
“I don’t think there is one.”
“Then who determines where you can park your boat?”
“We brought a bottle of wine,” Amanda said. In the kitchen, she opened a drawer in search of a bottle opener.
“I gotta say, Harry”—Dennis inspected the gaps between the ceiling and the crown molding—“Sarah’s place is definitely an upgrade from your last place.”
“Would you like something to drink, Dennis?” Sarah asked. “A beer or a glass of wine?”
Beads of sweat built on Dennis’s forehead. He looked indecisive, like a quarterback who didn’t know if he should throw the ball out of bounds or take the sack. “Just a glass of water,” he finally said.
“Dennis has made a serious life change.” Amanda brought Dennis his drink. “He’s decided to give up alcohol for a while.”
Harry quickly updated his calculation and determined that, even though Dennis had stopped drinking, Amanda would still leave him five months after his paper came out.
“I’m very proud of him.” Amanda kissed Dennis on the cheek. “He has so much energy now. We’re talking about doing the Bloomington Fun Run in April.”
“Does anyone else have any life-altering decisions they’d like to share?” Harry asked, anxious his grand moment was going to be ruined by his guest’s surprise declaration of sobriety. “Is there possibly a revelation you’re saving for after the amuse-bouche?”
“That’s it, just the drinking thing,” Dennis said, pushing his phone deeper into his pocket.
Everyone sat as Sarah set their dinner on the table. Both Sarah and Beth were vegan. Beth had been a vegan for an entire semester when she and Sarah met, and like most people in love, Sarah adopted Beth’s diet. For dinner, Sarah had made a special vegan meal consisting of several salads, vegan lasagna, and plates of assorted vegetables. The table looked and smelled like a farmer’s market but without the out-of-tune folk singers and their songs about chemtrails and water fluoridation.
“We’re picking up a bucket of chicken on the way home,” Dennis whispered loudly to Amanda.
After everyone had passed around the plates and started eating, Harry stood and tapped his knife against his glass.
“I invited you here because I’m compelled to make two announcements,” he said. “One is of tremendous importance that will affect the course of mankind, and the other is a small, insignificant statement. It’s really nothing big, just a courtesy.”
Harry stood at the head of the table, addressing them as though they were the board of directors for Omnicalcumetry Inc.; its charter could be found on page 735 of his book.
“As you are all aware, for the last eight years, three months, and sixteen days, I’ve been toiling away, often by candlelight, on my magnum opus, a theory so radical it will rewrite the laws of physics and change the way we contemplate the universe. It will henceforth be taught at every level of education. Children will memorize it along with their multiplication tables. It will be the subject of doctorial theses for generations. Destiny will memorialize it next to the greatest works of Einstein, Galileo, and Newton, to name but three.”
On his notecard, Harry had crossed out the line, My birthday will be commemorated as a federal holiday, and my face will be on postage stamps, because he doubted the post office would exist in ten years. Besides, he couldn’t tell his audience everything that would happen in the future. They needed some surprises.
“Tonight, I’m proud to announce I’ve finished my aptly titled paper, Omnicalcumetry: The Theory of Everything and Its Applications for Everyday Living by Harry Erickson, a New Science for the New Millennium. Thank you. Thank you.”
Sarah was the only one clapping.
“For my second announcement, it has come to my attention that no physics professor of any clout in town will review my paper. So I’ve decided to seek support beyond the confines of Bloomington, specifically the metropolis of Chicago.”
At the mention of Chicago, Dennis sat up straighter.
“I have identified a professor there whom I have selected as the leading candidate to be my ambassador.”
“This professor in Chicago,” Amanda said, “he’s read your paper and thinks it has merit?”
“Not yet. But I know once he reads it, he’ll become the prophet Omnicalcumetry deserves.”
“A prophet? Really?” Amanda gave a skeptical sigh.
“Since my car’s deplorable condition prohibits it from making long trips,” Harry continued, “I visited Timothy on campus on Monday to ask a small favor. Like the true friend he is, he agreed to drive. We will be leaving Friday morning so I can brief my future diplomat on the merits of my research.”
“Shoot.” Timothy looked as guilty as if he’d been caught plagiarizing the Weekly World News in his doctoral thesis. “I’ve been meaning to tell you. Deborah’s scheduling an appointment for us with a marriage counselor. We’re going to try and work things out.”
“That’s excellent! I’m all in favor of marital reconciliation,” Harry said. “With Timothy indisposed—Dennis, I have a favor to ask. Not a big favor, mind you, just a miniscule one, something so insignificant you won’t even notice it.”
“Out with it already.”
“I need to borrow a car. Just temporarily, of course.”
“No chance. I am not loaning you a car.”
“You have a lot full of cars,” Sarah said. “You can’t loan one of them to my dad?”
“That’s not how it works,” Dennis said. “I can’t go giving out cars to anyone who needs them. That’s not how you run a car dealership.”
“It’s up to you, Dennis. I ask again, will you answer the call? Will you rise to the occasion and save the day?”
Dennis scowled—a look he gave his salespeople when they forgot to push the dealer’s warranty, a look Harry misinterpreted as frustrated resignation.
“Excellent!” Harry said. “I’ll arrive at the dealership promptly at 9:00 a.m. on Friday to pick up the car, preferably one with seat warmers.”
“What part of no don’t you get?” Dennis asked.
“We’ll table this discussion for a later date,” Harry said. “Now, if I may continue, I actually have a third announcement—more of a proclamation, really—related to the previous two. It’s so insignificant, such a minute development, it’s hardly worth mentioning. But I feel I should say something, because I know how you fret about my financial prospects, Amanda. But it appears, well, it seems…”
Harry paused for dramatic effect. This would be a day they would all remember, the day they would mark on their calendars and talk about on social media. They would be able to say they were there when Harry Erickson took the plunge and fully devoted his life to science.
“I have decided, in anticipation of my paper being published and its unquestionable, impending success, to quit my job.”
Harry grinned, triumphant, having just completed the first in a long series of speeches he would give with Amanda and Sarah present. His most important speech was yet to come. He had seen it, prepared for it every day since he started working on his paper. Harry stood in front of a packed auditorium, the bow tie of his tuxedo choking him slightly, a stack of notecards in his hand. He’d prepared the speech for weeks, crafting each sentence, trying to write the perfect joke that would make a room full of physicists laugh. But after the six-minute, thirty-seven-second standing ovation had died down, Harry cleared his throat and slipped the stack of cards into his jacket pocket, deciding to wing it instead. He recounted to the crowd the events that had led to his discovery, and the years of hardships prior to his paper being published. Upon hearing his life story, the audience—the elite of the scientific community—soaked their designer tuxedoes and dresses with their tears, touched by his honesty and humility, inspired by his perseverance. Harry ended by saying even though he had lost everything in the fire, he never lost his drive, his imagination, or his belief in himself and his ideas. He then dedicated his Nobel Prize in Physics to his wife, Amanda, and his daughter, Sarah. His family applauded from the front row. Sarah wept with pride. Amanda reached under her dress and pulled off her black thong and threw it on stage. Later, in their Stockholm hotel room—a suite with a view of Lake Mälaren—Harry wrapped his arms around Amanda as she whispered in his ear.
“Jesus, Harry!” Amanda said. “Did you think this through?”
“Huh?” Harry said, returning from the hotel bed to the card table.
“About quitting your job. What are you going to do for money? How will you support yourself?”
“I’ve done all the necessary calculations. My paper is destined to be so astonishingly successful our great-grandchildren will be financially independent.”
“I can’t believe you’d be this irresponsible.”
“For many years now, my employment at Gray Gables has hindered me from achieving my true potential.”
“It’s kept a roof over your head.”
“It’s long past time I shed that impediment and devote my time to my true calling: changing the world.” Harry held his hand in the air as though reading his destiny on a marquee.
“Changing the world.” Dennis laughed. “Remember this day, Sarah. It’ll make it easier to commit your pops to Gray Gables when he’s older.”
“This is not dementia,” Sarah said. “This is what it looks like when someone commits to making his dreams a reality.”
“If you believe that, I gotta ’74 Gremlin in the back of my lot I’d like to sell you.”
“At least my dad has been working toward something,” Sarah said with the anger and conviction of someone who had waited until she was an accomplished adult to say what had been on her mind since she was an awkward teenager. “You’ve never had to work for anything in your entire life.”
“Sarah,” Amanda said, her voice adopting the tone of a warning disregarded by daughters everywhere.
“You had everything handed to you by your crooked father.”
“I oversee three dealerships and a used car lot,” Dennis said.
“That your dad signed over to you so the IRS wouldn’t seize them.”
“You don’t have the slightest clue what you’re talking about.”
“It’s been twenty years. All the articles, everything relating to the trial, can be found online. You should look it up and see what type of person your father really was.”
Silence sat down at the dinner table, socially awkward and wanting to ask if the rolls were gluten-free. Sarah’s clinched fists shook. Dennis’s face was red. If only there was someone who could broker peace between them, someone who knew them both, was a skilled educator, orator, and negotiator, someone whose words could calm even the most hardened enemies.
“There’s no need for fighting,” Harry said. “Sarah, I appreciate you sticking up for me, but insults are unwarranted. Dennis, I know it can be challenging to date someone who still spends time with their ex—especially when their ex is on the cusp of greatness—but you’ve handled it admirably.”
“I’ve had enough of this.” Dennis threw his napkin on his plate of couscous. “I’m not going to be ganged up on by people who don’t know what they’re talking about or think the world revolves around them.”
Dennis pushed his chair away from the table and left the apartment. He hopped in his SUV and started up the seat warmers.
“You need to go apologize to him,” Amanda said. “Both of you.”
Sarah threw up her arms, protesting her persecution. “What did I do?”
“Dennis is more sensitive than you realize, Sarah. He doesn’t show it, but your words really affect him.”
Sarah groaned. “All right. I’ll go say I’m sorry for recounting the facts of his dad’s tax evasion conviction.”
“You stay, Sarah,” Harry said. “I’m the one who needs to offer an apology to Dennis.”
Outside, Dennis had reclined his seat and closed his eyes. He jumped when Harry pounded on his window, motioning for him to roll it down. Amanda watched from Sarah’s apartment, a glass of wine in her hand.
“What do you want, Harry?” Dennis said. “Actually, fuck that. No amount of begging will get me to let you use one of my cars.”
“Once again, Dennis, you’ve seen right through my well-crafted ruse.”
“I ain’t loaning you shit.”
“Allow me to pose an inquiry. Have you ever had something so important to you that you’d sacrifice everything dear to you to get it?”
“Are you trying to get me to relate to you? Because it’s not working.”
“This type of sacrifice is a leap of faith of sorts. It means allowing immediate happiness to fall by the wayside in favor of a future outcome that’s beneficial not just to you, but to everyone you care about. Does this make sense to you?”
“As usual, nothing you say makes a lick of sense.”
“When we were in high school, you were one of Bloomington’s favorite sons. You were a football star, had a limitless future.”
“We remember high school differently.”
“Then you went to college and that promise went unfulfilled. Critics said you couldn’t hack it at the collegiate level. Some said it was because your father died in prison.”
“Watch what you say next,” Dennis said, getting out of the car. The car door slamming shut sounded like a warning shot.
“As for myself, I have sacrificed my family for my theory of Omnicalcumetry. Some would say I was foolish to do so, but I did it willingly because I believe in the future Omnicalcumetry will give them. Furthermore, I believe in myself. I know you lacked the faith in yourself to pursue your dreams of football glory and the knee replacements that accompany it, but don’t let your self-doubt hinder my ability to achieve my aspirations.”
“You want to hear what your sacrifice got you? The day after Amanda moved out of your place, she came into my dealership. I took her for a test drive—not the car, your wife.”
“Huh?”
“I’m saying I fucked her in a Porsche. Convertible. With the top down.”
Harry squinted and clinched his fists. “You… You…” Not being very creative with profanity, this was the best he could do.
“You were still married, right? At least that’s what she told me afterward.”
Harry reached back, and punched Dennis in the mouth. In the history of epic fights, Harry versus Dennis ranked rather low on the list, just above spaghetti versus a pot of boiling water. When Harry punched him, Dennis’s head barely moved.
“You have a pretty lousy right hook,” Dennis said, refusing to rub his jaw.
Harry stumbled backward as Dennis towered over him. His chunky nemesis outweighed him by seventy-five pounds. Harry didn’t know what Dennis would do—if he’d hit him or body-slam him into the pavement as though he were the annual percentage rate on a new car loan. (In one of his President’s Day sale commercials, Dennis body-slammed an actor wearing a red spandex suit with the letters APR on his chest.) Fortunately, he didn’t have to wait very long to find out.
“Harry, what did you do?” Amanda came running down the stairs. She rushed over to Dennis, wrapped her arms around him, and pulled him away. “I can’t believe you. You’re a grown man.”
“This crazy son of a bitch just up and hit me,” Dennis said.
“He…he started it,” Harry said.
“Well, I’m finishing it,” Amanda said.
“He said—”
“I don’t care what he said.” Amanda took Dennis back to the car.
“You’re lucky,” Dennis said as Amanda pushed him toward their SUV. “Amanda just saved you a whooping.”
“This is why I’m glad I never had boys,” she said.
As they drove away, Harry sat on the curb and wondered where his calculation went wrong. Amanda should have blamed Dennis for the fight. Dennis was the dunderheaded bully who could only communicate through fisticuffs, and Harry was the sensitive genius who was destined to change modern thought. His plan should have worked. He reran the calculation and slapped himself in the head. How could he have been so stupid? No wonder his plan failed. His calculation had been off. He forgot to carry an ex’s obligation to support her current partner.