adults. Oh, darling! Really? That's staggering! No joke, kids today talk like that. It's gotten to the point where you don't fear X-rated language anymore—fuck and shit would
be a relief—but cringe with shame at ciao, at fabulous, at no-can-do. I swear, your daughter has a mouth like a Gabor sister. So what do you do with your old cell phones? Do you give them to your housekeeper, to your gardener? "Here you go, a little something, you know, for a job well done." Nope, that's
out of the question, too imperialistic for a good democrat like you. Maybe resell them—always an option—but how do you go
about doing that? A pawn shop? A secondhand store? Can you imagine driving up in your Porsche and unloading a box of old electronic
gear? There's a man who knows the meaning of a buck, that's what they'll say the second you leave the place. Trust me. They'd
probably speculate that you're some down-and-out movie Jew, which you are, but hell, you're much more than just another down-and-out
movie Jew. That's the short division of your life, and right now you're as complicated as differential calculus. So what do
you do with that Motorola Micro T.A.C. Lite? Nothing you can do but slip it next to the Corola SX-50, the Corola 7 series,
the Centaur, and the Motorola Por-Cell. Dead technology laid to rest next to a pair of cashmere socks.
Saul lets the car phone chirp away. He strokes its black plastic shell and tries to do some sort of Carnac routine. You'll never work in this town again! And may fleas infest the underwear of your father's lover. (Didn't Johnny Carson have a great way of opening up those envelopes; he'd slice through the top, then blow to puff out the
innards, all that self-important posturing for a corny joke. And don't you sometimes find yourself opening up your mail with
the same technique? It's inevitable. Stuff like that imprints on your brain, like theme music and holiday good cheer and remarks
on the mostly unchanging weather; like kissing your wife hello and good-bye, good night and good morning; like the endless
best wishes and compliments and regards and respects to people you know and barely know, your life a history of innocuous
greetings, your day-to-day determined with less and less intention.) But Saul doesn't bother with actually answering these
calls. No point. It's all the same. Blah blah blah. And it's been ringing nonstop for the last seven hours. But early on,
in the beginning, during those first few hours of driving (heading east to go west, if you know what I mean), he picked up
the phone. It's a habit, a trained response in Pavlov Angeles. "Saul, where are you?" his annoyed secretary asked him. "You
can't do this."
"Stop calling," he said.
"Saul, you're a big boy, act like one."
"Waaaaaaaa!"
And his wife had dialed him up a couple of times. Anna with that lazy French accent and sloped continental body; she defies
gravity. There's also a certain Asian quality to her skin and cheekbones, her long black hair, her almond eyes. Exotic is
the word and exotic ages well—at forty-three she still looks good, model good, yummy good, and there's a joke around town
that she must bathe in the blood of virgins. In other words, her preserved beauty is almost B-movie creepy. But what can you
do about genes? Nothing. Sure, you can take care of yourself—stay out of the sun, eat the right foods, don't drink too much
booze—but so much depends on your particular batch of deoxyribonucleic acid. In terms of the complexities of Anna's personality,
ice queen will do. Anyway, on the phone she said, "You can't run away, darling," with her usual existential nonchalance. To
Saul, the whole thing should've sounded more histrionic a la a loved one trying to coax a gun-toting maniac into releasing
his hostages. But no, she spoke calmly, almost bored, as if such desperate behavior was nothing new to the Gallically challenged.
When you get down to it—and this is a
be a relief—but cringe with shame at ciao, at fabulous, at no-can-do. I swear, your daughter has a mouth like a Gabor sister. So what do you do with your old cell phones? Do you give them to your housekeeper, to your gardener? "Here you go, a little something, you know, for a job well done." Nope, that's
out of the question, too imperialistic for a good democrat like you. Maybe resell them—always an option—but how do you go
about doing that? A pawn shop? A secondhand store? Can you imagine driving up in your Porsche and unloading a box of old electronic
gear? There's a man who knows the meaning of a buck, that's what they'll say the second you leave the place. Trust me. They'd
probably speculate that you're some down-and-out movie Jew, which you are, but hell, you're much more than just another down-and-out
movie Jew. That's the short division of your life, and right now you're as complicated as differential calculus. So what do
you do with that Motorola Micro T.A.C. Lite? Nothing you can do but slip it next to the Corola SX-50, the Corola 7 series,
the Centaur, and the Motorola Por-Cell. Dead technology laid to rest next to a pair of cashmere socks.
Saul lets the car phone chirp away. He strokes its black plastic shell and tries to do some sort of Carnac routine. You'll never work in this town again! And may fleas infest the underwear of your father's lover. (Didn't Johnny Carson have a great way of opening up those envelopes; he'd slice through the top, then blow to puff out the
innards, all that self-important posturing for a corny joke. And don't you sometimes find yourself opening up your mail with
the same technique? It's inevitable. Stuff like that imprints on your brain, like theme music and holiday good cheer and remarks
on the mostly unchanging weather; like kissing your wife hello and good-bye, good night and good morning; like the endless
best wishes and compliments and regards and respects to people you know and barely know, your life a history of innocuous
greetings, your day-to-day determined with less and less intention.) But Saul doesn't bother with actually answering these
calls. No point. It's all the same. Blah blah blah. And it's been ringing nonstop for the last seven hours. But early on,
in the beginning, during those first few hours of driving (heading east to go west, if you know what I mean), he picked up
the phone. It's a habit, a trained response in Pavlov Angeles. "Saul, where are you?" his annoyed secretary asked him. "You
can't do this."
"Stop calling," he said.
"Saul, you're a big boy, act like one."
"Waaaaaaaa!"
And his wife had dialed him up a couple of times. Anna with that lazy French accent and sloped continental body; she defies
gravity. There's also a certain Asian quality to her skin and cheekbones, her long black hair, her almond eyes. Exotic is
the word and exotic ages well—at forty-three she still looks good, model good, yummy good, and there's a joke around town
that she must bathe in the blood of virgins. In other words, her preserved beauty is almost B-movie creepy. But what can you
do about genes? Nothing. Sure, you can take care of yourself—stay out of the sun, eat the right foods, don't drink too much
booze—but so much depends on your particular batch of deoxyribonucleic acid. In terms of the complexities of Anna's personality,
ice queen will do. Anyway, on the phone she said, "You can't run away, darling," with her usual existential nonchalance. To
Saul, the whole thing should've sounded more histrionic a la a loved one trying to coax a gun-toting maniac into releasing
his hostages. But no, she spoke calmly, almost bored, as if such desperate behavior was nothing new to the Gallically challenged.
When you get down to it—and this is a
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