us, and drink shit coffee. Toi, toi, toi. And One on One, with Toby Ménard —no offence—that’s the best you could come up with?”
“I don’t even know what a sewer easement is, Mr. Demsky.”
The president aimed his pipe like a rifle. “Where are we living?”
“In a place you graduate from.”
“Sterling!” He lowered his cigar. “Now, Tobias, can I ask you a personal question?”
“Go ahead.”
“The sort of question you can’t ask an employee anymore?”
“Certainly.”
“Are you a homosexual?”
“No.”
“Come on.”
“I’m not.”
“So I suppose you like women.”
“Very much.”
Mr. Demsky looked down at Toby’s grey wool pants and shiny black oxfords with that regrettable scuff. “You like suits?”
“Suits are my favourite.”
“And unless I’m mistaken,” he leaned over Toby, sniffed, “you’re wearing perfume.”
“Cologne.”
Mr. Demsky returned to his chair, sat back, snorted. “Ever go to a dinner party and think, sweet Christ, should I bring wine or champagne?”
“Red wine or flowers, depending.”
“Wish you had your own herb garden at all?”
“I have one.”
“How about vacuuming? You like to vacuum?”
“There are some delightful vacuums on the market.”
“Decoupage?”
“If only.”
“You ever been afraid?” Mr. Demsky bit down. The joy had departed. “I don’t mean movie afraid. Afraid, afraid, for your life or the lives of the people you love?”
“Well…”
“A generation of pussies. Shoppers, who haven’t even been overseas.”
“I intend to go very soon.”
“How would you like to develop and host a series of segments on how to be a gentleman? Manners, etiquette. But with shared concerns among the ladies and the poofs? We’ll produce them here and broadcast them on all the stations. What do you say?”
“I would adore that, sir.”
“One more ‘sir’ and you’re cleaning my shitter. Write up a proposal and slip it under my door.”
“When would you like it?”
Mr. Demsky examined his cigar. “I’m due for a Vietnamese massage in an hour and a half.”
“I really didn’t mean what I said about you failing and dying painfully, Mr. Demsky. My father gave me bad advice. I have only the fondest thoughts.”
“Mention, as a postscript, some businesses where Kansas City faggots like yourself shop for clothes and perfume and flowers and, you know, ceramic pots and garden tools and scarves and serviettes with roosters on them. I’ll meet with the advertising knobs on Monday.”
That night at Toqué!, Alicia wore a white top that wrapped around her like silk bandages on a mummy. Between the wrap and the skirt, an inch of her stomach was visible. Her dark hair was tied up in the back with an intricate arrangement of clips, and it shone in the candlelight.
Toby was making $38,000 at the station before he became an etiquette commentator, a personality, a person. He could not afford a $298 dinner. Yet Alicia stared over the candles as though he were the most significant man on the island, and feigned fascination as he told her about his family, his meeting with Mr. Demsky that afternoon, and the proposal he titled Toby a Gentleman. “You think it’s gauche, to make my name the title?”
“How else are you going to be famous?”
The plat principal was canard aux framboises, and Alicia claimed she had never eaten duck, a claim Toby would realize, some months later, was grossly false. She thanked him more than twenty times: for asking her out on this special day, for ordering food and wine so commandingly—in French!—for being adventurous and knowledgeable about duck.
Toby wanted to ask if he could move into her house. He wanted Alicia to be his before she realized she could be a movie star, a pop icon, a network anchor. The desire to lock her in a kitchen for forty or fifty years of olde-tyme afternoon-sex-on-the-table marital solitude nearly burst out of his chest and onto the expertly unpolished table
“I don’t even know what a sewer easement is, Mr. Demsky.”
The president aimed his pipe like a rifle. “Where are we living?”
“In a place you graduate from.”
“Sterling!” He lowered his cigar. “Now, Tobias, can I ask you a personal question?”
“Go ahead.”
“The sort of question you can’t ask an employee anymore?”
“Certainly.”
“Are you a homosexual?”
“No.”
“Come on.”
“I’m not.”
“So I suppose you like women.”
“Very much.”
Mr. Demsky looked down at Toby’s grey wool pants and shiny black oxfords with that regrettable scuff. “You like suits?”
“Suits are my favourite.”
“And unless I’m mistaken,” he leaned over Toby, sniffed, “you’re wearing perfume.”
“Cologne.”
Mr. Demsky returned to his chair, sat back, snorted. “Ever go to a dinner party and think, sweet Christ, should I bring wine or champagne?”
“Red wine or flowers, depending.”
“Wish you had your own herb garden at all?”
“I have one.”
“How about vacuuming? You like to vacuum?”
“There are some delightful vacuums on the market.”
“Decoupage?”
“If only.”
“You ever been afraid?” Mr. Demsky bit down. The joy had departed. “I don’t mean movie afraid. Afraid, afraid, for your life or the lives of the people you love?”
“Well…”
“A generation of pussies. Shoppers, who haven’t even been overseas.”
“I intend to go very soon.”
“How would you like to develop and host a series of segments on how to be a gentleman? Manners, etiquette. But with shared concerns among the ladies and the poofs? We’ll produce them here and broadcast them on all the stations. What do you say?”
“I would adore that, sir.”
“One more ‘sir’ and you’re cleaning my shitter. Write up a proposal and slip it under my door.”
“When would you like it?”
Mr. Demsky examined his cigar. “I’m due for a Vietnamese massage in an hour and a half.”
“I really didn’t mean what I said about you failing and dying painfully, Mr. Demsky. My father gave me bad advice. I have only the fondest thoughts.”
“Mention, as a postscript, some businesses where Kansas City faggots like yourself shop for clothes and perfume and flowers and, you know, ceramic pots and garden tools and scarves and serviettes with roosters on them. I’ll meet with the advertising knobs on Monday.”
That night at Toqué!, Alicia wore a white top that wrapped around her like silk bandages on a mummy. Between the wrap and the skirt, an inch of her stomach was visible. Her dark hair was tied up in the back with an intricate arrangement of clips, and it shone in the candlelight.
Toby was making $38,000 at the station before he became an etiquette commentator, a personality, a person. He could not afford a $298 dinner. Yet Alicia stared over the candles as though he were the most significant man on the island, and feigned fascination as he told her about his family, his meeting with Mr. Demsky that afternoon, and the proposal he titled Toby a Gentleman. “You think it’s gauche, to make my name the title?”
“How else are you going to be famous?”
The plat principal was canard aux framboises, and Alicia claimed she had never eaten duck, a claim Toby would realize, some months later, was grossly false. She thanked him more than twenty times: for asking her out on this special day, for ordering food and wine so commandingly—in French!—for being adventurous and knowledgeable about duck.
Toby wanted to ask if he could move into her house. He wanted Alicia to be his before she realized she could be a movie star, a pop icon, a network anchor. The desire to lock her in a kitchen for forty or fifty years of olde-tyme afternoon-sex-on-the-table marital solitude nearly burst out of his chest and onto the expertly unpolished table
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