"A rough patch," I said. "Okay. I understand."

"Oh, do you, Milo? You're so selfish. You don't see the bigger picture."

"What's the bigger picture?"

"You're still here looking for handouts. Who's going to take care of me?"

"I'm on my knees here, Mom. Not for me, for my family. For my wife. For a beautiful grandson you have totally ignored."

"He's kind of a brat. I'll be in his life when he gets a little impulse control."

"He's not even four."

"I have needs. I'm tired of this child-worshipping culture. You're just a slave to it, Milo."

"I'm only trying to be a decent dad."

"Don't waste your time. It's not in your genes. Besides, try making some money. That might be a good dad move. For heaven's sake, the system's rigged for white men and you still can't tap in."

"You're right, Mom. What can I say? But still, it would mean a lot to me if you made a little more of an effort with Bernie."

"Bernie schmernie. This is my decade."

"Okay, you wrinkled old spidercunt, have it your way."

Francine sucked in her breath.

"Holy macadamias," she said.

Claudia regarded me somewhat clinically.

"Spidercunt?"

I shrugged.

"Look, honey," she said. "I think you better go. I need to stay calm. I'll call you after I race on Sunday."

"Mom, I'm sorry. I just-"

"It's okay, Milo. I just need a little time now."

"We'll call, cutie," said Francine, hugged me.

"Okay, I'll see you guys later," I said, edged to the door. "And I'm sorry, Mom. About… about the thing. What I just said."

"Hell, honey," says Claudia. "I murdered your father when you needed him most. I can take a few impotent barbs from my only son."

"That's nice to hear."

I shut the heavy oak door and walked back down the gravel drive toward the plaza. I glanced back once, spotted Francine through the big bay window, in her underwear, climbing into the tent.

Eleven

The next morning I sipped coffee on my stoop, waited for Nick to pick me up. Women in tight slacks charged past to the subway, supple organic forms supplemented with technological grafts-earphones, telephones, wraparound shades. I watched them and recalled those cyborg liberation essays from the postmodern feminism class I took in college. I'd run home after every lecture, jerk off on my futon in a fever dream of blinking vaginas.

Now an old man with a ducktail haircut and rolled T-shirt sleeves sauntered by, climbed into his wine-dark beater. A retired mechanic, I figured, but not so old on second look, forty-five, forty-seven, tops. His 1950s drag-strip hood shtick had to be retro from the jump, a mid-70s reaction formation, some cold Fonzian rhapsody. The man's hands looked ruined, though, rheumatoid, nicked and pinched by gruesome machinery. I'd done many odd jobs in my life, but hardly any heavy lifting. I stared at my own hands, soft, expressive things, gifted, even, like specially bred, lovingly shaved gerbils.

A corroded pickup slid to the sidewalk. Nick leaned out the window.

"Get in, buddy," said Nick. "Big day ahead of us. You eat?"

"Some cereal."

"Cereal? Never touch the stuff. Too many carbs."

I got in the truck and Nick pulled off the curb, steered with his belly and his forearms, his hands tasked with shoveling up a bacon-and-feta omelet from a foil container. We turned the corner and bounced, shockshot, down the boulevard. The cab smelled of breakfast and weed, and I recalled Christine once letting it slip-perhaps taking me for a potential customer-that Nick sold eighths and quarters of a few decent varieties. It was not clear whether the drugs or the decks were the sideline, but Nick, I was now to learn, had a grander dream, which he announced before we reached the next traffic light. He wanted to break into television. He watched a lot of reality shows, he informed me, especially the ones about breaking into television. He believed he had a handle on the business, the lingo. All he needed was a leg up. He already had the idea: his extravaganza would revolve around the last meals of condemned prisoners.

"Last meals?" I said.

"That's right," said Nick, slid another ketchup packet from the dash, squeezed it over his hash browns. "You know how they often report a con's last meal. There are even websites about it. People are obsessed. And if you followed this stuff, you'd know that these guys on death row always order fast-food crap. You ever look into this? It's always the burgers, the fried chicken. The fried shrimp. Or fried shrimp product. You know what I'm talking about, Milo?"

"I guess."

"You guess? I bet you know exactly what I'm talking about. Some guy is a few hours away from the Reaper's speedball and he chows down on a slab of imitation crabmeat in a hot dog bun. And fucks like you, no offense, get all sad and superior about it. These poor slobs could order anything they want, you think, but they are just low-rent and don't know any better. Because that's the story they've told us."

"The story?"

"That's the official story: a condemned prisoner's last meal can be anything he wants. It's the American way, right? Like that guy, the slow one that Clinton killed to show his cojones, that boy didn't finish his burger, his hoagie, whatever the fuck it was, said he'd eat the rest later. Later. That broke you up, didn't it?"

"Excuse me?"

"I think it was a veal parm."

I did recall that poor kid, the national cruelty so crystallized in that moment.

"Sure, I remember."

"Anyway, the point is, why fast food? Why the crap? Why not grass-fed Angus or Kobe beef, an '86 Mouton Rothschild? Don't look at me like that. I watch the fucking food shows."

"So, is this a food show?"

"Bear with me, buddy. Bear with me and answer this question. Why do these death row losers always order nuggets and dipping sauce and biggie fries for their last meal? Is it A, they are ghetto or barrio or trailer-park trash who don't know any better, who could never imagine a taste sensation transcending that of a Hot Pocket and an orange Fanta, or, B, something else entirely?"

The truck dipped into a pothole, shot near the curb where an old woman wearing an "I'm with Stupid" T-shirt dawdled in the crosswalk. This lady was about to be with nobody ever again, but Nick righted the wheel with one of his sloping breasts, his fork work undisturbed.

"I'm going to go with answer B," I said.

"Well, you're not dumb," said Nick. "But then again, you've had the advantages. You've got some innate intelligence, passed down from people who probably kicked some serious ass to put you in a position to even function on this planet. Because you don't seem, how can I put this, overly equipped. You seem pretty soft. I just mean that as an observation. Of course, we'll see what we see at the site today."

Advantages? What about Purdy? Or Sarah Molloy and the rest of them? Nick may have known that stuffed-crust pizza delivered in twenty minutes or gratis wasn't haute cuisine, but he didn't know a damn thing about advantages, couldn't comprehend the true machinations of money and power, the nuanced, friction-free nanotechnics of privilege that prevent an earnest, talented boy from doing wonderful stuff with oils. But, of course, I couldn't argue about the softness. For a time I wore only heavy, steel-toed boots because I figured if apocalyptic war broke out, sturdy footwear would be a must. Then it dawned on me that the better the boots, the more quickly I would be killed for them. My only shot at survival would be shoeless abjection.

"Thanks," I said now.

"I was complimenting your forebears," said Nick. "Anyway, you went with B. B stood for, if I'm not mistaken, and I'm not, something else entirely. Any guesses?"

"I don't know," I said. "They have no choice in the matter?"