"It's good to see you, Milo, really. You look great."
"No, you actually look great, Purdy."
God knew what diets, unguents, procedures, protocols had preserved him, his taut golden skin and plush honeyed hair, the roped muscle beneath his thin, collared shirt. Then again, maybe he'd won both of life's lotteries, required no protocols.
"I'm so glad to hear about Maura and Bernie," said Purdy.
"Hear what?"
"Everything you've been telling me for the past hour. Damn, a kid. We've been trying, you know. Melinda and I. We've got half the doctors in New York on the case."
"I'm sure it'll happen for you guys."
"I'm sure it will, too. Probably have to fertilize Melinda's eggs on the surface of Mars, but it will happen. Our happiness depends upon it."
"You'll be happy either way, Purdy."
"Happiness is tricky. It sounds like you've figured it out."
"Sure."
"Sure, he says," said Purdy.
"Sure, I say," I said.
"Don't be bitter, Milo. It doesn't become you."
"I'm not bitter," I said.
Purdy leaned back, as though to better assemble an exceptionally nuanced expression on his face, maybe some amalgam of pity and revelation.
"You're pissed because I'm so rich," he said. "You've always been pissed. You think I didn't earn it."
"You didn't."
"Of course I did. The trust fund made me comfortable. My own hard work made me rich. I knew when to cash out during all that interweb crap. Not many did."
Interweb, webnet, interpipe-the joke had begun to grate. If they flubbed it and winked, what? I was tired of the semantic evasions, mine included. I was tired of many things. I had been keeping a list, got tired of the list.
"I guess not," I said.
"Don't be a hater," said Purdy.
"I'm not just any old hater," I said. "I'm a hater's hater."
It was as though Purdy hadn't heard me, or perhaps it was precisely that he had.
"You're doing better than ninety-nine-point-nine percent of the people in this world," he said. "Capitalism might have shit the bed, but it's been very good to you, buddy, whether you know it or not."
"Hooray!" I said. "Let's drink to me. I'm not rich, and I'm not famous, but I am fat and white, or white-ish, and my debt load is at least testament to the fact that over the years various institutions have considered me a worthy mark."
"Good for you," said Purdy.
He sounded sincere and it scared me.
"You want another drink?" I said. "Maybe I'll get another drink."
"I'm fine," said Purdy.
"I'm not fine. I'm not fine at all. Let's have some drinks! Some fucking mojitos or something. Don't they have that fifty-dollar mojito here? With that rum from the island where they make one case a year, and the hydroponic mint they fly in weekly? I want one! It's all on the Whig, okay?"
"The who?" said Purdy.
"The Whig. Our founding daddy."
"Maybe you should slow down, Milo."
"Why the hell would I want to do that?"
"Because I don't think they fly that mint in anymore, for one thing. Look, Milo, I know we're old friends. I've held you over the toilet a few times, back in the day, but come on. The age of the expense account is over. I read it in the paper two years ago. And two months ago. And today."
"Sure," I said. "Yes. Of course."
"Excellent," said Purdy. "Now, do you have any questions for me?"
"Yes, I do. Why give to us? Why not give to the truly needy? The bombed-out, the starved-down, the families running from butchers on horseback. Or folks whose fate depends on whether they can score a fucking shovel and a bag of seeds."
"You mean genocides? Microfinancing?"
"Yeah, or even all the devastated people here."
"We give to those causes. Less and less, of course. We've all gotten murdered."
"How about giving to just a random assortment of middle-class families? Or not so random? How about mine?"
"Funny," said Purdy, in the way of a man who did not find it funny. "Any more questions? Wait, hold on."
Purdy took out a weird phone, the device we'd all be using next year, punched some keys.
"Forgive me," he said. "Forgot about something I needed to send. Where were we? Oh, yeah. Questions?"
"Just the canned ones. Like maybe you can tell me how you first got interested in the Mediocre University at New York's arts program."
"The Mediocre what?"
"Sorry. What I mean is-"
"Melinda had a wonderful experience at your university. Especially in the film and theater classes she took. It was the best investment I ever made, sending her there after we met. Sure, it was the only place she had any chance in hell of getting into, but it enriched her. That sounds stupid, but it's true. It helped her become the woman she wanted to be, and needed to be, to be with me. Actually, Melinda handles a lot of our giving these days. Museums, orchestras, film societies. My area of interest is more narrow. I enjoy finding younger female artists and helping them at that crucial stage when their asses are firm and unblemished."
"You're joking," I said, clenched my jaw to squeeze the booze from my skull.
"Of course I'm joking. But of course I'm not really joking. Ultimately it's nothing like a joke. You know, now that you're trying to act sober, I can see how drunk you are. How many of my potatoes did you eat, freak? And what about my steak? Did you think I wouldn't notice? Do you always grope other people's meat? It's cute when you're twenty, Milo, but come on. Get a grip."
"I will."
"Will what?"
"Grip it."
"Grip it now, kid."
"Okay. I'll try. Really."
"Good. Now. Let's talk our talk. Your beloved institution seems like it wants to step up to the next level. Be a culture player. Crank out all those smug nullities who can make the stylish, insipid, top-notch crap. Stuff we can jerk off to but that will also make us sorry, but not too sorry. Sexy sorry. Am I right?"
"Sorry about what?"
"I don't know. Imperialist wars, torture, poverty, disease. How we've gotten past slavery except that we will never get past slavery, no matter who's the CEO. How the immigrants are good hardworking people, except for the lazy border-violating ones, except that it was their land to begin with and they work even harder than the hardworking ones. That kind of stuff. And also how we are such third-raters at this point, but what does that really mean? And what happened to being Rome? Seems like we didn't get much of a chance to be Rome. Seems pretty fucking unfair."
"Bitches of the First World," I said.
"Nicely put."
"That's Horace."
"Is it? I don't quite remember that. But I think you know what I'm saying."
"I know that you're saying something," I said.
"And by the way, FYI, I share all of these thoughts with you as somebody descended from both slave-owners and struggling immigrants. In some cases, they were the same people. It might sound cynical but I'm not cynical at all. I believe in the sensitive jerk-off stuff. I get off on the jerk-off stuff. But am I right? About your school? About wanting to ratchet things up, bring on the brand consciousness? Piss with the big art fairies? That's what that slick Southern kid intimated. What's his name?"
"Llewellyn."
"That's the one. He's impressive. What my dad used to call a comer. You must hate his guts."
"He's okay."
"Sure he is. Anyway, that's what he gave me to believe, when I met him at this sort of art happening. An historical re-enactment of the dotcom bubble. Some guy rented a loft and hired actors to pretend to be designing websites. Have to say he nailed the details, the clothes, the snacks, the drugs, the toys. Thought I was in a time machine. But the point is he said you guys wanted to go big. Stop pussyfooting, as he put it. Here's your mojito."