fresh.”
“Move where? Michigan? Illinois? They’re all sheets of clay.” Jim doesn’t answer. “You know, I thought we were going to have a break today. Sam was on—”
“Yeah, Fran told me what happened,” Jim says. “Real sorry to hear it. Here, let me fill you up.” Jim pours the rest of the pitcher into my glass. “You know, there are still some jobs in Kentucky—they’ve got patches down there. South America’s got some green, places in Brazil—”
“Brazil’s finished.”
“So try something new, switch professions.”
“And do what? Nobody’s hiring. Do you know how long the list is to even get a job at this place ?” I say, tapping the bar.
Above us, Dream Girls is finished and the news has come on. It’s day nine hundred of the oil spill. There’s a picture of the Pacific Ocean, black as soil, followed by photos of obsidian waves crashing against the California coastline. Hawaii is on fire. A company spokesman is standing on a freighter, saying he believes they’ll be able to cap the underwater well by July of next year.
“God,” I say. “This is really the end, isn’t it?”
“Nah,” Jim says. “People have been saying the world’s gonna end for years. It never does.”
“Yeah, but look at that.” I point to the screen with my glass. “The land’s gone, the water’s going. The Northeast doesn’t even have decent drinking water anymore. We’re done for.”
“That’s just how it feels ’cause you’re in the dumps. Fran and I still got it good. Plenty of people still got it good.”
“Yeah, well, we don’t have it good,” I say, looking into what’s left of my pint. The alcohol is hitting me now, dragging me downward. My brain feels like it’s full of dirt. “I think we’re going to lose the house by Christmas.” Above us are rolling photos of the earthquakes in Chile, followed by the recent floods in Japan. I take a long swallow of beer.
“Listen,” Jim says, “Fran and I were in a rough spot last spring. Nothing too serious, but cell phone, Internet, cable, 24/7 GPS, online gambling, those kinda things add up.…” He takes a sip of his beer and lowers his voice. “You know, you’ve got a couple of good-looking kids. Really good-looking kids. You ever consider putting photos online?”
I grimace as though my drink’s rancid.
“Don’t give me that look,” Jim says.
I empty my pint glass, put it down on the counter, and face Jim, looking him square in the eyes. “There’s no fucking way I’m selling my kids’ photos to porn.”
“I’m not talking porn,” Jim says, “just pictures of them in the bathtub, Cara changing her diaper. Mild stuff, practically family photos. No big deal. Look, it wasn’t my first choice either, but I know a guy—completely confidential—you email him the attachments, he sends you a check. You don’t have to have any contact with his clients. Two hundred full frontal for boys, three hundred for girls. You get a shot of them together, he’d probably pay six.”
“I’m not putting naked photos of my kids out there.”
“Who’s it hurting? So a couple perverts are willing to pay good money to see them—so what? We’re talking a lot of money for a few snapshots. Sure, it’s not what anybody wants to do—I didn’t want to do it—but it got us through a tough spot. Look, nobody’s gonna see the photos except whoever he sells them to. And I’ll tell you something, the market will be flooded before you know it. A year from now, those pictures will be buried in the Internet. You need money—this is where the money is.”
“I’m not interested,” I say.
“Okay, so you’re not interested now, but at least let me give you his email in case you change your mind.” Jim writes the address down on a napkin and shoves it in my shirt pocket.
“I’m throwing it out,” I tell him.
“Do what you need to do,” Jim says. “As for me, I’m treating us to another pitcher.” Which is kind of him
“Move where? Michigan? Illinois? They’re all sheets of clay.” Jim doesn’t answer. “You know, I thought we were going to have a break today. Sam was on—”
“Yeah, Fran told me what happened,” Jim says. “Real sorry to hear it. Here, let me fill you up.” Jim pours the rest of the pitcher into my glass. “You know, there are still some jobs in Kentucky—they’ve got patches down there. South America’s got some green, places in Brazil—”
“Brazil’s finished.”
“So try something new, switch professions.”
“And do what? Nobody’s hiring. Do you know how long the list is to even get a job at this place ?” I say, tapping the bar.
Above us, Dream Girls is finished and the news has come on. It’s day nine hundred of the oil spill. There’s a picture of the Pacific Ocean, black as soil, followed by photos of obsidian waves crashing against the California coastline. Hawaii is on fire. A company spokesman is standing on a freighter, saying he believes they’ll be able to cap the underwater well by July of next year.
“God,” I say. “This is really the end, isn’t it?”
“Nah,” Jim says. “People have been saying the world’s gonna end for years. It never does.”
“Yeah, but look at that.” I point to the screen with my glass. “The land’s gone, the water’s going. The Northeast doesn’t even have decent drinking water anymore. We’re done for.”
“That’s just how it feels ’cause you’re in the dumps. Fran and I still got it good. Plenty of people still got it good.”
“Yeah, well, we don’t have it good,” I say, looking into what’s left of my pint. The alcohol is hitting me now, dragging me downward. My brain feels like it’s full of dirt. “I think we’re going to lose the house by Christmas.” Above us are rolling photos of the earthquakes in Chile, followed by the recent floods in Japan. I take a long swallow of beer.
“Listen,” Jim says, “Fran and I were in a rough spot last spring. Nothing too serious, but cell phone, Internet, cable, 24/7 GPS, online gambling, those kinda things add up.…” He takes a sip of his beer and lowers his voice. “You know, you’ve got a couple of good-looking kids. Really good-looking kids. You ever consider putting photos online?”
I grimace as though my drink’s rancid.
“Don’t give me that look,” Jim says.
I empty my pint glass, put it down on the counter, and face Jim, looking him square in the eyes. “There’s no fucking way I’m selling my kids’ photos to porn.”
“I’m not talking porn,” Jim says, “just pictures of them in the bathtub, Cara changing her diaper. Mild stuff, practically family photos. No big deal. Look, it wasn’t my first choice either, but I know a guy—completely confidential—you email him the attachments, he sends you a check. You don’t have to have any contact with his clients. Two hundred full frontal for boys, three hundred for girls. You get a shot of them together, he’d probably pay six.”
“I’m not putting naked photos of my kids out there.”
“Who’s it hurting? So a couple perverts are willing to pay good money to see them—so what? We’re talking a lot of money for a few snapshots. Sure, it’s not what anybody wants to do—I didn’t want to do it—but it got us through a tough spot. Look, nobody’s gonna see the photos except whoever he sells them to. And I’ll tell you something, the market will be flooded before you know it. A year from now, those pictures will be buried in the Internet. You need money—this is where the money is.”
“I’m not interested,” I say.
“Okay, so you’re not interested now, but at least let me give you his email in case you change your mind.” Jim writes the address down on a napkin and shoves it in my shirt pocket.
“I’m throwing it out,” I tell him.
“Do what you need to do,” Jim says. “As for me, I’m treating us to another pitcher.” Which is kind of him
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