“My father is an idiot.”
Arden looked past me at the glittering spectacle indoors. “No, I don’t think he is.”
We passed the cigarette between us, but even the pleasant rush of nicotine couldn’t override my irritation at my father’s behavior. Just when I thought we’d reoriented ourselves, his brash bellow interrupted the comfortable silence.
“Michael, what are you doing out here with your friends? You should be networking while you have the opportunity.”
“Just a minute,” I told him.
“I thought you quit smoking.” I passed the cigarette back to Arden hastily while my father continued, “Nasty habit. I hope you’re not starting up again. With all of the city ordinances, smokers are practically lepers these days.”
My father then took the opportunity to greet Franco and Liam, whom he knew through our long-term association. He asked Franco about his work, and Franco dazzled him with all of his recent accomplishments. When we were in college, my father considered Franco a “prissy, foreign fop,” which was probably only one degree away from calling him a faggot. (Both f-words got retired when I came out to my father my sophomore year.) But when Franco started working on Wall Street, my father’s tune changed overnight. The two of them had a lot in common, both being businessmen who were motivated by the bottom line. My dad, when given the opportunity, consulted Franco on the market as though he were a tealeaf reader.
Liam, on the other hand, had never held my father’s attention. “Weird, pale kid” was my father’s assessment, though he did respect the Bickel family name and was polite in his company.
“Franco’s doing well for himself,” my father said to me. “Probably won’t have to work much longer before he can retire.” He squinted past Arden and I to stare at the sun setting behind the high-rises, spilling its light over the concrete and making it look almost pretty. “I should have been a wealth manager. Shame things didn’t work out between you two.”
“Not really,” I said. Was he being rude on purpose? “Because I have Arden, and money isn’t everything.”
My father frowned like he’d stepped in dog shit. “Money is most things, Michael. Franco understands that. So does your friend, Liam. You could learn something from them.”
I took a deep breath, and even though I knew I shouldn’t engage him, I said, “What about art?”
“Art alone doesn’t pay the bills. Not without monetizing it.”
“Not all art needs to be monetized,” Arden said, as though it had killed him to utter it aloud.
My father shot him a scornful look. He’d been drinking, and though he wasn’t a mean drunk, alcohol didn’t make him any easier to bear. “With that kind of mindset, you’ll be homeless within the week,” he thundered, not realizing his voice had gotten loud again. “My son is very talented but severely lacking in business acumen. Which is why he must rely on people like myself and Franco. Without our direction, he wouldn’t be able to afford his nice apartment or that suit your wearing.”
“I don’t buy Arden’s clothing,” I said, incensed at his insinuation. He gave Arden a long, scrolling look. I didn’t like what it portended. “Arden is a model. A very sought-after one,” I added, though it left a bitter taste in my mouth, that I had to defend him at all.
“A model, huh?” my father asked, doing that repetition thing he did whenever he didn’t buy something.
“Let’s go inside,” I said to him, too loud for my own ears.
“Go on without me. I’ll just hang out here with the boys.”
“Arden?” I asked. If my father wouldn’t join me, I hoped that he would.
“It’s a beautiful evening, Michael. I’m going to enjoy the fresh air a little while longer.”
I shot Franco a look that said to watch over the two of them and rejoined the gaggle inside. I encountered admirer and critic in equal turn and tried to be gracious with both. I shot a couple of glances out to the balcony where my father seemed to be lecturing to a reluctant audience. Franco looked perplexed, Liam bored, and Arden withdrawn. What could he possibly have to say to them?
My reading came next, and I got through it thanks to a mixture of alcohol and terror-fueled adrenaline. Then I signed an obscene number of books. This novel might open on the Best Seller’s list. If I wasn’t in such a flustered state, I’d have been flattered. Iwasflattered, just finding it hard to concentrate.
It was late by the time the scheduled events had concluded. Franco and Liam had left shortly after my reading. Arden was sitting nearby, nursing a glass of water and staring at one of those weird sculptures with a contemplative look. My father and Bitzy were making their final rounds.
My stomach was still in knots, and I realized, in retrospect, that perhaps this type of event wasn’t ideal for introducing Arden to my father.
On his way out, my father stopped by once more to say goodbye. “Here’s to hitting number one,” he said and drained his wineglass, then turned to Bitzy. “I’d call our friends at Powell’s for a little extra boost.”
Bitzy nodded, looking exhausted by the night as well. She gave me a farewell kiss on the cheek and told me she’d get back to me about lunch with the television people. My father then insisted he join the meeting as well, this being Bitzy’s first ancillary rights negotiation.
“Let’s hope we can keep this thing going,” he said in parting. And then, with a nod to Arden, “Andrew.”
“It’s Arden,” I corrected.
“What’s that?” my father shouted, even though I was nearly positive he heard me.
