Ladies and Gentlemen (3 page)

“Break it for me.”

“What do you like?”

“What do you drink?”

“Whatever.”

“Me too,” Applelow said.

A few minutes later, the kid came back with a six-pack of Budweiser and handed him the same crisp bill.

“What’s this?” he asked.

“I said I had money.” Zach went back to the wall and read the posters. “Are you an actor?”

“No, I managed that theater company.”

“What do you do now?”

“Now,” Applelow said, “I look for work.” Zach turned to him. “We closed down.”

“Sorry.”

“It was a good run.”

Sipping seriously, Zach nodded. “I admire that.”

“What?”

“That attitude: Enjoy it while it lasts.”

“I’d have preferred it lasted a little longer.”

“Yeah, well, it’s rare, though. That it lasts, I mean. And what you did.”

Applelow had never thought of anything he’d done as being particularly rare.

“I’m serious,” Zach said. “You’re the first manager of a theater company I’ve ever met. That’s unique. The job, I mean. I want to do unique things.”

Unique things, Applelow thought, had put him over a void. He could begin a long, cynical monologue now, but instead finished his beer. “Like what?” he said.

“I don’t know. I wouldn’t mind joining Special Forces. I’m
strong. I have a high pain threshold. I’m thinking everyone hates America so much now that I’ll always be busy blowing shit up. Plus I’d get to travel. Go to Europe or the Middle East or something. See some action.”

For a moment, Applelow considered his failure to ever leave the country. Possibly he never would. “Not a bad idea,” he said.

“I think, though,” Zach continued, “I might go work in a cannery in Alaska. Or fish there. This guy I know at school’s on a king-crab boat every winter break and makes, like, fifty thousand dollars. Can you believe that? Fifty-fucking-grand.”

“That must be dangerous work.”

“Extremely.”

“Plus Alaska’s cold,” Applelow pointed out.

“Not for long, with all this global-warming shit.”

“True enough.”

“ ’Cause nothing lasts,” Zach said.

“Also true.”

“Here’s to nothing lasting.”

They clinked cans.

“Damn,” Zach said, “you pounded.” He went to the refrigerator, opened another beer, and held it out.

“Your mother told me that you’re joining the air force,” Applelow said. “Is that not the plan?”

Zach was looking at the pictures of Applelow’s dead parents now. Of his sister, who’d asked him for financial help with their father’s assisted-living costs, who’d called him a failure when he’d confessed he couldn’t spare a dime. He hadn’t spoken to her in the three years since.

“No,” Zach said. “I mean, maybe. Between you and me,” he lowered his voice, “I haven’t actually joined yet. That’s just the party line right now. It calms Mom down if she thinks I’ve got a clear direction.”

“Gotcha.”

“That’s black hole, by the way.”

“Black hole?”

“It’s an expression my journalism teacher uses. It means ‘that disappears,’ i.e., Do not repeat that I haven’t joined the air force.”

“Understood,” Applelow said, raising the beer. “Black hole.”

“Plus not everyone’s born with a clear direction. Mom doesn’t get this, of course. Because of my brother.”

“The famous Aaron.”

“You’ve met little big bro?”

“He didn’t live up to the hype,” Applelow said.

This doubled Zach over. “That shit is
cold
,” he said. They clinked cans again. “Kid’s a freak.” Zach finished his beer and opened another. “He had this, like, inner compass pointing north from age two. Me taking the crooked path makes Mom feel like she’s fucked up somehow.” He ran his hand through his buzzed hair, feeling his scalp. “I suffer the comparison.”

The observation struck Applelow as dead-on. “Kid’s a freak,” he repeated.

“Yeah,” Zach said, ruminating, “but a
smart
freak.” He chugged his beer and burped, tapping his fist to his chest with such effortless cool it was an utterly un-Kastopolis gesture. “Gotta bounce, man. I’m beat. I’m gonna crash. It was good rapping with you.” He held an open hand out wide, and when Applelow went to shake
it, Zach pulled them together so their shoulders bumped, slapping his back bracingly and then releasing him from this hug. “Hey,” he said at the door. “Can I ask you something?”

“Yeah?”

“My mom’s all right, right?”

Applelow looked at the boy: his good looks, his odd confidence, his youth. Was I ever anything like him? he wondered. Was I ever as self-possessed? He imagined talking to Marnie later: he would tell her an abridged version of this conversation, black hole taken into account. He would paint a picture of her son that would reassure her.

“She’ll be fine,” he said.

Though he knew he was making a mistake, Applelow spent most of Tuesday and Wednesday by the phone, waiting for Ms. Samuel to call. But by Thursday afternoon, having heard nothing from her, he began to panic. He’d been wrong about the job. Taking stock of his situation, he pulled the book from its shelf and counted his money again, then gave himself a good dressing-down. After which his mood spiraled severely. He made a last-minute run to apply for work at some restaurants in the neighborhood, but almost all of them were getting ready for the dinner service; the managers told him to come back early the next day. He sat in his bedroom for the rest of the night in a fugue state, rocking on his bed in the pitch dark until he fell asleep.

It was brilliant outside when he woke up the next morning, amazed that he was still alive. Then he made coffee, cleaned up his
apartment, and felt his spirits return. After a shower, he retrieved the Sunday classifieds from the trash and, committed to saving himself, began to read through them again, circling employment agencies and writing the numbers down. From here on out, he promised himself, he’d turn over every last stone and take whatever job he could find. There was no shame in surviving.

And then the phone rang. It was Madeline from Ms. Samuel’s office, calling to schedule his return interview. He was so overcome with excitement that he asked her to hold for a moment, covered the receiver with his palm, and let out a long, happy howl. He pretended he had a conflict with the time she suggested on Monday and asked if there was anything available today. In fact, Madeline told him, something had just opened up and Ms. Samuel would look forward to seeing him at 1:30.

Which Applelow took to be a confirmation of what he already knew: the interview had gone well. Elated, he went to his closet and peeled the plastic from his dry-cleaned suit carefully, as if he were helping a delicate creature into a dangerous world. He picked out a shirt and tie and shoes and laid them on his bed. From here on out, he promised himself, he would never doubt his instincts again …

“David Applelow,” Ms. Samuel said. “This is Dr. Pip Love-Wellman, our company’s founder.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Doctor.” Applelow reached out to shake his hand, but the man steepled his fingers together and bowed slightly from the chest.

“Please, call me Love.”

“Thank you,” Applelow said, baffled, and took a seat.

“Or Pip, I don’t mind Pip!”

Applelow looked at Ms. Samuel for encouragement. She, unfortunately, was looking at Love. Or Pip.

“It’s short for Piper,” the doctor said, and left it at that.

Applelow nodded at Love slowly, and then at Ms. Samuel, who now smiled at him. She was wearing a white pants suit whose white canvas belt had a big gold belt buckle that matched the bangles on her wrists and the enormous gold ankh brooch on her chest. Love, meanwhile, had on a green, one-piece jumpsuit full of pockets like a jet fighter’s uniform, but with shoulder pads that gave the outfit an odd, futuristic look. His eyes were large, bugged-out, as if he were in a state of permanent amazement. He was bald except for gray shocks of hair above his ears, and like Ms. Samuel he wore a gold ankh pin on his lapel.

“Why don’t we get started?” Love said.

Ms. Samuel, still beaming, recounted Applelow’s professional history, highlighting different aspects of his résumé with perfect recall, stressing his strong track record of working with large groups.

“Wonderful,” Love said repeatedly while she spoke. “Outstanding.”

She ended by describing his six years with the theater company and how his abilities in diverse roles—as an “emotional multitasker” and “empathic alpha”—made him an ideal candidate for the position.

Love smiled at him warmly. “You were right, Ms. Samuel. I
am
impressed. David, may I ask you a question?”

“Of course.”

“Do you believe in clairvoyance?”

Applelow was again taken aback. “How do you mean?”

“Strictly speaking,” Love said, “clairvoyance is the ability to perceive things beyond the five senses.” He looked at the ceiling and, with both his index fingers pointed up, made circles in the air.

“I see,” Applelow said.

“But in our case,” Love said, sitting forward and shaking his fist, “we’re talking about acute intuitive
insight
.”

Chin in hand, Applelow considered the doctor’s question seriously. “I’m open to it,” he said.

“Outstanding,” Love said. “Because at our company, we believe that everyone has a certain degree of untapped clairvoyant ability. An ability, that is, to read people’s
auras
. Do you follow what I’m saying?”

Applelow, now in some despair, did his best not to look hopeless. “I think so,” he said.

“Let me explain,” Love said. “Every person, you see, has an aura which may be perceived as a color. That color gives us very specific information about their state of mind—even their
soul
. Now, with instruction, this ability to read auras can be heightened and developed to a point where it becomes a sense as acute as smell, touch, or taste. Do you have any idea how valuable such a skill would be, David?”

Applelow again looked at Ms. Samuel, who was listening to Love with an expression that could only be described as reverent. “Very valuable, I imagine.”

“Try
very
very,” Love said. “Think, for instance, of the practical applications. Think about airport security guards reading the auras of passengers at checkpoints. Or detectives reading the auras
of suspects. Think about schoolteachers reading the auras of students, or doctors the auras of patients! Do you know what kind of world that would be, David?”

“A better one?” Applelow said.

“Yes,”
Love said. “Better, safer, healthier.”

“More harmonious,” Applelow added.

The doctor smiled warmly and nodded. “David,” Love said, “you continue to impress.”

Applelow, thrilled, thought it best to nod humbly.

“But you don’t believe in it, do you, David?”

“I’m sorry?”

“You’re not completely sold on this concept of auras.”

“It’s somewhat new to me,” he admitted.

“I respect your honesty,” Love said. “So perhaps a demonstration is in order. Would you like one?”

“I would,” Applelow said. “Yes, please.”

“Wonderful,” Love said. “Outstanding. Assuming you have no objections then, I’d like to read
your
aura.”

Applelow looked at Ms. Samuel.

“Don’t worry,” she said.

“All right.”

Love got up and stood to Applelow’s left, steepling his fingers. “Close your eyes, please.”

He closed them.

Love said, “Aaooommmmmm,” and the sound, from deep within his diaphragm, began as a word but transformed, as he sustained the note, into a sonic environment, eclipsing Applelow’s self-consciousness until this noise became a state of mind, trailing
off as Love emptied his lungs of air and—as if they shared a body—Applelow inhaled deeply, his shoulders rising, and realized that he hadn’t done this for as long as he could remember. A long silence hung in the room afterward.

“You may open your eyes,” Love said.

Applelow obeyed, albeit slowly, in time to see the doctor sit down and sigh. He leaned forward and looked at Applelow intently.

“Your aura is blue,” Love said, “which is excellent. Blue suggests expansiveness, depth, coolness under pressure. An ability to
flow
with things, like the rivers into the sea. Does that make sense to you, David?”

Applelow’s mind was blank. “I’ve always wanted my ashes to be sprinkled over the ocean,” he offered.

Love and Ms. Samuel looked at each other and smiled. “Outstanding,” he said.

Applelow smiled too.

Love suddenly turned grave. “But your aura is blue tending toward black, David. I sense a growing hopelessness in you. An
anger
,” he said, shaking his fist. “A
debilitating
anxiousness. Am I right?”

“Yes,” Applelow said, amazed, rocked by the observation, unable for the moment to make eye contact with the man. “But I haven’t always been like that.”

“I believe you,” Love said, reaching across the desk to touch his hand. “I do.”

“Thank you,” Applelow said.

“Excellent. We’re almost done here. But there’s a final part of the interview we need to get through. I won’t beat around the
bush, David. Succeeding here is critical to your candidacy. Are you ready?”

Applelow took a deep breath, prepared for any surprise.

“I’d like you to read Ms. Samuel’s aura,” Love said.

Stalling, Applelow pressed his hands together and touched fingers to his lips. “I’m not sure I understand.”

“I want you to look at her, to focus on her, to trust your
instincts
with respect to her
essence
, and then tell me what color comes to mind.”

“When?”

“Right now.”

“But why?”

“To test your latent clairvoyant ability,” Love said. “As a control, I’ve read her aura already and written its color on a piece of paper.” He took a folder labeled
Auratec
off Ms. Samuel’s desk and rested it on his knees.

“Can I prepare for a moment?”

“There is no preparation,” Love said beatifically. “There is only
trust
. So please, close your eyes and begin.”

Applelow, unable to swallow, held his fingers to his lips and stared at Ms. Samuel, who in spite of her odd outfit looked keenly beautiful. He closed his eyes and concentrated. Never doubt your instincts, he told himself, and named the first color that came to his mind. “Yellow?”