The Ask

by Sam Lipsyte

  "A cooking show?" I said.

  "A screaming show," said the man.

  "I have an idea for a cooking show," I said.

  "Good for you," said the man, and walked away.

  A few more moments of baster-based antics and I followed the him into a space the size of a small ballroom. Purdy's parlor was a design-porn paradise. Here twinkled every chrome and leather marvel Maura had ever circled with affecting sanguinity in her catalogs, all the sofas and chaises and cabinets and floor lamps we could never afford. That was half the room. The other brimmed with mahogany bookshelves and gleaming antique credenzas and Persian rugs. One end was for high-tech pleasures, the other for reading Gibbon while getting blown in a wingback chair.

  I walked over to the liquor table, to a young barman in a braided jacket.

  "Scotch rocks," I said.

  It was not my drink, but then again, this was not my world.

  "Okay?" said the barman, pointed to a handle of inexpensive blended whisky beside the silver ice bucket.

  "No," I said. "It's not okay."

  Always it had been okay, but not tonight. Something had changed. I had demands. Certain people might have called it personal growth. These were the scumbags the new me would learn to admire.

  The barman shrugged, squatted, came up with a bottle by the same distiller. The label was another color. This was the good stuff. The better stuff. The kid poured me an important man's pour.

  "Thanks," I said.

  "You're welcome, sir."

  "Do you do this full-time?"

  "I'm still a student."

  "What do you study?"

  "Bartending."

  "Oh."

  "Mr. Stuart always hires student bartenders."

  "What a saint."

  "I guess it's a lot cheaper, yeah," said the barman. "But it gives us a chance to practice in an LLS."

  "A what?"

  "A live liquor situation."

  "Right."

  "Milo!" called a voice. "Over here!"

  Here it was, here they were, for to see them stand together, even as they beckoned, made it clear for all time how much I was not of them. There was Purdy, tall, becalmed, nothing like the fiendish candy-store man or the late-night dialer I'd come to know, his taut arm slung over the shoulder of an even taller fellow, bald, with fringes of curly hair: Billy Raskov. Billy looked better bald. Others I did not recognize stood with them, Purdy still the nucleus, the germ seed, the one who could somehow corral us all into a mood of sweet boisterousness, private pangs be damned.

  "Milo!"

  Another man joined Purdy's group just as I did. We shook hands, but somebody nearby squealed and I caught only the end of Purdy's introduction.

  "… farb."

  "Farb?" I said.

  "Goldfarb."

  "Of course," I said.

  He'd been a messy gangle back on Staley Street. Now he was lean, handsome, with the mien of a racing animal.

  "Goldfarb," said the man.

  "I know," I said. "Charles Goldfarb."

  "That's right, Milo. I'm surprised. I figured if you ever saw me again you'd want to deck me."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "You don't know?"

  "No," I said.

  "Come on, Charlie," said Purdy. "Stop teasing. Charlie, Milo, this is Lisa and Ginny. They're friends from the building."

  We did our dips, our pivots, our mock-bashful waves. Purdy raised his glass.

  "I'm glad we're all here. Dinner is going to be great."

  "It better be," said Lisa. "That man in your kitchen is a dick."

  "Nice to see you, Milo," said Billy Raskov. His trademark slur was gone. It made me wonder if it ever existed. Maybe I'd imagined it all these years. Maybe that's why I'd always gotten odd looks whenever I brought up his feigned Parkinson's.

  "You too, Billy," I said, glanced back at Goldfarb. "I'm sorry, I guess I'm confused."

  "Don't worry about it," said Goldfarb.

  "Okay, I'll try not to. So, Charles, I think I saw somewhere you wrote a book?"

  "Thanks, I appreciate the kind words."

  "What kind words?"

  "Sorry," said Goldfarb. "Embarrassing reflex."

  "Poor Chuck," said Purdy. "He suffers from Post-Praise Stress Disorder. It's left him a wreck. I saw your thing in the paper last Sunday, by the way. Fantastic. Blistering. And thoughtful. Speaking of blisters, did you guys notice what's hanging over the fireplace?"

  "Come on, Purd," said Billy.

  "Check it out," said Purdy, pointed across the room to a large canvas, a luminous twilit landscape. "The latest Raskov."

  A river coursed through a verdant gorge. The sky bled rich reds and blues. In the mossy foreground, a nude woman tongued the anus of an elk. Nearby, a figure in a shepherd's tunic lay disemboweled. A fawn fed on his viscera.

  "It's called Renewable, Sustainable," said Purdy. "Can't take my eyes off it. Billy's gallerist killed me, but I had to have it."

  "I'm impressed," I said. "I didn't know you could paint like that."

  "Thanks, buddy. I'll admit I still can't touch your technique, at least as I remember it, but I've been getting better."

  "Billy's having another big show next month," said Purdy.

  "That's great," I said.

  "You should come to the opening."

  "I'd like that."

  "I was thinking," said Billy. "Are you in contact with Lena? I haven't talked to her in a long time, I'd really like to-"

  "Yeah, I really haven't been in contact."

  "Not since it was full contact, right, bro?"

  "Excuse me?" I said.

  "Just joking."

  "I think it's hot," said Purdy. "Milo, could I have a word with you?"

  "Sure."

  "Over here."

  Purdy led me away from the group. We passed the barman, who nodded. Maybe this private audience with Purdy confirmed my top-shelf status.

  Purdy wheeled near the corner of the room, clasped my shoulders.

  "Well?"

  "A pavilion," I said.

  "Not bad, huh?"

  "I can't thank you enough," I said. "Really. It's so amazing. I'm still processing it."

  "What's the matter with you?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "It doesn't seem like a very happy process, judging by your face."

  "I am happy. I really am. I'm just spent. You know I collapsed? I collapsed from happiness. I had to be hospitalized."

  "No shit."

  "So…"

  "Don't tell me," said Purdy.

  "Don't tell you what?"

  "You're pissed."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "You're pissed I went over your head."

  "No, I'm really not."

  "It had to be that way. For your benefit. Shit, in a way this whole thing has become about you. I care about you. Don't you get that?"

  "I do."

  "You've got to stop resenting me. It's foolish."

  "I know. And really, thank you."

  "You're welcome, asshole."

  "I deserve that," I said.

  Purdy took a breath, gazed past my shoulder.

  "Lee Moss died yesterday."

  "Oh, man. I'm sorry. I just saw him."

  "I know. He took a bad turn that evening."

  "I'm really sorry, Purdy."

  "He was an old man with cancer."

  "I know he was close to you. Like family."

  "Let's not get too sentimental. He helped my father defraud the government. Because of that my father had more money to leave to me, the boy he liked to beat senseless. Moss was the old breed. Took care of business. Ethics were for the Sabbath. Just a hardworking shark, a true Jew lawyer. No offense."

  A tall woman in white walked up, tilted her Bellini in greeting.

  "Oh, hi, Jane."

  "Hello, Purdy."

  "Jane, you remember Milo Burke."

  The gray eyes of the governor's daughter seemed
to sparkle as they surveyed the damage.

  "Yes, of course, how are you?"

  "Great," I said.

  "Wonderful. What have you been doing with yourself?"

  "Working."

  "Very nice," she said.

  "Be right back," said Purdy, pecked Jane's cheek.

  "How about you?" I said.

  "I've been working, too. On a few projects."

  This woman's power had always resided in her courage. She'd defied her father, defied him still. She made her films to destroy his beliefs. Whether he also helped fund them was not the point. She'd been given an out at birth, a frictionless existence, refused it. I did admire her for this. But she'd taken my knife. Worse, she probably had no recollection of this fact.

  "What kind of projects?" I said.

  "I just finished a film about a family in a refugee camp in Chad. And I'm doing something about health care, the uninsured."

  "They're being murdered," I said.

  "It's true," said Jane.

  "There was one woman upstate, our age. She was in a coma in a hospital, but her… carrier cut her off. She died in transit to the state ward."

  "That's terrible. Did you know her?"

  "Not really. Some of her relatives."

  "Really? Would they speak to me? We're doing a lot of interviews before we start."

  "No," I said. "I don't think so. They're pretty private."

  "Well, let me know if you think they would. These stories need to be told."

  "I will."

  "It was nice to see you again," said Jane.

  "Wait," I said.

  "Yeah?"

  Here was my moment to ask about that night, the party. I didn't want the knife back. I just wanted to know if she remembered, to understand how one event could mean so little and so much.

  "No, I just was going to ask…"

  "Yes?"

  "I have an idea for a TV show."

  "That's nice."

  "Well, it's really my friend Nick's idea, but we're collaborating."

  "Nick?"

  "Nick Papadopoulos."

  "I don't know his work."

  "You might. You might have sat on his work. Though probably not."

  "I'm not sure where you're going with this."

  "He's a builder. A contractor. Builds decks."

  "Is it some kind of home repair thing? I don't really do that sort of-"

  "No, no," I said. "It's a cooking show."

  "Cooking? I think we're full up on those. See that guy in there?"

  "Right. So, take that guy in there, Mr. Kitchen Badass. Now put him on death row."

  "Pardon?"

  "I mean not him. I mean he's there, but he's not on death row. But he's going to cook a last meal for somebody about to die. Dead Man Dining. You know why those last meals are so crappy?"

  "Because they all eat crappy food in those parts of the country."

  "Yes, bingo. Now bring on the Kobe beef."

  "Excuse me?"

  "I mean… wow, Nick is much better at this. It sounded different when… oh, forget it."

  "No," said Jane. "I'm intrigued. Let me see if I've got you right. America's best chefs come to America's worst prisons to cook lavish last meals for condemned convicts."

  "Yes. That's what I was trying to say. Perfectly put."

  "I can see it," said Jane, snatched another drink from a passing tray. "First we film the chef on the way to the airport, nervous but excited, and also moved by the gravity of the event. He reflects on crime and fate and society, how lucky his own life has been. Then he arrives at the prison and meets with the warden, who explains in somewhat disturbing detail what the condemned man did. Whether you agree with capital punishment or not, there's no getting around the fact that a court of law found this hick guilty of hacking the girl up in the forest, or mowing down the returns line at the shoe outlet. A sober few minutes. Then the fun. Our chef sits down with the maniac. They talk about food. While the unschooled but unquestionably bright killer talks about the staples he was raised on-chicken fingers, hamburgers, onion rings, cola, processed bread, and peanut butter laced with rat shit, we start to feel for him, his crime recedes, and what we are watching is a boy who never had a chance to taste the better things, to know possibility, to see a way out. It's sad, but a quick cut to the warden will remind us that we should be careful about where our sympathies lie. And what are the families of the victims eating tonight? Commercial."

  "Holy shit," I said. "That's it. You're good."

  "When we return from the break," said Jane, "we're with our celebrity chef in the prison kitchen. The prison cooks watch with bemusement as the chef's shock at the meagerness of utensils mounts. Don't they even have a paring knife? A goddamn strainer? Yuckety-yuck. So now the chef speaks to the camera about his philosophy of food. Food doesn't need to be fancy. It just needs to taste good. Especially in bad times. It's all about simplicity. Fresh fruit, fresh vegetables, good bread, cruelty-free meats. It's sad how out of reach these things are for so many Americans. As to the prisoner's last meal, well, the chef has been doing a lot of soul-searching. The worst thing would be to take too big a gamble, to prepare something wonderful but too foreign to his taste. Those of us not about to be executed can afford an adventurous though vaguely disappointing dining experience, the ostrich steaks and persimmon spaetzle not nearly as scrumptious as advertised. But this one has to be right on the money. So, we will work with all the tastes and textures that Clarence-Clarence, right?-already craves. The only purpose of this meal is to take him back to maybe the one brief moment in his sorry life he felt loved. We may have a little fun with presentation, but the grub will be solid, familiar, though much fresher, juicier, more savory, than this food-court castoff could ever have imagined. Now come the snafus. The hurdles, the drama. What do you mean we have to go all the way to Lubbock for thyme? I said Syrah, not Shiraz! No, they're not the same! The usual diva hilarity, but with this incredibly compelling undertone of impending death. We intercut the chef in the kitchen with the prisoner penning his final thoughts in his diary, or kneeling with his prayer group. The executioners test the straps on the gurney. The warden stares out his office window at the new moon, ponders the price of justice. And then the moment we've been waiting for. The prisoner sits at a cute little table set up in, no, not his cell, but in a little conference room near the warden's office. White tablecloth. A rose in a vase. Our chef brings out the meal, explains what he's prepared and why. The prisoner takes a bite, begins to cry. He had a mommy once. The chef begins to cry. He still has a mommy, but he's so busy chasing those Michelin stars he doesn't get to visit her enough. The warden stares. His mommy used to lock him in a manure bin. We cut away. We'll let the man eat his last meal in peace. Commercial. Come back to final thoughts from the chef, back in his restaurant now. The whole experience has changed him. But he hasn't forgotten the victim or the families. He thinks about them, too. He thinks about the whole sad tragedy of it all. Maybe if everybody could eat well there wouldn't be so much hate in the world. But he will keep doing what he's doing, cooking meals with love, doing his little part to bring peace to the planet, dish by dish. Fade out to words on the screen: Clarence Howard O'Grady was executed on blah blah for the murder of blah blah and blah blah. His last words were these: 'I am sorry for what I did and the pain I caused. I wish I'd had Jesus in my life sooner, and more omega-3s. In my next life I'll wash dishes in Chef Gary's fancy restaurant in New York, so I can have artisanal baloney every day. Sleep tight, you world, you motherfucker."

  Jane smiled, drained the rest of her Bellini.

  "Is that basically it?" she said.

  "That's it exactly."

  "Thought so."

  "That was amazing."

  "Thank you."

  "So… do you think… I mean, could you be interested in something like that?"

  "If my name were attached to something like that I would commit suicide."

  "Oh."

  "But here's my
card."

  "Oh, okay."

  "Please pass it along to your friend. The deck builder. A documentary about how reality television has warped the fantasy life of everyday Americans, that could be interesting."

  "Very," I said.

  "Case studies."

  "Yes, right."

  "So, did Purdy put you up to this?"

  "Purdy?"

  "Pretty funny. He's a sick puppy."

  "Well, if you need any help with your documentary. You know, legwork."

  "Legwork."

  "Right."

  "Take care, Milo. Nice to see you."

  Jane turned, moved off into the crowd.

  "Where's my fucking knife?" I said, but she was already gone.

  I went back to the bar for another round.

  "The same?" said the barman.

  "Yes," I said. "A double."

  The kid filled my tumbler to the rim.

  "Oh, damn," he said. "I forgot the ice. Now there's no room. I'm really sorry."

  "How are you going learn if you don't make mistakes?"

  "But I'm in the field. This is live liquor."

  "Don't worry. I'll take this bullet for you."

  I winked, walked. I was not a winker. This worried me.

  "Milo," Purdy called from the fireplace. "Come back over here. I want you to meet somebody."

  He stood with a generically stunning woman in a black silk dress. There were thousands, or at least several hundred, just like her in this part of the city, on Hudson and Chambers and Franklin and Worth, perfect storms of perfect bones, monuments to tone and hair technology. Around here she was almost ordinary, but you could still picture small towns where men might bludgeon their friends, their fathers, just to run their sun-cracked lips along her calves.

  "Melinda, this is Milo. I told you about Milo."

  "Yes. Welcome."

  "Great to meet you at last," I said. "I've heard so many wonderful things."

  "By all means, begin transmission."

  "You look beautiful. Purdy said you'd been having a hard few weeks."

  "Oh, it's fine," said Melinda. "I'm not the first woman to get knocked up and puke."

  "Well, I think it's very exciting. The home birth, all of it."

  "I always dreamed it would be like this. Purdy has been so fantastic about meeting my desires. I'm afraid I've been really demanding. But we worked so hard to get here. I'm not ashamed to say how many times we tried, how many ways. But finally I'm pregnant, and I've never been happier in my life. Really. You are the best, baby. And we are going to have the best baby! Ha!"