Slide - Kyle Beachy [32]
“How's your back doing?” he asked. “Sore? I'll bet it is. You'd expect as much, a good and sore back to remind you of the day.”
My back ached enough that it was starting to affect the way I saw the world. And I was beginning to wonder if this nebulous maturation everyone spoke of, capital Growing capital Up, was really nothing more than the psyche's lunge to catch up with a deteriorating body.
“Not too sore,” I said.
“I envy you. Getting out there into the day and building a little sweat. Have I ever told you about my first job?”
“I forget.”
“I shoveled horse crap for about fifty cents an hour.” He reached for a stuffed mushroom cap. “Basically been shoveling it ever since.”
My mother said, “Richard.”
“Who's dinner tonight?” I asked.
“An assortment. Dan Wennings and his wife. The tallest of Senator Dunleavy's daughters and her new husband, who I believe is attached to the D.A.'s office. Who else? Hard to say without counting chairs. Various old colleagues of mine and other politicians. I'm sure we'll discuss the progress with Hooray! They're watching me always. Tonight we have an informal meal that is officially not on any record. Strictly social as I nudge you with my elbow. Are we having salmon, Carla? About two out of three of these dinners are salmon.”
I heard Stuart's honk outside. My mother assured me she would tuck a plate away for me if I was hungry later. I thanked her and said good luck with the people. She said something to my father I didn't catch, and the caterers cleared a path for me through the kitchen. He followed and caught me as I opened the front door.
“You know, among the things these people tonight can do is get us some good tickets to a game. What do you say? I'll get Dan's tickets, Dan Wennings. You and your old dad. When was the last time we went to a game? Years, at least.”
Anytime. You pick a game and I'll go,” I said, and we both raised eyebrows and nodded.
The car waiting in the driveway was not the old Explorer or Stuart's father's car or any of the other cars they owned, which were many, but a garish and outrageous Volkswagen Beetle, painted in that fluorescent that eyes gravitated to but nobody ever really wanted to see. There was yellow and orange and purple, along with red shapes wrapped diagonally around the domed hood and roof and across the door. Letters, red letters.
I squinted. “Does this say … St. Louis Tan Company?”
“I have been given a car for the summer. To drive. For free.”
We pulled onto the highway and made our way downtown. I watched people consider our rolling advertisement, look and squint to decipher the nature of our product. I looked into the exterior mirror and saw myself bordered by neon and tried not to think of skateboarding and BASE jumping.
“A car has been given to the wealthiest person I know.”
“We are witnessing an evolution in the universe of promotion. What a glorious time to be alive.”
“I'm counting your family's cars. I'm up to seven.”
“This right here is a cog of our very gears, a rolling manifestation of all we stand for. This ironically German automobile.”
Stuart had spent his four years at Brown plowing through continental philosophy. His bachelor's thesis applied Hegel's notion of Aufhebung to the lyrics of House of Pain's “Jump Around.” Professors called his attempt ambitious, brave, and endearingly ridiculous. In an e-mail he detailed to me a serious consideration of pursuing a PhD until he awoke one morning with his copy of Zettel open on his lap, its pages the unfortunate recipients of his first ever wet dream, at the age of twenty-two. After that he stopped reading German philosophy.
“I appreciate the nonchalance of the letters,” I said, “as if they just fell onto the car.”
“Fifteen franchises in the greater metropolitan area, all open until two A.M., seven days a week.