Waiting for the Man

by Arjun Basu

  “What does that mean?” I ask.

  “I mean they are still rising,” she says. “They are young. Just like the Himalayas are young.”

  “You’re a fountain of knowledge,” I say.

  “I read the book,” she says. “That’s all.”

  “You read the book,” I say, laughing.

  “Yes. I read the book. I don’t pretend to understand what it means,” she says. “Everything about the rocks that make up Montana. I looked at the mountains and I found this old book in the library. It was a good book.”

  “It’s very useful,” I say.

  “Don’t mock me,” she says. And with this, I’m about certain she’s flirting with me. Or I want her to. I want the thrust and parry of a good flirt. Does Tomas know of our meeting? “I’m an elitist.”

  “No, you’re not,” I say.

  “Why not?” she asks.

  “An elitist looks down on the world,” I say. “An elitist expects you to see things his way because he knows he’s always right.”

  “I am,” she says.

  “Not in the same way.”

  “What’s the difference?” she asks.

  “An elitist sets the standards,” I say. “He tells you where to look and what to see. In ad terms, we call these people influencers. They’re even more elite than Washington’s ‘media elite’ bogeyman. When we look out and wonder what it is we’re watching, the elitist tells you and expects that all is understood. It’s an expectation. It says, ‘I understand so you must as well and if you don’t, you’re stupid and unworthy.’ It’s a bit poisonous, I always thought. Because it means never staying in one place. Never being happy with what you know. So you are constantly seeking more. More knowledge. Because with knowledge comes your opinion. Your edge. And these people believe in their role. Their place. They believe in the patterns to knowing, patterns that are new and improved and clean and clear and bright and minty fresh. Because we all believe in the end that we should know things we have no right to know and suspect things we have no right to suspect so that now, when we drive past a suburban office-complex parking lot, and see the darkened cars sitting alone at midnight, side by side, we wonder whether these are totems of adultery. We think of the partner at home knowing and not wanting to know. We don’t want to see two cars in a parking lot. We see an old man and a young woman enjoying a burger in the neon-washed window of a fast food restaurant and wonder how much he’s worth without even once considering that perhaps he’s an uncle or a grandfather or Tony Randall. We think these things not because we want to but because we feel it is our place in the greater culture to think these things. Because we’re participants in it, too, even though we’ve elevated ourselves, and sometimes we resent this, because we want out, we want to find an out, so we search for meanings where perhaps none existed, we search for patterns and lines where there are none and we become more susceptible to the messages we think we can avoid.”

  “Isn’t Tony Randall dead?” she asks.

  What am I going on about? I’m trying to decide whether I believe this or not. These are the arguments I left behind. Am I trying to impress Athena? Realizing that I believed everything I’ve said, at one time in my life, causes a pit inside of me the size of . . . Montana. “That’s not the point,” I say.

  “You’re rambling,” she says. “Making conversation. And you just did this marketing speak like someone might talk about the weather. And perhaps you hate yourself, too.”

  “I used to,” I say. “I don’t anymore. I know that now. That’s a good feeling. I admit that much.”

  We change. This is something that took me a long time to figure out. Nothing stays the same. Thinking this now, I feel almost stupid because it’s such an obvious truth. A simple idea. People who don’t change get left behind. If we hadn’t changed we’d still be stuck in caves, beating off the saber-toothed cats with big sticks.

  “Your little trip was like therapy?” she asks.

  I slouch into the couch. “Maybe.” I just can’t admit to it. No one ever said therapy was cheap.

  “Are you comfortable?” she asks.

  “How big is that question?”

  “With yourself,” she says. “Here. With your situation. Have you processed what you’ve done? We’re all here, in this place, for a reason.”

  “Are you talking about the ranch?” I ask. I need to be sure.

  “Maybe,” she says, smiling, taking another sip of wine.

  “Or am I comfortable here, in your apartment, having a meeting?”

  Athena laughs. Her laugh is like something out of Hollywood. It’s deep and resonant and sexy all at once. Forties Hollywood. “I do want to discuss matters,” she says.

  “Does Tomas know I’m here?” I ask.

  “He doesn’t hate you,” she says. “And we are not an item.”

  This news is neither a relief nor an added burden. “I think he resents my little clafouti campaign,” I say. “That our little discussion has been elevated.”

  “He’s insecure,” she says. “That just means he’s a good chef.”

  She gets up and goes to her bedroom. What am I supposed to do now? She returns, her arms full of papers. She throws them down on the couch, filling the space between us. With this she has answered any dirty questions I may have been harboring. Because I was. “This is the job,” she says.

  I take a long drink of wine. I pour myself another glass. “The job.” I sigh.

  “I think you will do it well,” she says. She sits on the couch again. Closer. Between us, papers, letters, brochures, the paraphernalia of the sell. “I think your being here is a kind of miracle,” she says.

  Begin the Begin

  The Odyssey arrived, red as blood, or Australian wine, as the dealer had promised. It wasn’t quite virile, but that’s not the term one would expect to apply to a minivan. In a minivan, the masculinity is confined to the size of the cup holder. And whether or not it can keep drinks warm or cold. Or the coolness of the DVD player. Or the electronics on the dash, the computerized wizardry that can make the driver forget for a moment what he’s driving.

  Or maybe it’s just impossible. Maybe the emasculation of the male has everything to do with the fact that millions of them are driving around the country in minivans. The first company that can make a virile-looking minivan is going to win the war, is going to bring their left-for-dead company out of the ashes into the shareholders hall of fame. The ad would have a suburban dad walking slowly toward the minivan, buckling up the kids and getting in, turning the ignition, all the while the Spencer Davis Group’s “I’m a Man” played in the background. Any campaign that could equate masculinity to this shape would alter the landscape of our economy. I suspect that company will be Asian. Perhaps even Chinese. Americans can’t build cars anymore. No, that’s not true. We can build them. We just can’t sell them properly. We have passed the mantle of design to the Japanese, the Koreans. The Europeans have always had it.

  Two things we used to be good at: cars and skyscrapers and now we don’t do either of them well. We can’t make anything that takes your breath away. Look at all the starchitects: Europeans. Since the birth of the skyscraper, new buildings anywhere in the world have made a city look American. Now, even here in New York, all the new towers look like they’re from Shanghai. I’m not sure when this happened but like everything else, I’m willing to concede 9/11 as some kind of dividing line. We don’t want to admit it, but that trauma is still with us. Not in the stupid punch-drunk-with-rage wars we’re fighting overseas, but something deep within us died that day and it’s still dead. And it will stay dead forever. And a lot of Americans are still angry about it. Because they know.

  Dan and I packed the Odyssey with sponsored goods. A giant cooler courtesy of Rubbermaid. Inside an assortment of Kraft cheeses. Fruits and pre-cut vegetables courtesy of Costco. Sandwiches courtesy of Dean
& DeLuca. A dozen cans of tuna courtesy of StarKist. From the corner store an assortment of chocolate bars, fruit bars, granola bars, two bags of lemon cream cookies, a carton of orange juice, two bottles of Coke, two Sara Lee pound cakes, bags of Doritos, two jars of salsa, and a case of bottled water. A small portable microwave provided by Best Buy. Two more pillows, blankets, and a terrycloth robe courtesy of the new boutique hotel up the street. Three loaves of semi-frozen microwavable bread from a commercial bakery in Brooklyn. Two large pizzas from Dan’s brother. A French cosmetics company provided me with a box of spray-on dry shampoo, which I wished they’d done sooner. I’d never heard of spray-on dry shampoo before. Outerwear from North Face. It was summer but they made a big deal of supplying us with outerwear. This took up the morning. Many photos were taken. Someone from Popeye’s came by with a bucket of fried chicken and a video crew and when they left they’d taken the fried chicken with them. Which was just as well.

  Dan had also packed a duffel bag of clothes. And all the while, the media crowded around us peppering us with asinine questions. “Is that salsa?” “Dan, is that salsa hot or mild?” “How long will the subs keep?” “Were Dean & DeLuca not prepared to provide salad?” “Dan, what do you say to nutritionists worried about a balanced diet?” “Joe, are you worried by the lack of anything here?” And on and on it went. I missed Sophie. More than I thought I might. I didn’t know how to find her if I wanted to. I didn’t even know her last name. Dan had hired security to keep a clear area around the minivan but boom mics were still breaking the line and slamming me in the face, grazing the top of the Odyssey, reaching into spaces they shouldn’t have been reaching.

  What seemed like the entire sales team from Rolston Honda were on hand. The company logo was affixed to each of the front doors with a white store-bought “Official Sponsor” sticker beside them, along with a “Made with Pride in Lincoln, Alabama, USA” decal. The media bus was late in arriving and Dan would not allow me to leave without it. “There’s no show with no show,” he said.

  Throughout all of this, I felt a kind of otherworldliness; a silence had surrounded me and shielded me from the chaos. My life had dissolved into a kind of surrealism and my only defense was autism.

  Dan begged me to release a statement. He had spent the night composing press releases to ensure that every sponsor was mentioned and thanked. And now, he said, the media was thirsty for something. “The fine line between media and PR,” I said.

  “You need to say something,” he said, ignoring me. “You’re leaving these people.”

  We retreated to the steps and behind a line of failed linebacker types, we composed a press release. In it, I said, to my eternal shame:

  It is with a sense of hope that I embark on this voyage. I don’t know where the road will take me or for how long, but it’s something I feel I must do. Your patience with me has been striking. I want to apologize to my neighbors for the inconvenience I’ve caused.

  The journey to this point has been one of small surprises and discoveries. I have been honored to have shared it with my city, my country, and the world. I would like to thank all those who have aided me in New York, especially with food. I want to thank the NYPD for tolerating this. And I would also like to acknowledge the support of my many sponsors. Thank you again. We’re going on a road trip!

  I read it over and felt the makings of nausea. “ I don’t believe a word of it,” I told Dan. “Except the apology. I don’t talk like that or think like that or write like that. That’s not me. The whole thing sounds like it’s been written up by a big PR firm. Let me rephrase that. By a bad PR firm.”

  “We should have a PR firm,” Dan mumbled. “In case this whole thing goes pear-shaped. Marketing people. I should have some PR chick on the bus.”

  “You’re not listening,” I said. Dan had stopped listening to me a long time ago. There was no point in listening to me. I was the least important part of the story in many ways. I wasn’t to be listened to. Merely tolerated.

  “Do you have any idea which way you’re going?” he asked.

  “I’m not sure anymore,” I said.

  “Because the bus driver would like to know at least your route out of Manhattan.” He opened up his laptop and started typing out my statement.

  “Do you have a book deal yet?” I asked.

  “The bus driver’s union,” he said, not looking up from the keyboard. “You don’t want to fuck with the unions.”

  “How much did you get?” I was sure he had lined up a book deal. Maybe he wasn’t even typing the statement into the laptop.

  “What are you talking about?” he asked. “And, send.” He punched the enter key and opened the van’s window. “Statement’s out, boys,” he told the press corps. He closed the window and turned to me. “What book deal?”

  “About this. Don’t play dumb,” I said. I wasn’t sure whether or not to jump into the front seat and drive off or sink to the floor in despair. Or laugh. Ever since packing the Sara Lee cakes I had been on the verge of laughter. I used to love Sara Lee pound cakes growing up. Perhaps autism was best.

  He smiled a crooked smile. “You have the story,” he said.

  “I can smell smoke emanating from your pants,” I said. I locked him in a stare. He looked at the floor.

  “No,” he said. “I have an agent, that’s it. I’ve had offers. But until this thing plays itself out, there’s no story. I’m small fry. My agent asked me to talk you into selling your story when all this is done. She sees books and a movie.” He tried to smile now but I was being too serious.

  “A movie about a man driving around America in a minivan?” I asked.

  “Are we going to drive around America?” Dan said. He opened up his laptop again. “Good movies have started with less. Albert Brooks drove around in an RV. What was that movie called?”

  “And if I don’t?” I asked, crossing my arms.

  “And if you don’t what?” he asked.

  “If I don’t want to sell.”

  “I don’t understand why you wouldn’t,” he said. “Fine. You don’t see the theatrics of this or the opportunity, which, frankly, is surprising coming from an adman. So think of it from the financial perspective. There is a great tradition in this country of cashing in on life’s adventures. You’re going to end up God knows where and then what? Do you have a job right now? Perfectly rational people are willing to throw money at you. They are eager. Everyone in the world is allowed to be remunerated massively for a great idea. It’s what unites people across income and geography and religion. One good idea. This one is yours. The money’s on the table. Who would pass that up?”

  I resented his use of the word “idea.” “What if I do?” I said. Dan’s question had the advantages of both logic and common sense. But I didn’t care.

  “And you know as well as I do this won’t last. You know this even better than I do probably,” he said. He put his hand on my shoulder. His eyes fixed on mine. “Look, stop shooting the messenger. I’m just saying. It’s an escape from writing witty slogans for dog food. For foisting Irish-style beer with German slogans on society. I mean, that was brilliant but it didn’t make you feel any better about yourself. If you deny it, you’re a liar, too. This thing is the same for me. I admit that. I’ve used you. I admit it. Just as you’ve used me. If the end result is our mutual happiness, I don’t see anything wrong in that. Do you?”

  His question hung in the air like the effluent from a smoke stack. I was confronting something, I understood that, but I had no idea what that something was. I felt stupid, finally. But Dan was looking something worse. Almost desperate, I thought. And that made me feel if not better, superior. Purer. “I haven’t had any notions here, Dan,” I said. “And even if I had, I’m sure they wouldn’t have sounded half as complicated as yours.”

  He let go of my shoulder. “What do you want from me?” he asked.

  I w
anted to watch him squirm. “Nothing,” I said. “I want you to keep the people away from this minivan. Every night — or whenever we stop — I’ll grant one interview. When I feel like it, let’s say that. If I have anything else to add to the conversation, I’ll approach you. I won’t turn on the cell phone unless there’s an emergency. Maybe we’ll talk when I have to stop for gas. And that’s that. Now go.”

  He stared at me, stunned. “Joe,” he said, his voice trailing off. He rubbed his face in his hands. And then he turned around, slid open the door, and stepped out. “Departure in five minutes!” he called out. “Endless stories shortly thereafter.”

  I crawled over to the driver’s seat and began adjusting the seat and mirrors and steering wheel. The key was already in the ignition. It appeared to glisten. I turned it and the Odyssey hummed into power. The dash lit up with that soothing cobalt car companies use. I lowered my window and stuck my arm out and struck a pose. One-millionth van sold! An onslaught of shutters were pressed down, creating a sound that I remembered from childhood. It was the sound of tap shoes. Of hundreds of tap shoes tapping the wooden gymnasium floor. Tap is like the soccer of the dance world: no one cares about it after the age of twelve.

  I waved to the cameras. I even gave them a thumb’s up. I wanted to wink but held back. I looked for Dan and he had to smile at the shamelessness of the gesture. I was angry with him but also relieved to be leaving. I wanted my neighbors to return to their normal lives — fighting off excessive gentrification and obnoxiously aggressive architecture, marveling at the new restaurants and boutiques opening up, wondering where the drugs had gone, complaining about the audacity of the new people moving in. Lamenting the loss of those who could no longer afford the area.

  Normal life.

  The media saw something. I turned around and saw the bus. It was large and black and ominous. On the roof an array of antennae and satellites gave it the look of a military command vehicle. A line of tired-looking men and women loaded it up with bags and cameras. Dan switched into the kind of organizational mode I associate only with the remarkable efficiency one sees in the third act of disaster movies.