The Remote Island by Bryan Christian Jeremy Piven's been doin' too much sushi to show up to work. Plus: Muppet burlesque and Top Chef both make us feel dirty!
Dating Confessions by You "I think we both sort of think we're doing the other one a favor. Sad or funny, either way this does not bode well..."
Over the next few days, I told the story many times. And what struck me was how differently people reacted to it.
"I don't believe him," my ex told me a few days later. (And why was I talking to my ex about this anyway? Smart women! Foolish choices!) But my ex is a homicide detective who prides himself on the ability to slice through bullshit. And I was curious what he would say. "He has too many excuses," he continued. "It rings false."
"But that's why I do believe him," I said. "He didn't have to make up that many excuses. He didn't have to text me, even. I didn't have his number. He could have never called me!"
He thought about this. "Maybe he didn't want to hurt your feelings."
"That's possible." (Although, to be honest, I think it's my ex who doesn't want to hurt my feelings.) "But it just seems like — if you were going to make up a lie, why would you make up one that makes you look so bad?"
He didn't know what to say about that. And neither of us knows jack about the stock market collapse, about global markets; I don't even know exactly what Billy does for a living. I mean, what he did.
"Do you think he worked at Lehman Brothers?" my friend Julie asked me the next day. "Maybe he was their lawyer."
"They have transactional lawyers?"
Of course. Of course they do.
My friend Dara made a point about why he'd lost the money. "Because, if he was trying to pull his family out of a black hole, then it would lead him to invest more aggressively, to gamble. You could be wiped out quick."
"Yes! I hadn't even thought of that!" I told her.
An investment banker I know just shook his head when I told him.
"So the economy hits home," my friend Bryan joked a few days later. "The economy is affecting your pants!"
"Do you believe him?" I asked.
He nodded. "Yeah. That stuff is happening, all right."
I asked everyone I spoke to that week what their opinion was. Most of them believed him. The few who didn't believe him invariably did not live in Manhattan. I don't know what that means, exactly, except that living here right now, you are aware that the world can be too easily upended. You are aware that this is some scary shit.
"So the economy hits home," my friend Bryan joked a few days later. "The economy is affecting your pants!"
I laughed, but I felt kinda crummy. It's easy for me to be glib about all the money-hungry frat boys losing their (Polo) shirts, but the truth is, some of the money-hungry frat boys are probably pretty good guys. Besides, I happen to be lucky enough to have a secure job doing something I love. I don't have to support anyone but myself — not a family, not a deadbeat brother, not a sick mom, not a kid. Just a kitty cat who will eat cheap wet food and settle for playing with cardboard. So I don't know exactly where I get off being snide about someone who wants to get rich quick. Isn't that the best way to get rich?
So I feel bad for Billy (which is not his real name, by the way). Even if what he told me isn't true, I feel bad for him. I feel bad for anyone who has an amazing night with a total stranger and decides that, for whatever reason, they should never see them again. And the truth is: I think it was the truth. I think he was terribly sad and lost. I think he was ashamed at how he had fallen short of his own expectations, his family's expectations, the world's expectations of him. I think he was disappointed he couldn't see me again. (Or maybe that's me. Maybe I'm disappointed I can't see him again.) I really don't know these things.
A few minutes after I sent that dumb-ass text, I wrote him another one: "i'm sorry to hear that," it read. "but i'm glad i met you, and i wish you the best of luck."
And on the off-chance that Billy is reading this, I would like to add that, also, I owe him a pack of smokes. n°
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Sarah Hepola has been a high-school teacher, a playwright, a film critic, a music editor and a travel columnist. Her work has appeared in the New York Times, Slate, The Guardian, and on NPR. She lives in Williamsburg, Brooklyn.
, featuring curious yet marvelous infusions of cucumber and rose petal.
