dollars,â she said, but by that time the men were filing into the gallery, and either they didnât hear her or chose to ignore her.
Inside, everything was crowded and cute, like the squeezed rightward letters on a grade-schoolerâs title page. She watched Archer and the others drift away from her, or maybe she drifted away from them. She had expected Archer to be handsomer, having envisioned the playboy aristocrat of half-remembered movies. She gave some credence to the terrible idea that the rich are better looking than the middle and lower classes. The exceptions were countless, of course; most members of the lower- and underclasses wouldnât get the chance to rise no matter how spectacular their beauty, and plastic surgeryâs frequent deformation of elderly elites was a great leveler, though obviously not an inheritable one. Maybe Archer wasnât as rich as Johnsaid. There was nothing immoderately swanky about his appearance. He wore jeans that had blued the tops of his canvas sneakers, a button-down shirt the color of avocado flesh, and a parka that he stashed in a corner of the gallery, unconcerned about theft. She watched his loose-limbed movements through the crowd, watched him greet someone with a shoulder-level handshake, low-key but affected, like they were fellow messy-haired indie rappers, their music as white and uneven as salt stains. Archerâs shirt, she noticed again as she pressed into his widening circle (in which John looked ludicrous in his Ronald Reagan getup), was much too big, definitely not tailored, unless, paying a premium to ward off foppish perfection, he had asked his tailor to duplicate a shirt bought hastily off the rack from a store catering to gutty businessmen. The jeans were Leviâs, though they did seem to be one of the upmarket selvedge reissues. On the right leg there were two bleach drips that might have pushed someone altogether money-blithe toward a new pair. The stains also advertised that from time to time Archer handled bottles of bleach, that he took pride and pleasure in doing things for himself. Near the end of their stay at the gallery (Archer bought two of the dioramas, the same two Sara found most bewitching), she examined the back of his head, staring at it from a distance, the crowd now thinning in sympathy with Archerâs hair, and she wondered if, like a thrifty and suicidal boyfriend sheâd had briefly in college, he even served as his own barber.
She didnât really like him but was thirsty for his approval, the approval he wouldnât give that âfucking toolâ of an actor. She wanted to finish the evening with Archer and John in some quiet bar where she could show that, in addition to being sharp and glib, she could be soft and contemplative. After social outings she often had fantasies of laconism, wishing she had maintained a mysterious but not detached silence interrupted infrequently by blinks of gnomic wit and koanlike wisdom. And often she was quiet and shy, especially at parties, but rarely in small groups or around people who interestedher. She wanted to interest them too, after all, and she didnât have the reputation, beauty, wealth, or power to do so without talking. Maybe once in a while she could arouse curiosity with the sphinxian wonder of her interiority, but more often she would just be thought boring, burdensome, and pudgy, if she was thought of at all. People are sympathetic to the shy, sometimes, but they resent them for making others do all the work. Then again, someone like Archer might welcome any boon to his conversational hegemony.
Saying goodbye, Archer touched Johnâs back with a force harder than a pat, softer than a slap. Then he hugged Sara gingerly, caressing her back for a few seconds. âIt was great to meet you,â he said, wrinkling his forehead, making eye contact, putting the words in a consequential minor key, like he was telling a child not to forget her mittens.
Inside, everything was crowded and cute, like the squeezed rightward letters on a grade-schoolerâs title page. She watched Archer and the others drift away from her, or maybe she drifted away from them. She had expected Archer to be handsomer, having envisioned the playboy aristocrat of half-remembered movies. She gave some credence to the terrible idea that the rich are better looking than the middle and lower classes. The exceptions were countless, of course; most members of the lower- and underclasses wouldnât get the chance to rise no matter how spectacular their beauty, and plastic surgeryâs frequent deformation of elderly elites was a great leveler, though obviously not an inheritable one. Maybe Archer wasnât as rich as Johnsaid. There was nothing immoderately swanky about his appearance. He wore jeans that had blued the tops of his canvas sneakers, a button-down shirt the color of avocado flesh, and a parka that he stashed in a corner of the gallery, unconcerned about theft. She watched his loose-limbed movements through the crowd, watched him greet someone with a shoulder-level handshake, low-key but affected, like they were fellow messy-haired indie rappers, their music as white and uneven as salt stains. Archerâs shirt, she noticed again as she pressed into his widening circle (in which John looked ludicrous in his Ronald Reagan getup), was much too big, definitely not tailored, unless, paying a premium to ward off foppish perfection, he had asked his tailor to duplicate a shirt bought hastily off the rack from a store catering to gutty businessmen. The jeans were Leviâs, though they did seem to be one of the upmarket selvedge reissues. On the right leg there were two bleach drips that might have pushed someone altogether money-blithe toward a new pair. The stains also advertised that from time to time Archer handled bottles of bleach, that he took pride and pleasure in doing things for himself. Near the end of their stay at the gallery (Archer bought two of the dioramas, the same two Sara found most bewitching), she examined the back of his head, staring at it from a distance, the crowd now thinning in sympathy with Archerâs hair, and she wondered if, like a thrifty and suicidal boyfriend sheâd had briefly in college, he even served as his own barber.
She didnât really like him but was thirsty for his approval, the approval he wouldnât give that âfucking toolâ of an actor. She wanted to finish the evening with Archer and John in some quiet bar where she could show that, in addition to being sharp and glib, she could be soft and contemplative. After social outings she often had fantasies of laconism, wishing she had maintained a mysterious but not detached silence interrupted infrequently by blinks of gnomic wit and koanlike wisdom. And often she was quiet and shy, especially at parties, but rarely in small groups or around people who interestedher. She wanted to interest them too, after all, and she didnât have the reputation, beauty, wealth, or power to do so without talking. Maybe once in a while she could arouse curiosity with the sphinxian wonder of her interiority, but more often she would just be thought boring, burdensome, and pudgy, if she was thought of at all. People are sympathetic to the shy, sometimes, but they resent them for making others do all the work. Then again, someone like Archer might welcome any boon to his conversational hegemony.
Saying goodbye, Archer touched Johnâs back with a force harder than a pat, softer than a slap. Then he hugged Sara gingerly, caressing her back for a few seconds. âIt was great to meet you,â he said, wrinkling his forehead, making eye contact, putting the words in a consequential minor key, like he was telling a child not to forget her mittens.
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