with her inexhaustible patience, repeated, “Press one to hear your next message, four to—”
He pressed 1, as if hitting a detonator button.
“Hi, I came over to pick up some stuff, and you’re not here. I thought I might catch you before you left for work, but I didn’t. So … I picked up some stuff. Talk to you.”
“Talk to you,” Sam’s customary sign-off, had always been not a promise but a confident prediction, almost a statement of the obvious. Of course they would be talking, they would be talking together until the end of time.
Joel wondered what stuff Sam had picked up. All thirty-eight of his—to Joel—indistinguishable sweaters? The VCR? Joel’s mother’s sterling? They had a lot of stuff. Early on, when they had first moved in together, each of them had his own stuff. It was possible to say this is Sam’s loveseat, these are Joel’s bookshelves. Even: those are Sam’s candlesticks, Joel’s colander, Sam’s screwdriver, Joel’s toilet brush. Since then, though, every household acquisition had been a joint one. The living-room rug might have gone on Sam’s Visa or Joel’s MasterCard, but it was their rug. How would they ever divide such things? With scissors?
A premature question. Surely, Sam meant only that he had come to get fresh clothes, whatever else he needed for the office. They weren’t at the point of flipping a coin for the china.
He called Sam’s office. The receptionist said, “Georgetown Sports Medicine.” Hitting every consonant squarely; Sam had reported how she’d spent half a morning practicing, sitting at the front desk and murmuring the words, oblivious to the stares from the wounded gladiators in the waiting room. Pretty, they must have thought, but not much of a conversationalist.
“Hi,” Joel said. “I want to make an appointment.”
“What is your name?”
“Um … Joe Harris.” The senator’s name was the first that came to his mind. An errant choice, but there wasn’t much chance the receptionist knew there was a Senator Joe Harris. Possibly she didn’t know there were senators.
There was a long pause while she called his name up on her terminal or, rather, failed to. “You’re a new patient?” she asked. Sounding a little irritated, perhaps because new patients involved work, challenging tasks like entering their address and phone number.
“Yes.”
“Who referred you?”
“Doctor … uh … Jung.”
“Doctor Young?”
“Right.”
“And when did you want to come in?”
“I was hoping maybe Tuesday evening.”
“Evening? Tuesday evening?”
“Right.”
“We don’t have any evening hours. What about next Friday at—”
“Never mind,” Joel said. “Uh … bye-bye.”
Joel played solitaire on his computer for the rest of the morning. Occasionally a staffer would call and ask him to explain Medicare and aliens. It was amazing how fast a silly proposal could become the issue of the day; another couple of days and no one would even remember it. After about the third call he had developed a canned recitation about the matter, one he could deliver without even ceasing to play solitaire. “What’s that clicking noise?” one staffer asked. Joel shifted a little in his seat, so the mouthpiece of the phone would be a little farther from the mouse. “Beats me,” he said, as he resumed clicking at the cards on the screen.
The nice thing about solitaire was that, while it required nointellection, it took just enough attention that you couldn’t think coherently about anything else. He had a vague sensation of indignation and loss, that something terrible had happened, but he couldn’t focus on it, it was all less immediate than the present task of putting the black eight on the red nine.
When the computer said that he had lost $10,000 at solitaire, he took this as a sign to go and get lunch. What he really wanted to do was go to one of the darker bars on Pennsylvania Avenue and have about five beers and an enormous
He pressed 1, as if hitting a detonator button.
“Hi, I came over to pick up some stuff, and you’re not here. I thought I might catch you before you left for work, but I didn’t. So … I picked up some stuff. Talk to you.”
“Talk to you,” Sam’s customary sign-off, had always been not a promise but a confident prediction, almost a statement of the obvious. Of course they would be talking, they would be talking together until the end of time.
Joel wondered what stuff Sam had picked up. All thirty-eight of his—to Joel—indistinguishable sweaters? The VCR? Joel’s mother’s sterling? They had a lot of stuff. Early on, when they had first moved in together, each of them had his own stuff. It was possible to say this is Sam’s loveseat, these are Joel’s bookshelves. Even: those are Sam’s candlesticks, Joel’s colander, Sam’s screwdriver, Joel’s toilet brush. Since then, though, every household acquisition had been a joint one. The living-room rug might have gone on Sam’s Visa or Joel’s MasterCard, but it was their rug. How would they ever divide such things? With scissors?
A premature question. Surely, Sam meant only that he had come to get fresh clothes, whatever else he needed for the office. They weren’t at the point of flipping a coin for the china.
He called Sam’s office. The receptionist said, “Georgetown Sports Medicine.” Hitting every consonant squarely; Sam had reported how she’d spent half a morning practicing, sitting at the front desk and murmuring the words, oblivious to the stares from the wounded gladiators in the waiting room. Pretty, they must have thought, but not much of a conversationalist.
“Hi,” Joel said. “I want to make an appointment.”
“What is your name?”
“Um … Joe Harris.” The senator’s name was the first that came to his mind. An errant choice, but there wasn’t much chance the receptionist knew there was a Senator Joe Harris. Possibly she didn’t know there were senators.
There was a long pause while she called his name up on her terminal or, rather, failed to. “You’re a new patient?” she asked. Sounding a little irritated, perhaps because new patients involved work, challenging tasks like entering their address and phone number.
“Yes.”
“Who referred you?”
“Doctor … uh … Jung.”
“Doctor Young?”
“Right.”
“And when did you want to come in?”
“I was hoping maybe Tuesday evening.”
“Evening? Tuesday evening?”
“Right.”
“We don’t have any evening hours. What about next Friday at—”
“Never mind,” Joel said. “Uh … bye-bye.”
Joel played solitaire on his computer for the rest of the morning. Occasionally a staffer would call and ask him to explain Medicare and aliens. It was amazing how fast a silly proposal could become the issue of the day; another couple of days and no one would even remember it. After about the third call he had developed a canned recitation about the matter, one he could deliver without even ceasing to play solitaire. “What’s that clicking noise?” one staffer asked. Joel shifted a little in his seat, so the mouthpiece of the phone would be a little farther from the mouse. “Beats me,” he said, as he resumed clicking at the cards on the screen.
The nice thing about solitaire was that, while it required nointellection, it took just enough attention that you couldn’t think coherently about anything else. He had a vague sensation of indignation and loss, that something terrible had happened, but he couldn’t focus on it, it was all less immediate than the present task of putting the black eight on the red nine.
When the computer said that he had lost $10,000 at solitaire, he took this as a sign to go and get lunch. What he really wanted to do was go to one of the darker bars on Pennsylvania Avenue and have about five beers and an enormous
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