A Young Man's Guide to Late Capitalism

by Peter Mountford

  Up in his room that night, he ordered a grilled vegetable sandwich from room service. Street vendors ten stories below hollered out the prices of their wares while he ate his sandwich in bed, watching the same shows he would have watched in his new condo in New York.

  The condo was a two-bedroom on the Upper West Side. For many years, it had belonged to Roy Scheider, the star of Jaws. Gabriel had bought it in January. He had hired an interior decorator straightaway, and the place was repainted, the floors redone, and the light fixtures replaced. The decorator had purchased art, furniture, and identified the places those objects should reside. Gabriel had said he could take it from there, but he still hadn't managed to unpack any of it. The items all stood around, swaddled in huge sheets of plastic or bubble wrap, waiting to be put to use. Whenever he was there, he slept on his mattress on the living-room floor. To stop the pillow from slipping off at night, he pushed the mattress up against the wall. There were no curtains or blinds on the windows, and light streamed in at dawn, so he wore a sleep mask that he'd picked up on a flight. His kitchen supplies were still confined to their cartons as well, and the new stove hadn't even been attached to the gas line, so he ate carryout while sitting on the one armchair that he'd managed to unwrap. He got bored and went for long walks often. He watched DVDs on his laptop, either lying on the mattress or sitting in the armchair. He left his passport in the small pocket of his Tumi suitcase, which was always packed and stayed in the empty closet by the door.

  That suitcase lay splayed open beneath the hotel window now.

  Sitting upright on the bed in his room, he abandoned his sandwich and set the plate on his bedside table. The television played Zoolander. He read the subtitles and saw that very few of the jokes translated. He kept watching until, at last, he didn't even notice the subtitles anymore. Then, fading a little, he turned off the television, turned off the lights. He rolled onto his side, closed his eyes, and lay there, motionless, listening to the voices below.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  FOR GENEROUS SUPPORT while I was working on this book, many thanks to Seattle Arts and Lectures, Bread Loaf, the Richard Hugo House, Yaddo, and the Elizabeth George Foundation.

  For years of steady encouragement and cheerleading, the majestic Lilly Rubin. Too, I owe an incalculable debt to David Shields. I've had years of support from my siblings.

  In the department of keen editorial advice: Sandy Mountford, Jennifer Mountford, and the inimitable Anne Connell. My HMH-appointed copyeditor, Dr. Tracy Roe (I'm not being funny, she's actually a physician), is a spectacularly astute reader. Also, lest she be forgotten, my very editor herself, Adrienne Brodeur, who is not only a marvelous and brilliant person in general, but, it should be noted, gave the most marvelous and useful editorial suggestions I've ever seen.

  Much thanks to a killer agent named Henry Dunow. And, for always being there when I'm frantically in need of advice, Tina Pohlman.

  And for guidance and advice some supremely generous Bolivians: Eduardo Arce Bastos, Juan Fernando, Luis Aranibar, Luz Maria, Alvaro, and Juan Carlos Calderon and Mercedes. Thank you all for helping me discover your magnificent country.