Amateurs by Dylan Hicks

“So whenever Onan fucks Tamar—or whenever, I should say, Onan knows Tamar, his sister-in-law-cum-wife—no pun intended.”
    â€œNice,” John said. He was ignoring his food, busy again with the napkin lint. Once, when visiting him at work, Sara had been baffled by how long it took him to incorporate a small influx of necktieinventory into a display organized by color and pattern. The ties bordered a round wooden table, and he would hold them up to the light for what seemed like cryogenic minutes, looking for the perfect progression of shade. His deliberation intimated the craftsmanship associated with watchmaking or cabinetwork; but he was just dawdling.
    â€œIt’s not what cum means, though,” Sara said. Archer had pronounced the word not to rhyme with womb or loom, but like the vulgar variant of come. She was happy to let that part slide; a word’s more defensible pronunciation isn’t always the right one.
    Gemma said, “Isn’t it just ‘wi—’”
    â€œIt’s about duality or simultaneity,” Sara rushed in. “Like if you lived in your car, it’d be your Honda-cum-home. Or if you were a flea living on the skin of a collie, it’d be your Lassie-cum-home.”
    Lucas was the joke’s lone supporter, laughing dorkily between bites. He was eating as if his burrito had said something unkind about his mother.
    â€œSo it’s like slash, ” Archer said.
    Sara wasn’t proud of her know-all streak, particularly when one of her elucidations or corrections contained its own mistake. (A week after this dinner, for instance, she consulted five dictionaries and found disparities about when amok was introduced from Malay into English, apparently by way of Portuguese, while she herself concluded that her argument about anachronism was pretty much groundless.) In the teeth of arrogance, however, pedantry seemed a lesser crime than meekness. “ Slash usually connotes either-or,” she said.
    â€œYou should send Sara your essay,” John said. “She’s a professional editor.”
    â€œProofreader.”
    â€œThe piece isn’t that far along yet,” Archer said, which may have been true, though he said it as if the weight of his borrowed ideas would overwhelm all errors and infelicities.
    â€œDo you write, then, for a living?” Lucas said.
    â€œNo, for now it’s more of an avocation than a vocation,” Archer said.
    â€œSo what’s your vocation?”
    Lucas could be such a jerk, but Sara admired him for it. It had so far been an odd, tense meal, and she kept switching sides, just as she had as a kid during sports broadcasts in which neither the Bills nor the Sabres were playing. “You have to pick a team,” her dad would say, and she would answer, “I just want it to be close.”
    â€œI do some consulting,” Archer said vaguely, “some work in the art market. It’s a patchwork of self-employment.”
    â€œHey, I wonder if you know anyone who’d want to invest in this company I’m starting,” Lucas said. “Sturdy vinyl grocery bags.”
    â€œThat’s the name?” Archer said wearily.
    â€œNo, the name’s Brand Nubagian.”
    â€œThe first name was better,” Archer said.
    â€œThey’re to come in all sorts of bright colors and designs,” Gemma pitched.
    â€œIt’s an opportunity,” Lucas said. “The reusable bag thing is moving way beyond self-righteous hippies in bad shoes.”
    â€œSoon even the smartly shod will be self-righteous about their tiny sacrifices and adjustments,” Sara said.
    â€œEminently machine washable,” Lucas said. “In cold.”
    â€œI doubt investors will care what temperature you wash the bags in,” Archer said. He looked back at Sara, changing his expression from bemusement to something hard to interpret. “So Onan always pulls out,” he said,