Basket of Deplorables Page 2

  J, our singer-songwriter-pescatarian, after loudly eschewing the lamb kofta, tells us that he actually knows America – he’s toured the scary states. ‘Don’t you guys think it’s possible something shitty happens?’

  ‘Remember the Latino vote,’ Vanessa answers. ‘My people are winning it for you people. We get props tonight, you guys.’

  ‘I’ll just be relieved when this nightmare is over,’ Kiara says, informing us that whenever she and David go into conniptions over Trump they just check the numbers on the New York Times website, which brings them back to reality.

  David demonstrates this on his iPhone, pacifying everyone with Hillary at eighty-five per cent probability of victory. ‘They’re saying: “Mrs. Clinton’s chance of losing is about the same as an NFL kicker missing a thirty-seven-yard field goal.”’

  ‘What does that mean?’ Andy asks. ‘Does anyone have a clue how often an NFL kicker misses at thirty-seven yards? Least of all readers of the Times.’

  Sindy, our much-tattooed fashionista, remarks that Hillary was at ninety-three before the Comey letter. ‘Imagine if the FBI decides this election. Holy shit.’

  Vanessa: ‘Chill out! We got this!’

  Enson directs everyone to the Huffington Post, which puts a Clinton win at ninety-eight per cent. Whoops sound around the room.

  What Kiara would like to see is Trump absolutely trounced. ‘Like, publicly humiliated. Or does that make me a bad person?’

  ‘Uhm, kinda?’ Vanessa says approvingly, and the two women slap high-fives, giggling.

  David’s worry is that Trump won’t accept his defeat, throwing the whole democratic process into chaos. ‘I could see violence breaking out. Remember what he said about “Second Amendment people”, how the gun nuts will have something to say about this?’

  Sindy sighs. ‘Can you believe someone running for president suggested that members of the public might want to murder the other candidate? Like, seriously?’

  Roger is topping up everyone’s wine. ‘George, I’m filling your glass. I’m putting it in your hand. Close your hand. No, no – here. Right here. I’m holding it out for you. No, here. There we go. Well done.’

  They pretend I still have a place in this party. In this apartment. In this city. We all know: I’d be in a nursing home were it not for my valorous husband. I don’t have the funds to manage alone. I blew my money, as proof I could always land on my feet. Instead, I fell off them, and I cracked, worthless on the labor market, not to mention uncommonly frightenable these days. Is ‘frightenable’ a word? It’s certainly a state of mind. Surrounded by this hubbub, I smell the nursing home, orderlies ignoring my room buzzer, the room-mate with Alzheimer’s, a pitying visitor in our day room offering one-bite brownies: ‘Take another. Help yourself. They’re free.’ You see, this is the bad side of never having had kids. Specifically, I’m told, you must have girls. They come home to nurse you; never the boys.

  Of course, if I separated cordially from Roger, he’d leave like a gentleman, allowing me the apartment, paying for full-time assistance, too. I know him; he would. I cringe at the prospect – being nobody in a city that cares only for somebodies. I have one act of independence left, the last that anyone ever possesses: do harm. So, yes, Roger wants to be remembered for his famous parties? Tonight will be famous.

  As I make this vow to myself, my palms immediately go sweaty. I’m on the mountainside again, extending my leg over the void, marshaling the courage – just fucking go, George!

  ‘Even with Hillary winning,’ Enson says, ‘it’s horrifying that anyone in this country will have voted Trump. Our fellow Americans in Oklahoma or wherever, in the year 2016 – they wanted a fascist as president. Unreal.’

  ‘Thank God there’s no reason to ever visit a dump like Oklahoma,’ Sindy reminds him.

  ‘States like that shouldn’t hardly exist,’ Vanessa says. ‘We should’ve let them secede back in 1861. Oops – did I say that out loud?’ She snorts with amusement. ‘But, like, Tennessee? And, like, Alabama? Do we really want those places in the Union?’

  ‘Tennessee has a great music scene,’ J notes.

  To all of this, Roger offers agreeable purrs. ‘What bewilders me,’ he says, ‘is that people aren’t instantly disgusted by this man’s narcissism.’

  ‘Watch what you say,’ Andy counters. ‘Narcissism is America’s second-favorite character trait after obesity.’

  A few of the older guests bemoan the effect of social media, how it has normalized pathological egotism. Vanessa disagrees. ‘Social media gives voice to submerged peoples. You get to say: “Hey, everybody, this is who I really am. I exist.” Social media is taking ownership of the self. I actually did a show on this.’

  ‘Definitely,’ David says. ‘Definitely an interesting narrative to unpack.’

  If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather just scream.

  Meanwhile, Vanessa is in full fan-girl mode with Enson, saying how much she adored his novel Sugar Daddy when in college, and how she was also among the first to attend his off-Broadway musical Purgatory!

  ‘I should give you a cash refund.’

  ‘You weren’t happy with how it came out?’

  ‘Were you?’

  Roger, ever the sunshine, observes that Purgatory! did get some positive reviews.

  Enson corrects him. ‘Everyone who matters hated it. But the producers wanted an ad in the Times, purely out of pride. So they tracked down some obscure online write-up calling it “achingly human!” or something. Like, what does that even mean? “Achingly human”?’

  ‘I think that’s from an Advil commercial,’ Andy says. ‘“When my humanity is aching, I reach for …’ Or was that Aleve?’

  Kiara: ‘If Trump wins, my humanity will be aching.’

  ‘This rave of my play, it appeared on some nutcase website called “The American Standard” – one of those sites with ads for, like, gold bullion and survival bunkers and whatever. It’s run by this hacker collective in Donetsk, basically to harvest money off Google AdSense. We’re talking columns of blood libel about the Clintons plus random articles done by any loser willing to post without getting paid. Hence my “aching humanity” review.’

  ‘Ah, the wonders of online!’ Andy says. ‘At what point can we all just admit the internet was a huge mistake?’

  I blurt something, louder than I intended.

  Roger touches my arm. ‘George?’

  I shake him off. ‘I was agreeing. Isn’t that what we’re supposed to do?’ Yes, yes, reader: I, too, shudder that the public might consider, from all eligible citizens, that ignoramus sociopathic billionaire. But I cannot stand how at these gatherings everyone must agree on everything. Gripping the thighs of my jeans, I take a breath, exhale very slowly. Damn well do this, George!

  ‘Can’t we elect Justin Trudeau for president?’ Sindy asks. ‘Have you guys seen that photo of him planking in the Oval Office, or whatever it’s called up there in Toronto?’

  ‘That guy is hot,’ Vanessa says.

  ‘Not Toronto,’ David says. ‘Montreal is the capital of Canada.’

  I don’t correct them, but I did once visit Ottawa, to meet the legendary Yousuf Karsh, when I was a young photographer and he a very old one. We talked shop, he boasting of that famous shot of Churchill, how he pulled the cigar from Winston’s mouth before clicking. That gaze of bulldoggedness, it turns out, was merely a peeved aristocrat jonesing for his smoke. Before I met Karsh, I tried to make subjects look good. But, I learned, it’s at their worst that you see people. So, can you see me yet?

  ‘Even the Republican establishment is aghast,’ David says.

  Vanessa: ‘After this, we’re gonna see the G. O. P. redefine itself big-time. Mark my words. Tea Party craziness won’t fly at a national level. It’s the demographics, stupid. Republicans are out of the presidency for, like, forever at this point.’

  Blindness isn’t enough – I want to switch off sound, too, as my grandfather could, tinkering with his hearing aid during Christmas holidays at his pile in Somerset, we kids running wild, under the benign neglect of the English upper classes, where the worst peril was falling off a horse or perhaps getting blown up at the Somme. But nothing to moan about. When we children became too frightfully boring, Grandfather retreated to his silent haven. And I want mine now, so I close my eyes. Strange: I can’t remember what my childhood looked like anymore. Not even my parents’ faces. All I see are photos.

  I open my eyes. Nothing changes.

  Motion sickness overcomes me. I want to run, shouting, banging into coffee tables, fumbling for a window, punching through the glass with my bare hands. Instead, I remain planted on a designer couch. Dignity commands me to act; weakness gags me. So I bargain, making fatuous little wagers with myself. I’ll obliterate my life here – but only if the words ‘electoral college’ are stated three times in the next minute. Yet when that tally is reached, I cheat, disavowing the bet, insisting it was too easy to count, and I formulate something else.

  More bottles of volcanic wine are drunk; more full ones are installed. Additional small plates arrive, too: stuffed quince nuggets; eggplant boats with buttermilk sauce and pomegranate seeds; sea bream with beetroot, apple salad and dried Persian rose petals.

  Our guests, excitedly awaiting the battleground states, distract themselves with petty polemics, such as whether circumcising boys is moral. David and Kiara are secular but had both of their sons snipped. ‘It’s a link to tradition for us,’ she explains.

  ‘Plus,’ David adds, ‘it is healthier.’

  Andy: ‘Oh, admit it, Dave, you just want your son’s cock to look like yours.’

  ‘You are a sick man, Rosner,’ David says, through a chuckle. ‘Where do you even come up with this stuff?’

 
Andy – himself absent from synagogue since his bar mitzvah – contends that David and Kiara lack any genuine link to the Judaism that their ancestors died to retain, and so they’re paying for identity with their sons’ foreskins. ‘Here’s what I wonder, though. The ideas of Christianity are pretty groovy, right? Be kind. Be forgiving.’

  ‘As anyone can see from this great Christian country of ours,’ J interjects.

  ‘Okay, but the Christian religion does sound great, right? So why didn’t all the Jews of ancient times buy into it? Here’s my theory. This Jesus guy, if you met him, was an obvious charlatan, so only the suckers went for it. Who were the converts then? The dumb Jews ‒ which got stupid out of the gene pool.’

  Kiara, appalled, says: ‘I cannot believe you’re saying this.’

  ‘Anyone with brains knew that dude was not holy. Be like, “Come on, Jesus! We grew up together, man! No way are you His son.”’

  Vanessa: ‘Okay, so what’s your point, Andy? Because you’re kind of offending people right now.’

  ‘I’m saying, maybe Jesus was the Trump of his day.’

  ‘Did you just compare Jesus Christ to Donald Trump? Okay, now you got me mad.’

  Roger intervenes, reminding everyone that Andy is a stand-up. He’s professionally shameless.

  ‘How wrong you are! I’m in a permanent state of shame. My secret is to keep shaming myself even more, so nobody can tell which bits I’m dying over.’

  ‘All right then,’ Sindy says, ‘so what’s the most shameful thing you’ve ever done?’

  ‘On stage or off?’

  ‘Anyplace.’

  I murmur: ‘I have something. To say.’

  But nobody hears. They’re already cackling at the lead-in to Andy’s disgrace, which occurred at Johnny Carson’s place in Malibu. Andy was just starting out back then, awed to be invited to the beach house after only his second appearance on The Tonight Show. He turns up, all aflutter, and Carson’s maid tells him to wait on the divan, which is full of these fluffy cushions. Andy drops himself down, but it’s super-uncomfortable, all pointy and hard under his ass. As Andy fidgets, Johnny sails in with a drink and cigarette, saying, ‘Please, don’t get up, my friend!’ Andy – blissing out to be called ‘my friend’ by Johnny – forgets all discomfort. Carson is interested in me! He’s laughing! After a half-hour, the maid returns, worried. It’s time to walk Maxie, but she can’t find him anywhere. Did he run out again? Johnny excuses himself, whistling around for the dog. Alone for a moment, the euphoric, red-faced Andy takes a deep breath and stands to fix his cushion – at which time he realizes he was sitting on a Pekingese, which is no more.

  ‘You did not!’ Vanessa shouts.

  Carson’s beloved pet is embedded in the divan in the exact shape of Andy’s butt. In panic, he grabs the late Maxie, looks around – nowhere to hide him. Improvising, he shouts to Johnny that maybe the dog escaped on to the beach, and he’ll race down there to check. Out of sight, the hyperventilating Andy flings the Pekingese corpse into the waves for a naval burial, wiping his hands on his chinos, dry-heaving from shock.

  Everyone is convulsed with laughter, competing to ask Andy follow-ups. He bats these away, inquiring about their moments of shame.

  I open my mouth again. But Kiara takes the floor, telling of when their sons caught her and David in bed doing a Dutch oven.

  ‘Kiara! You are not telling that story!’

  ‘Wait, what’s a Dutch oven?’ J asks.

  ‘Nobody needs to hear this story, Kiara.’

  ‘Is it something sexual?’ Sindy says.

  David: ‘Absolutely not! Can we just drop this? We’ve got an election to watch.’

  ‘Enson?’ J says. ‘Your face tells me you know what a Dutch oven is. Care to share?’

  ‘Out of respect for a fellow author of Roger’s, I cannot disclose.’

  At which, the room falls quiet, except for soft tapping as everyone searches on their smartphones, followed by ‘Is there no signal in this room?’ then footsteps down the hall, then ‘You did not, David!’ and ‘Ewwwwwwwwwwww!’ and ‘Why would you even do that?’

  Tales of others’ shame apparently relax our guests, for they settle cheerily back to munching Ottolenghi and gargling volcanics – apart from David and Kiara, who excuse themselves, supposedly to glance at CNN, though a hushed argument breaks out in the hallway: ‘What in hell possessed you, Kiara?!’

  Do something, I order myself. My pulse shivers; I remain still. To force myself to act, I concoct a fresh wager: that I will behave horrifically enough to make him despise me and throw me out of here – if the Americans prove so farcical as to actually choose that maniac for president. But I’m cheating again: the hyped-up Trump nonsense concludes tonight, after which the reptile slithers back into his hole. I’ve made a bet I can’t lose. Or that I can only lose. I’ll be sitting here all evening, overhearing everyone’s triumphal hoots, me alone silent, a faintly embarrassing intrusion.

  And I’m relieved. So relieved. My eyes well up. I get to stay.

  The caterers clear plates, distribute fresh napkins, spread out the next course: five-spiced tofu with steamed eggplant and cardamom passata; gurnard baked in banana leaf with pineapple and chili sambal; baby carrots and shaved Parmesan with truffle vinaigrette.

  ‘You guys ever think about the multiverse?’ J asks, gulping down (and nearly choking on) a tofu chunk. ‘Like, a version of this universe, but where there’s no Trump.’

  ‘Ah, yes, the multiverse,’ Andy remarks. ‘There are nice versions of me in the multiverse: an alternative Andy Rosner, drinking caramel Frappuccinos and feeling people’s pain.’

  ‘Would the multiverse theory account for something that unlikely?’ Vanessa quips. ‘Even with an infinite number of universes, I’d find that a little hard to buy.’

  ‘Hey, you guys?’ It’s Kiara, breathless, back from the den.

  David is there, too, sounding like his Prius just flipped into a ditch. ‘You guys, Trump won Ohio.’

  Anxious throat-clearing ensues, everyone trying to recall what Ohio means, where it even is. Vanessa assures us that Trump did a ton of campaigning there. This isn’t shocking.

  ‘That’s the first swing state, right?’ J notes. ‘And it went Republican.’

  ‘Things looked sweet for Romney at one point,’ Vanessa reminds us. ‘It’s just Ohio, guys. Hillary’s got this.’

  Lighting a cigarette, J steps on to the fire escape to tweet off some steam.

  I feel around for my wine glass but can’t find it. My feet are tapping under the coffee table, thinking of my wager.

  A quarter-hour later, Emma squeaks at us from the doorway: ‘Virginia’s in. It went Clinton.’

  Shrieks of relief.

  ‘Do not screw this up, Hillary!’ Enson says.

  It’s 270 electoral votes to win the presidency, and CNN now has Trump at 167 with Clinton at 122.

  J, back among us, is still tense. ‘I’m not loving the look of this.’

  ‘Can you guys be positive?’ Vanessa says. ‘Please?’

  Minutes later, Emma returns. ‘Clinton takes Colorado.’

  Sindy whoops. ‘Keep ’em coming, baby!’

  ‘See?’ Vanessa says. ‘We’ll nail Michigan next. Ignore all the early-reporting counties. They always go Republican.’

  After protracted chatter about network projections and absentee ballots and day-of turnout, Emma swoops back in: ‘North Carolina’s important, right?’

  ‘Emma! Suspense is not funny right now, okay?’

  ‘It’s gone Trump.’

  Gasps.

  Enson unleashes a flurry of creative cursing, then rants about Hillary being a terrible candidate, that we should not be facing a cliffhanger against a psycho like Trump. A call-and-response develops, someone casting blame – Russian hacking, or WikiLeaks, or misogyny, or racism, or the media – and Vanessa assuring everyone that we still got this.

  Indeed, as the night drags on, Clinton’s electoral votes add up nicely. She’s above Trump now, 197 to 187, and well poised in Michigan. ‘We’re clawing back,’ Vanessa says. ‘First woman president. You heard it here, guys.’

  Emma bursts in.

  ‘Behold, ye angel of death,’ Andy says. ‘What news from the dark side?’

  ‘So, Florida’s a big deal, right?’

  ‘What happened, Emma? Don’t do this!’