Free Kapitoil by Teddy Wayne Page B

cost.
    Jefferson’s building is classy, but not as classy as mine (e.g., he does not have a doorman), so I feel bad about not paying for the taxi. His apartment structure is similar to mine inside, although it is smaller and the furniture is less expensive. He has posters in frames on his wall of some of the movies he has on postcards in his pod, as well as a painting of an obsolete Japanese soldier with a sword on a horse. Over the television on the wall is a true silver sword that curves at the ends.
    Jefferson has a record player but not a CD player, and he cautiously removes a record from its case and centers it on the player as if he is carrying an infant. I hear a saxophone. Dan says, “Can we please play some rap for once?”
    “When we go to your place, we can listen to your commercialized, Top-40, disposable MTV garbage. And if you had any sense of history, you’d know nearly all rap derives from jazz,” Jefferson says. “In this day and age, your ignorance of the oppression my brothers and I suffered at the hands of the white man is unconscionable and, frankly, straight-up racist. I’d think you’d sympathize, as a dirty Jew.”
    I look to see if Dan responds to the fact that Jefferson called him an ethnic insult and also that he called himself black, but he merely smiles and remains on the couch.
    Then Jefferson powers on his DVD and television and inserts a movie and plays it mutely. It is in Japanese, and it is about another obsolete soldier in a dark blue uniform in an area of Japan he does not know who carries only a magical sword for protection.
    Jefferson retrieves a takeout menu from his small kitchen area and withdraws three Sapporo beers from his refrigerator. He drops the menu on his coffee table, next to four separate stacks of The New Yorker and The Economist and Architectural Digest and Gourmet magazines.
    “I’m gonna shit-shower-shave,” he says before he exits the room. “Order the sushi boat for three, some Asahis, and get the sea urchin with quail eggs. Say it’s for me, and they’ll add this goma-shio sesame salt that doesn’t condescend to gaijin palates.”
    I do not understand why he orders additional beer if we have more Sapporo here, but I remain mute and watch as the Japanese soldier travels independently on a country road through a snowstorm and fights a team of men who launch a surprise attack.
    After Dan orders, he asks how I like my job. I do not want to indicate that I am soon advancing, so I say, “It is enjoyable.”
    He laughs. “Very diplomatic. You can admit it’s beneath you—I won’t rat you out.”
    I get up and examine the sword so he reroutes the conversation. “I wouldn’t touch that,” Dan says. “It’s from the 18th century, and Jefferson has an aneurysm if anyone breathes on it.” He puts his fingers over the buttons on the remote control without pressing any of them. “He can be kind of a cocksucker sometimes.”
    When the Japanese deliveryman with an earring in his left ear arrives, Dan and Jefferson do not let me pay for the food. I eat the sushi that is vegetarian, and it is flavorful, but too expensive if it’s mostly rice. I also drink three beers total and Dan and Jefferson drink more as we watch the movie. We leave before we can finish it, which disappoints me, because the soldier’s enemy has just stolen the magical sword from him and I am curious to see if he can recover it.
    When I stand up my head feels filled with helium. Possibly it is because I just watched the Japanese soldier, but I also feel that I could defend myself against a team of attackers, and although of course I do not say it, that I am the cream of the cream programmer at Schrub and have won Mr. Schrub’s confidence after just three weeks.
    We taxi again, even though the address is on 20th St. and 5th Ave. and the subway is probably faster. “You’re our guest, Karim. You should never have to touch your wallet,” Jefferson says when I try to pay. “It’s the