should’ve been at the Plaza Mayor, sneaking a beer. Or he should’ve been at the Crystal Palace with me , where I goddamn told him to be.
But if he was going to disobey me, I would’ve preferred that he do so in at least an interesting way, rather than playing mind-numbing computer games or whatever the hell he was doing. Why wasn’t he admiring beautiful young women and falling in love like I did at his age?
Before I became a first-class ass.
I had to stop thinking about that stupid note.
I tried to focus instead on Webb. Ever since he became a teenager, my son had done everything he could not to spend time with me. That was okay. That part I understood. But if he didn’t want to be with me, why couldn’t he be with someone or something more interesting than a computer? Why must the competition for my son’s attention be something so dull and banal? I was prepared to tell him exactly that when I opened the door to the business center.
“Hey, Dad,” Webb said. “What’s up?”
The feral smell of dirty socks mixed with chorizo sausage and teenage boy hit me like a club.
“Jesus Christ, Webb,” I said, covering my mouth and nose with both hands. “We’ve got to get you some clean clothes. Now .”
CHAPTER 20
Daisy
I t was worth five hundred dollars to make Coco think the airline was buying her such lovely things. Somehow, it made shopping more enjoyable for her.
But I confess a part of me—the part of me I don’t like very much—thought: Open your eyes, Coco! I’m the one paying for all this. There’s no Santa Claus and no five-hundred-dollar check from the airline!
But of course I couldn’t say that, just like I couldn’t stop myself from buying a pair of nice black pants for her when she wasn’t looking. Solange wouldn’t want Coco in jeans for the exhibit opening. And they were beautiful slacks. Coco could wear them for years. Somewhere down the line she’d thank me for buying them for her.
Or would she? Would I ever get credit for the ten zillion little things I’d done for her that she didn’t realize I was doing? Or was parenting as thankless as it seemed?
Of course it was.
It didn’t matter. We were in Paris and having a good time— finally . I was relieved that she was being flexible enough (not her usual strong suit) to agree to go to Madrid. I really couldn’t let Solange down. She’d been so generous over the years about letting me stay in her apartment. And how hard could it be to whip up hors d’oeuvres to satisfy a few hundred art patrons?
The only problem was trying to decide what people might want. Oh yeah, that. Not my strong suit.
I asked Coco over a late lunch what she thought people wanted. We were eating moules frites at a café near Solange’s apartment. I’d always had a weakness for the Parisian combination of steamed mussels served in a heavy enamel pot with a side of salty french fries and a beer.
“What do people want ?” Coco repeated, prying a mussel from its black shell. “Well, you really can’t talk about wants until you talk about needs . And for that, you have to start with Abraham Maslow and his hierarchy of needs.”
“Hmmm,” I said. “Remind me what that is again?”
I had meant what people might want to eat at the exhibit opening, but I was happy to take the conversational detour. At home, Coco and I could go weeks without really talking. It was refreshing to hear what was on her mind.
“Well, I had the class last year,” Coco said by way of disclaimer. “So I’m not sure if this is exactly right. But this guy, Abraham Maslow, had a theory about human needs.”
Coco was interested in psychology. Like all girls her age, she was drawn to the study of psychoses and neuroses. She enjoyed memorizing the warning signs of each disorder and determining whether any of them was attractive enough to suit her or unattractive enough to describe her mother.
“He said,” Coco continued, “that our needs are like a pyramid that builds
But if he was going to disobey me, I would’ve preferred that he do so in at least an interesting way, rather than playing mind-numbing computer games or whatever the hell he was doing. Why wasn’t he admiring beautiful young women and falling in love like I did at his age?
Before I became a first-class ass.
I had to stop thinking about that stupid note.
I tried to focus instead on Webb. Ever since he became a teenager, my son had done everything he could not to spend time with me. That was okay. That part I understood. But if he didn’t want to be with me, why couldn’t he be with someone or something more interesting than a computer? Why must the competition for my son’s attention be something so dull and banal? I was prepared to tell him exactly that when I opened the door to the business center.
“Hey, Dad,” Webb said. “What’s up?”
The feral smell of dirty socks mixed with chorizo sausage and teenage boy hit me like a club.
“Jesus Christ, Webb,” I said, covering my mouth and nose with both hands. “We’ve got to get you some clean clothes. Now .”
CHAPTER 20
Daisy
I t was worth five hundred dollars to make Coco think the airline was buying her such lovely things. Somehow, it made shopping more enjoyable for her.
But I confess a part of me—the part of me I don’t like very much—thought: Open your eyes, Coco! I’m the one paying for all this. There’s no Santa Claus and no five-hundred-dollar check from the airline!
But of course I couldn’t say that, just like I couldn’t stop myself from buying a pair of nice black pants for her when she wasn’t looking. Solange wouldn’t want Coco in jeans for the exhibit opening. And they were beautiful slacks. Coco could wear them for years. Somewhere down the line she’d thank me for buying them for her.
Or would she? Would I ever get credit for the ten zillion little things I’d done for her that she didn’t realize I was doing? Or was parenting as thankless as it seemed?
Of course it was.
It didn’t matter. We were in Paris and having a good time— finally . I was relieved that she was being flexible enough (not her usual strong suit) to agree to go to Madrid. I really couldn’t let Solange down. She’d been so generous over the years about letting me stay in her apartment. And how hard could it be to whip up hors d’oeuvres to satisfy a few hundred art patrons?
The only problem was trying to decide what people might want. Oh yeah, that. Not my strong suit.
I asked Coco over a late lunch what she thought people wanted. We were eating moules frites at a café near Solange’s apartment. I’d always had a weakness for the Parisian combination of steamed mussels served in a heavy enamel pot with a side of salty french fries and a beer.
“What do people want ?” Coco repeated, prying a mussel from its black shell. “Well, you really can’t talk about wants until you talk about needs . And for that, you have to start with Abraham Maslow and his hierarchy of needs.”
“Hmmm,” I said. “Remind me what that is again?”
I had meant what people might want to eat at the exhibit opening, but I was happy to take the conversational detour. At home, Coco and I could go weeks without really talking. It was refreshing to hear what was on her mind.
“Well, I had the class last year,” Coco said by way of disclaimer. “So I’m not sure if this is exactly right. But this guy, Abraham Maslow, had a theory about human needs.”
Coco was interested in psychology. Like all girls her age, she was drawn to the study of psychoses and neuroses. She enjoyed memorizing the warning signs of each disorder and determining whether any of them was attractive enough to suit her or unattractive enough to describe her mother.
“He said,” Coco continued, “that our needs are like a pyramid that builds
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