flinched.
“Sam told you that?” he managed.
“Earlier today.” Vartan rubbed the back of his head. “I didn’t want to rattle you before the gig.”
They sat through a longish auto insurance commercial. A longish vocabulary-improvement-tape commercial came on.
“You should go talk to him,” Vartan added, laying a hand on the padded shoulder of Fred’s jacket. “Maybe he can help you figure out how to get back on board.”
“What makes you think he’d do that?”
“He’s your brother. Why wouldn’t he?”
“Because he’s Sam.”
“He’s surviving. You could learn something from him.”
“You think I’m going to crawl back to the people who stole our company and beg for a job?”
“Eat your shit, Fred. Live to eat your shit another day.”
The scrap truck sped into the left lane. In the Escalade ahead of it, a cartoon Batman leapt into action on a flatscreen TV. A pudgy kid watching it in the backseat huffed on an inhaler.
“Anyway,” Fred said, “they’re moving the office down to Orlando before long.”
Vartan smoothed his mustache with a thumb and forefinger. “Later this month.”
“ This month? ”
“When’s the last time you went in to work? Go talk to Sam.”
“Why would I do that? Even if I could get my job back, I’m not about to leave George alone in that hospital bed.”
Vartan thought. “Could you find a job here?”
Fred thought. “Given time.”
Vartan glanced over. “Would you?”
They listened to George Bush talking up the liquid bomb plot, the news of which had just broken last Friday. Followed by a story about the singer Boy George reporting for his court-ordered community service, sweeping Manhattan streets for the Department of Sanitation. Fred fought down the urge to bring up going to the hospital again.
“If I did go to Florida,” he said, “you couldn’t go on doing these magic shows.”
A kind of laugh escaped Vartan, a short exhalation through his nose. “Sam says there’s plenty of acting work down in Florida for your company.”
“My company.”
“For their military simulations. Playing Afghan warlords. Iraqi sectarian leaders. Suicide bombers.” He sucked his teeth. But a moment later: “Don’t suppose they pay union wages.”
“Not on your life.”
Vartan nodded. He hadn’t been remotely serious, anyway. After George’s illness had begun last year, Vartan had dropped out of The Tempest and the production had fallen apart; and soon after George fell into the coma, their father was back in his undershirt, making cards float out of a deck. Then he was sitting around the Edison Hotel diner, idly disappearing coins and creamers, when an actor friend asked him to do a nephew’s birthday party. Then Vartan was asking Fred how this or that sequence went. Next, they were rehearsing in the living room, both in their undershirts, making milkshakes in each other’s top hats, shredding each other’s newspapers and reconstituting their own. When Vartan had finally made it clear that he really was planning to revive the act, it was with an assurance that Fred didn’t need to join him, that he could just do a version of it on his own, but Fred had been dubious. Even hauling the equipment in and out of the van was probably too much for his father to handle alone.
A story about Governor George Pataki came on. Something about consolation or compensation, but it was too many Georges and Fred had already turned it off.
“Sam says—”
“Tell me, Dad, what else does Sam say?”
The eyebrow hoist. The thumb shrug. “He says we should all move down there. Before New York blows up.”
“Right.”
Vartan’s mustache spread. “All cities are doomed, he says.”
“Right.”
As they neared the Lincoln Tunnel entrance, the Manhattan skyline came into view. Palled by haze, it seemed to take on a shaky transparency, like a slide-show image from some never-to-be-repeated holiday vacation, the projector a relic, the vacationers themselves
“Sam told you that?” he managed.
“Earlier today.” Vartan rubbed the back of his head. “I didn’t want to rattle you before the gig.”
They sat through a longish auto insurance commercial. A longish vocabulary-improvement-tape commercial came on.
“You should go talk to him,” Vartan added, laying a hand on the padded shoulder of Fred’s jacket. “Maybe he can help you figure out how to get back on board.”
“What makes you think he’d do that?”
“He’s your brother. Why wouldn’t he?”
“Because he’s Sam.”
“He’s surviving. You could learn something from him.”
“You think I’m going to crawl back to the people who stole our company and beg for a job?”
“Eat your shit, Fred. Live to eat your shit another day.”
The scrap truck sped into the left lane. In the Escalade ahead of it, a cartoon Batman leapt into action on a flatscreen TV. A pudgy kid watching it in the backseat huffed on an inhaler.
“Anyway,” Fred said, “they’re moving the office down to Orlando before long.”
Vartan smoothed his mustache with a thumb and forefinger. “Later this month.”
“ This month? ”
“When’s the last time you went in to work? Go talk to Sam.”
“Why would I do that? Even if I could get my job back, I’m not about to leave George alone in that hospital bed.”
Vartan thought. “Could you find a job here?”
Fred thought. “Given time.”
Vartan glanced over. “Would you?”
They listened to George Bush talking up the liquid bomb plot, the news of which had just broken last Friday. Followed by a story about the singer Boy George reporting for his court-ordered community service, sweeping Manhattan streets for the Department of Sanitation. Fred fought down the urge to bring up going to the hospital again.
“If I did go to Florida,” he said, “you couldn’t go on doing these magic shows.”
A kind of laugh escaped Vartan, a short exhalation through his nose. “Sam says there’s plenty of acting work down in Florida for your company.”
“My company.”
“For their military simulations. Playing Afghan warlords. Iraqi sectarian leaders. Suicide bombers.” He sucked his teeth. But a moment later: “Don’t suppose they pay union wages.”
“Not on your life.”
Vartan nodded. He hadn’t been remotely serious, anyway. After George’s illness had begun last year, Vartan had dropped out of The Tempest and the production had fallen apart; and soon after George fell into the coma, their father was back in his undershirt, making cards float out of a deck. Then he was sitting around the Edison Hotel diner, idly disappearing coins and creamers, when an actor friend asked him to do a nephew’s birthday party. Then Vartan was asking Fred how this or that sequence went. Next, they were rehearsing in the living room, both in their undershirts, making milkshakes in each other’s top hats, shredding each other’s newspapers and reconstituting their own. When Vartan had finally made it clear that he really was planning to revive the act, it was with an assurance that Fred didn’t need to join him, that he could just do a version of it on his own, but Fred had been dubious. Even hauling the equipment in and out of the van was probably too much for his father to handle alone.
A story about Governor George Pataki came on. Something about consolation or compensation, but it was too many Georges and Fred had already turned it off.
“Sam says—”
“Tell me, Dad, what else does Sam say?”
The eyebrow hoist. The thumb shrug. “He says we should all move down there. Before New York blows up.”
“Right.”
Vartan’s mustache spread. “All cities are doomed, he says.”
“Right.”
As they neared the Lincoln Tunnel entrance, the Manhattan skyline came into view. Palled by haze, it seemed to take on a shaky transparency, like a slide-show image from some never-to-be-repeated holiday vacation, the projector a relic, the vacationers themselves
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