The Ask

Eleven

The next morning I sipped coffee on my stoop, waited for Nick to pick me up. Women in tight slacks charged past to the subway, supple organic forms supplemented with technological grafts-earphones, telephones, wraparound shades. I watched them and recalled those cyborg liberation essays from the postmodern feminism class I took in college. I'd run home after every lecture, jerk off on my futon in a fever dream of blinking vaginas.

Now an old man with a ducktail haircut and rolled T-shirt sleeves sauntered by, climbed into his wine-dark beater. A retired mechanic, I figured, but not so old on second look, forty-five, forty-seven, tops. His 1950s drag-strip hood shtick had to be retro from the jump, a mid-70s reaction formation, some cold Fonzian rhapsody. The man's hands looked ruined, though, rheumatoid, nicked and pinched by gruesome machinery. I'd done many odd jobs in my life, but hardly any heavy lifting. I stared at my own hands, soft, expressive things, gifted, even, like specially bred, lovingly shaved gerbils.

A corroded pickup slid to the sidewalk. Nick leaned out the window.

"Get in, buddy," said Nick. "Big day ahead of us. You eat?"

"Some cereal."

"Cereal? Never touch the stuff. Too many carbs."

I got in the truck and Nick pulled off the curb, steered with his belly and his forearms, his hands tasked with shoveling up a bacon-and-feta omelet from a foil container. We turned the corner and bounced, shockshot, down the boulevard. The cab smelled of breakfast and weed, and I recalled Christine once letting it slip-perhaps taking me for a potential customer-that Nick sold eighths and quarters of a few decent varieties. It was not clear whether the drugs or the decks were the sideline, but Nick, I was now to learn, had a grander dream, which he announced before we reached the next traffic light. He wanted to break into television. He watched a lot of reality shows, he informed me, especially the ones about breaking into television. He believed he had a handle on the business, the lingo. All he needed was a leg up. He already had the idea: his extravaganza would revolve around the last meals of condemned prisoners.

"Last meals?" I said.

"That's right," said Nick, slid another ketchup packet from the dash, squeezed it over his hash browns. "You know how they often report a con's last meal. There are even websites about it. People are obsessed. And if you followed this stuff, you'd know that these guys on death row always order fast-food crap. You ever look into this? It's always the burgers, the fried chicken. The fried shrimp. Or fried shrimp product. You know what I'm talking about, Milo?"

"I guess."

"You guess? I bet you know exactly what I'm talking about. Some guy is a few hours away from the Reaper's speedball and he chows down on a slab of imitation crabmeat in a hot dog bun. And fucks like you, no offense, get all sad and superior about it. These poor slobs could order anything they want, you think, but they are just low-rent and don't know any better. Because that's the story they've told us."

"The story?"

"That's the official story: a condemned prisoner's last meal can be anything he wants. It's the American way, right? Like that guy, the slow one that Clinton killed to show his cojones, that boy didn't finish his burger, his hoagie, whatever the fuck it was, said he'd eat the rest later. Later. That broke you up, didn't it?"

"Excuse me?"

"I think it was a veal parm."

I did recall that poor kid, the national cruelty so crystallized in that moment.

"Sure, I remember."

"Anyway, the point is, why fast food? Why the crap? Why not grass-fed Angus or Kobe beef, an '86 Mouton Rothschild? Don't look at me like that. I watch the fucking food shows."

"So, is this a food show?"

"Bear with me, buddy. Bear with me and answer this question. Why do these death row losers always order nuggets and dipping sauce and biggie fries for their last meal? Is it A, they are ghetto or barrio or trailer-park trash who don't know any better, who could never imagine a taste sensation transcending that of a Hot Pocket and an orange Fanta, or, B, something else entirely?"

The truck dipped into a pothole, shot near the curb where an old woman wearing an "I'm with Stupid" T-shirt dawdled in the crosswalk. This lady was about to be with nobody ever again, but Nick righted the wheel with one of his sloping breasts, his fork work undisturbed.

"I'm going to go with answer B," I said.

"Well, you're not dumb," said Nick. "But then again, you've had the advantages. You've got some innate intelligence, passed down from people who probably kicked some serious ass to put you in a position to even function on this planet. Because you don't seem, how can I put this, overly equipped. You seem pretty soft. I just mean that as an observation. Of course, we'll see what we see at the site today."

Advantages? What about Purdy? Or Sarah Molloy and the rest of them? Nick may have known that stuffed-crust pizza delivered in twenty minutes or gratis wasn't haute cuisine, but he didn't know a damn thing about advantages, couldn't comprehend the true machinations of money and power, the nuanced, friction-free nanotechnics of privilege that prevent an earnest, talented boy from doing wonderful stuff with oils. But, of course, I couldn't argue about the softness. For a time I wore only heavy, steel-toed boots because I figured if apocalyptic war broke out, sturdy footwear would be a must. Then it dawned on me that the better the boots, the more quickly I would be killed for them. My only shot at survival would be shoeless abjection.

"Thanks," I said now.

"I was complimenting your forebears," said Nick. "Anyway, you went with B. B stood for, if I'm not mistaken, and I'm not, something else entirely. Any guesses?"

"I don't know," I said. "They have no choice in the matter?"

"Damn!" said Nick, accordioned his foil plate with his palms, veered again, nearly halved a spry South Asian mail carrier in a pith helmet. "You are impressing the hell out of me. Of course that's the reason. They have no choice. Prisoners are allowed to order their last meal only from restaurants within a three-mile radius of the prison. What kinds of joints do you think surround death houses? Ever been to Texas, those prison towns? Forget the poor dinguses waiting for the strap and needle. Nobody's doing good. No Michelin stars in those counties. Sad but true, my friend. But don't get me wrong. I'm all for capital punishment. I'm a huge death penalty guy. I like everything about it. And don't tell me how it's more expensive to the taxpayer than life sentences. Because if you ask me, we should pony up a little more. We should feel the cost of our ritual,revel in it. It was probably a drain on the Aztec economy to capture and drug all those people and carve out their living hearts, but are you going to tell me it wasn't worth it? Yes, sir, the death penalty is where it's at. Is there a chance innocent people die? I should fucking hope so! Innocent people die constantly in this world. Why should things be better for those scumbags in lockdown?"

"But you said they were innocent."

"Innocent? Please. No thanks, buddy. Keep that knee-jerk liberal crap on your side of the aisle. I'm not ashamed of the sacrifices a balls-out civilization must make to survive. But we're way off the food-and-death track. This show is a winner. You won't regret your involvement."

"My involvement?"

"Well, my sister says your wife is in marketing, and this idea, when it hits the tube, will need some all-pro marketing. And you seem like the kind of college boy who may be a broke screw-up but is ultimately part of the vast conspiracy of movers and shakers who shake and move our society. Jewish, right?"

"Here we go," I said.

"Okay, scratch that. All I'm saying is I need to make the right connections to make this thing happen."

"Make what happen?"

"You repeat this to anybody, I will make a deck, a beautiful Mission-style deck, out of your bones. Weatherproof that shit, too."

"Of course."

"Dead Man Dining."

"Excuse me?"

"Working title."

"I'm lost."

"Be found. The world's top chefs prepare exquisite last meals for condemned prisoners. Stuffed quail for the auntie slasher. Baked Alaska for the office party Uzi sprayer. Chicken a la Berkowitz. Death and food. The only things we can be certain of, right? What's it like to be sitting next to a future billionaire?"

I wondered then if Nick's stomach could also brake the truck. Because in that moment I wanted very much to climb out, hike home, or maybe just stand on the Boulevard of Death, huff exhaust.

"We better get started on that deck, no?" I said.

"Deck?" said Nick. "Sure, but what about my idea? Do you know some people? From the city? People I could talk to? Do a deal memo with? I read about deal memos. I've got one of those books for dummies. That tells you about the Hollywood business for dummies. A deal memo is before you actually sign the contract, right? So everybody's protected? I'm not some jackass they can pat on the head, send on his way, and then rip off."

"I don't know deal memo," I said.

"Of course you do."

"No," I said. "I'm just a regular guy. I don't know all these people you think I know."

"No, I guess you don't," says Nick. "I'm sure you don't. I'm sure none of your college buddies are at all involved with the media."

"Really, I wish I could help."

"Really, I bet you do."

Nick laid his hands on the wheel, perhaps for the first time the entire trip, drove us into a giant parking lot. We looped around some superstores to a loading bay, parked near a pallet piled high with lumber.

Nick nodded over to the pallet.

"Load that shit up, Mr. Regular-Guy-No-Connections-Working-Stiff."

I studied the pallet, the area around the pallet.

"Is there a hand truck or something?"

"A hand truck? What's that? For jerking off? For jerking off trucks? Load the wood, Joseph Fucking Sixpack."

I hopped out of the cab, barked my shin on the runner. I limped over to the woodpile, looked back at Nick, shrugged, yanked the lightest-looking beam to my shoulder. My knees buckled. I staggered to the truck bed. Nick sat bent over the steering wheel, heaving. For a moment I thought it might be a coronary. Then I saw him wipe the tears from his eyes, roll down the window.

"Hurry up, you prick!" he said, his voice breaking.

I rushed back to the pallet. It took me an hour to load the truck. My hands peeled and bled. My shoulders burned, my legs quivered, my vision grew blurry. I puked on Nick's grille.

It was time to start work.

"I'm so sorry," said Maura.

She rubbed ointment into my neck, some over-the-counter heat cream, and I recalled how much I'd loved this very scenario as a child, that commercial about an aching jackhammer operator and his masseuse of a spouse. I'd always figured the secret to life had something to do with brutal vibratory stress and a wife handy with balms. This crap, however, did nothing but crank up my nausea.

"It's okay," I said, kneaded my hands together, my wounded gerbils. "I guess I'm not cut out for this kind of work."

"What kind of work?"

"The physical kind. You know, the kind that all humans once had to be capable of."

"I believe in you. You will be a mighty deck builder yet. Just pray to the spirit of the spirit level."

"That's good," I said. "But how can you believe in me? You don't believe in God, but you believe in me?"

"I had certain expectations with God. Come on, let's go to bed."

She laid her hand on my shoulder, slid it down toward my crotch.

"I thought you were touched out," I said.

"Maybe you could touch me back in."

"You mean an appointment? A real appointment?"

"Yes."

The fluttery ear kisses, the sweet pull and bend of Maura as I tugged on the brass hoop of her belt buckle, the downslide of her jeans, the up-peel of her sweater, the sweet chalky stubble under her arms, these are the things I wanted to remember when memory was all I had left, besides catheters and hospital lasagna, awkward visits from stunned progeny. There was no God and being was just a molecular accident, but I still hoped my crawl through the illusory tunnel of retina-annihilating light would end with my face buried in some post-life facsimile of Maura's ass.

Our lives hinge on these moments of quiet tenderness. We stand or fall on them. I passed out on mine. Even as I slipped off my sock I dropped into soft buzzy sleep. A deck builder's slumber. Maybe Maura kept the appointment with herself.

I woke up with a heart attack. It was definitely a heart attack. Death was definitely a battering ram. My fortress doors creaked with each strike. I was really dying now. Death was a punch in the chest. Death was also, strangely enough, an odd slurping sound, a rustling of sheets. There was no tunnel, no annihilating light. No ass, even. Maybe it was not a heart attack. Maybe, in fact, it was Bernie, lying between us in bed, nursing, firing mule kicks into my sternum with each suck.

Kid had rhythm.

"Baby," I whispered. "What the hell are you doing? You weaned him. He's weaned."

"I know he's weaned."

"What are you doing?"

"We're snuggling."

"He's sucking."

"No, he's not."

"I'm not," said Bernie.

"Maura, come on, stop it."

"It's okay. It's just a little regression. It's normal. I read about it. I don't have any milk anyway."

"That makes it worse."

"Go back to sleep, Milo."

"Yeah, Daddy, go back to sleep."

I rolled to the edge of the bed, listened to the soft, wet noises behind me.

My phone throbbed on the nightstand. Purdy's name glowed in the sea green display.