Free The Dead Do Not Improve by Jay Caspian Kang Page A

have to do is be happy and think that the world is exactly what it is to the rich and happy.”
    “What’s that?”
    “A bountiful place. A place where the ears of corn are huge and the fucking blacks and Mexicans and Chinese and retarded don’t venture, even though they are welcome. There’s no net effect, except that someonepaid nine dollars for a drink and twenty-five dollars for a plate of seaweed and someone pocketed that money. But no matter, there’s plenty more for nine-dollar drinks and twenty-five-dollar plates of seaweed. Keep it simple. Remind rich people that all they have to do to remind themselves that they aren’t miserable is to look in the mirror.”
    “You don’t think they do this on purpose?”
    “What does on purpose even mean? Everyone here, they’re all fundamentally happy people who need this”—he turned his palms up to the ceiling and gestured, disgustedly, at the paintings—“to temporarily displace their happiness, so they can discover it again. Anything rich people like: hiking in the outdoors, crossword puzzles, fucking opera, art galleries, volunteer work, domestic literary fiction, surfing, John Updike—it’s all the same: bullshit engineered to make people bored and kinda miserable until they finish, at which point they can allow themselves to feel satisfied for walking the straight line.”
    Finch couldn’t help himself. He was beginning to really like Hofspaur. He announced, “I surf.”
    “That’s a bit surprising.”
    “Why?”
    “Because you, more than any other cop I’ve ever met, are an ulcerous, miserable fuck.”
    “That’s a bit presumptuous, no?”
    “An old woman gets murdered in an area of the Mission rife with gang violence during one of the worst gang wars in the city’s history. You, the detective assigned to the case, are sitting at a cultish restaurant with the city’s nastiest pornographer, investigating inefficient cyberpunks.”
    A red-faced brunette came around to Finch and Hofspaur’s table andasked if they were ready to order. Finch, quickly studying the menu, said he’d have the sampler plate. A beatific glow glazed over the girl’s eyes. Bowing her head, she said, “You are diverse.”
    “The sampler plate.”
    “You are diverse.”
    Hofspaur pointed at the menu: Next to the description of the sampler plate were the words “I AM DIVERSE.” Every item on the menu had a different, loosely relevant affirmation.
    “I am diverse.”
    “You are diverse.”
    Hofspaur chuckled and announced, “I am fertile.”
    The waitress bowed again and said, “You are fertile,” before smiling and shuffling away.
    Just then, the five men at the bar jerked up to their feet. The one with the most interesting facial hair stood front and center, while the other four fanned out behind him. In an effete, squeaky voice, he asked, “Are you Miles Hofspaur?”
    Hofspaur raised an eyebrow and smirked at Finch.
    The man jabbed Hofspaur’s shoulder with an insistent finger. “I am talking to you. Please pay me the respect of an answer. Are you Miles Hofspaur?”
    Hofspaur said, “Doctor Hofspaur, please.”
    “You are not welcome here, Doctor Hofspaur. Please leave.”
    “Excuse me?”
    “You are not welcome here. Please leave.”
    “This is America. I can sit here and eat your food and pay you money.”
    The man who was doing the jabbing paused to solemnly close his eyes. Then, recomposed, he jabbed Hofspaur in the shoulder again.
    Hofspaur said, “What is illegal, by the way, is assault.”
    Finch kind of grunted. Again, the light tingle started at the base of his skull, but this time it felt more insistent. He thought of the scene in the movie
Akira
where Tetsuo balloons out into a breathing, blinking globe of blood vessels and eyes.
    “I will stop when you leave.”
    “I already ordered, fuckhead. I’ll leave when you stop sending your lame letters to my business.”
    “I don’t know what you’re referring to, but if you do not leave, I