God Hates Us All

“Mel!” he says to the driver. “Take this man to Levittown.”

“Yes, sir,” the driver responds.

Danny hands me ten hundred-dollar bills. “Get me five extra bags before this weekend. The rest is yours to keep.” He jumps out of the cab. “I know I can count on you, buddy!”

The car pulls away from the hotel. I settle back into the seat, careful to avoid any residue Danny and his “date” may have left behind. There’s a copy of the New York Post stuck in the back of the seat.

A kid in the Bronx, seventeen, shot dead during a high school argument. Two cops, accused of kicking and beating a protester in Tompkins Square Park, found innocent and acquitted of all charges. A composite sketch that could have been any black man with a mustache, this one in particular wanted for breaking up a subway mugging, as he’d stabbed one of the muggers to death in the process. The stories reinforce Uncle Marvin’s view of New York City, a fucked-up place to be sure. But they don’t describe the city I’m seeing from the back of the limo. I feel like a king in a carriage, the rain and the lights and the constant motion all a private performance for my benefit.

One hour and three Glen-whatevers later, the car pulls up in front of my parents’ three-bed, two-bath Cape Cod, one of dozens like it mass-produced after World War II. I slink quietly up to my room and remove the cash from my pocket. I jam it into a wooden box, some ornate thing an exgirlfriend brought me back from India, that I keep on my dresser.

“That’s a lot of scratch,” says my father.

He’s sitting on my bed, suit rumpled as the sheets, his eyes a shade of light red I recognize as the short sabbatical between the night’s second and third scotch. In other words, he’s keeping roughly the same pace as me. “They keeping you late at the office?” he asks.

“Grabbed a beer with a friend of mine.”

“Your friend’s got a nice car.”

“Belongs to the company. I had to work late. Is there a reason why you’re in my room?”

“Your room.” He pounds his chest. “My house.”

“Whatever.” I flip on the TV. “I’ll be out of here soon.”

“You lied, you know. To your mother.”

“About what?”

“About your job,” he says, nodding at the box on the dresser. “Or do temp agencies pay in cash?”

I’m about to make up an excuse, who knows what, when he continues. “I’m not going to say anything. Don’t worry. But you’d be doing your old man a solid if you spotted him a hundred bucks.”

“You want to borrow a hundred dollars from me?”

“You mind, kid? I’m a little stuck this month.”

“Stuck?”

“You know what I mean.”

I do, in fact, know what he means. Even I’ve noticed Dad’s recent attention to his appearance.

More frequent haircuts. More fashionable shoes.

Mysterious tubes of Binaca breath spray springing up around the house. I’ve also seen Mom paying extra attention to the bank and credit card statements, putting a serious crimp in Dad’s ability to finance an extramarital affair. My guess is that the hundred-dollar “loan” would pay for lunch pour deux at Beefsteak Charlie’s, with enough left over for an hour at the conveniently close-but-nottooclose Starlight Inn.

“Sure, Dad,” I say. “You’ve done so much for me.”

I retrieve a bill from the box and hand it to him.

He rises to his feet and claps me on the shoulder.

“That’s my boy. So where is it?”

“Where’s what?”

“The restaurant where you’re working.”

I almost cry out with relief — he knows exactly nothing. “Must not be too shabby,” he adds, stumbling off toward his third scotch of the night.

“Like I said, that’s a lot of scratch.”

7

IF YOU’RE ANYTHING LIKE ME, THE IDEA OF being surrounded by supermodels might be something you’ve dreamed about. If you’re the kind of person who likes your dreams intact — i.e., free of puncture holes — you probably don’t want to read what’s next: The experience is overrated.

I’m not saying the models are overrated.

Anything but. You might wonder if up close they’re just regular gals with decent bone structure and expert hair and makeup artists. They aren’t. They’re perfect, or close enough.

And it’s not that they’re stupid, or insecure, or vain, even though some of them are. Maybe most of them. But beauty forgives intellectual shortcomings.

No, what’s overrated is the experience of meeting a supermodel. Because deep down, you’re hoping that you and she will fall in love. Or lust. Or just find something to talk about for more than thirty seconds. But you won’t. Supermodels are like professional athletes or violin prodigies: brilliant but limited in worldview. Maybe you’re the kind of guy who knows a lot about strappy shoes or applying foundation. But if you’re dreaming about bedding supermodels, you’re probably not that guy.

You tell yourself that you can overlook this lack of connection. And you’re right. You can. But she can’t. Women are all about connection. Or connections. And unless you can bring at least one of those to the table, you might as well be speaking Martian.