Free Amateurs by Dylan Hicks

in antisocial pleasure) might feel a kinship with the housekeeper—alas, I’m thinking of a specific one—compelled to handle tissues, wadded and dusty, under a forgetful teenager’s bed.
    In my case, though, the criticism was subtextually pointed. I went to an elite university where wealth was relatively common, but just the same many knew me as a student of exceptional means, and further knew that my wealth flowed to some extent from my stepfather having founded a company that was for several decades the world’s leading manufacturer of sex toys. I had courtiers and detractors. In both camps there werepeople who found my inheritance amusing; in the latter camp, I inferred, there were people who associated my presence at the school, where I was an undistinguished history major and budding alcoholic, with a pulling of strings sufficient for the most Napoleonic of puppet-theater battle scenes (and it’s true that my parents, particularly my stepfather, Cole Neblett ’66, were major donors, though I’ll add that Cole was the first in his family to go to college and that, some three decades after making his fortune, he still delights in playing Trimalchio). I’m close to certain that my second critic, the talented writer and teacher’s favorite, knew something of my family. She was a homely spurter of nonsensical arguments, but I was attracted to the challenge of her unmasked antipathy toward me. For the record, in the early part of my college career I was spending not from an inheritance under my control but from a liberal allowance, and when I did succeed to a full independence, the money came mostly from a trust established by my maternal grandmother. Her father, among other things, developed a kind of borosilicate glass widely used for lab instruments and kitchenware. Nor has Dr. Knox (toys and marital aids) been my stepfather’s most successful enterprise. But there’s rarely any percentage in making these points, explaining, in other words, that my (considerable) sex-toy money is just a drop in the bucket. Besides, the mere phrase borosilicate glass seems to have soporific effects. I’ve accordingly grown accustomed to being thought of as the Dildo Scion and variations thereof.
    All this has made me predisposed to . . .
    Karyn reached the firewall. She would have paid to read on, but her credit cards were several feet away, and she was late in returning Gemma’s call. She accepted Lucas’s friend request without further rumination and reached for the phone.
    â€œMs. Bondarenko,” Gemma answered.
    â€œAll right, have him call me.”
    January 2005

    Bad form to alter a colleague’s work, but the more John examined the mannequin, the less he liked the foulard pocket square that Ray or Clee (probably Ray) had puffed out in the mocha herringbone jacket. For starters, the Quadrangle model was cut trim; properly fitted and tailored, it would never accommodate a bulging puff. Sure, you could finesse that on a mannequin, but you were leading the customer astray, just as you were when you sold a 42 Quad to an obvious 40. Basically spits on the whole point of the design! Just sell him a Walbrook in the right size!
    He studied the mannequin some more, reached back to tighten one of the pins. He could fold the square—not so meddlesome—but its relationship to the tie would still be a mite too on the nose. Decent guy, Ray, but kind of Garanimals.
    After picking out a subtly patterned linen handkerchief, he surreptitiously made the swap. Archer’s greeting startled him while he was smoothing out the breast. “Ah hell, sorry,” John said. “I thought you were Ray.”
    â€œWho’s Ray?”
    â€œOr Clee. But don’t sweat it.” John motioned Archer to one of the store’s tufted leather club chairs. “New swatches came in last week. I picked out a high-twist blue that’d be great for you.” Archer sat down,