Free The Ask by Sam Lipsyte Page A

Maura had brought home from an office party and decided not to prod about Paul, instead told Maura about Nick’s offer, if only for the chance to launch some jokes at the giant’s expense, get my girl to cackle again.
    “Maybe you should do it,” said Maura.
    “Are you serious?”
    “Well, this Purdy thing can’t take up all of your time. Seems like you’re just waiting around for the next meeting.”
    “He’s been out of town.”
    “Okay, so, maybe you can try doing the deck. You might enjoy the exercise.”
    “If I can handle it. Could kill me.”
    “If Nick can do it, you can do it. That guy’s not exactly fit.”
    “Maybe I will,” I said, and maybe meant it. A day in the sun, some hard-earned under-the-table cash, it sounded promising. I’d once been a painter, after all, a fellow who worked with his hands. Now I could be a carpenter, like Jesus. I felt flushed with the idea of Jesus, the Jewish craftsman Jesus, and also the shit wine.
    “To decks,” I said, raised my glass. “Decks are America. The hidden platform where the patriarchy is reasserted.”
    “What are you talking about?” said Maura, who knew what I was talking about, had dabbled with perhaps a bit more coherence in the same college theory I had, but probably wanted me to focus on how I salted the salad.
    “I’m talking about our homeland, honey,” I said, poured more wine, gulped it, flusher now, warm with that feeling of wanting a feeling that maybe had already fled. Where had the feeling gone? It wasn’t in the wine. It wasn’t in the pork chops Maura tonged from the broiler.
    “America,” I said, “that run-down demented old pimp. Can’t keep his bitches in line. No juice. He’s lost his diamond fangs, drinks Tango from a paper bag. A gummy coot in the pool hall. The wolves, those juveniles, they taunt him.”
    “Gummy coot?”
    “Whatever,” I said. “You get the point.”
    “Not really,” says Maura. “It’s retarded.”
    “Retarded ha-ha or retarded peculiar?”
    “Wait. Be quiet.”
    We froze, listened for sounds from Bernie’s room.
    “I thought I heard him,” said Maura. “Sometimes I’ll be at work, in a meeting or something, and I’ll think I hear him crying. It’s weird. He’s been sleeping through the night for a year but I still … Anyway, what were you saying? America is an alcoholic pimp?”
    “You used to love my raps. My riffs. I thought that’s why you married me.”
    Had she caught the edge of true panic beneath the joke panic? Did she know it was Horace’s riff? You really had to hustle to recruit the right people to prop up your delusions, but the moment somebody broke ranks, or just broke for a protein shake, the whole deal teetered.
    “I know it wasn’t my soap opera looks,” I said. “I thought you loved the way my mind worked. Its strange loops. My sense of humor.”
    “Shhh,” said Maura. “Shut the fuck up.”
    We froze again, listened for moans, the beginnings of wails. It wasn’t so onerous these days, but some moments still brought us back to Bernie’s infant months, both of us on tiptoes, petrified we’d wake the baby, lose those seventeen minutes of email catch-up we believed our sacrifice had earned us. We were like the Frank family in their Dutch attic, but with email.
    “Okay,” said Maura, signaled the all clear. “So, what were we saying? Soap operas?”
    “Yeah,” I sulked. “Soap operas.”
    “Don’t be such a queen,” said Maura.
    “Save that terminology for your gay lovers,” I said.
    “Excuse me?”
    “I mean your lovers that are also gay.”
    “What?”
    “You heard me.”
    “What’s your problem?”
    “I don’t have a problem.”
    “Is there something you want to say to me?”
    Why was I such a diseased fuck? It had to be society’s fault. I loved people, all people, except for the ones with money and free time.
    “No,” I said.
    “Are you sure?”
    “I know you think I’m homophobic, but I’m not. You’re the one who