It wasn’t how it seems. It wasn’t like with Gus trying to sell me those handkerchiefs. I wasn’t failing to get the hint; I was, rather, refusing to take it. I could tell that my presence was disturbing Jonboat, I understood he’d have preferred not to be alone with me, and I knew he’d insisted I receive my two payments in one lump sum not in order to spare me some minor inconvenience, but to lessen his chances of seeing me again. Yet I thought I might be able to win him over; to get him to want to see me again; or if not to want to see me again, to not feel put out, there and then, by seeing me across the desk from him; I hoped that I might, with warmth, or humor, or a warm sense of humor, be able to make him feel more comfortable. And no, that had never really been my forte; although I may have had a talent for projecting harmlessness, I’d never been much of a comfort to the disturbed. But I’d never had a hundred grand coming to me, either. And we’d been boys together, reader. Not as together as many other boys who’d been boys together, true, but more together as boys than I’d been with any other. And that didn’t have to count for something, but I thought that it might. I thought that it could. I wanted it to count. So I behaved as if it did.
“I mean, I think we should probably catch up or something, right?” I said.
“Sure, yeah, let’s,” he said. “Sure. Of course. How’s things? How’s the writing been?”
“The writing. It’s pretty good, I’d say,” I said. “Steady, in any case. If reading counts as writing—some people think it does, but me, I’m not sure, maybe writing counts as reading, but not the other way round—I suppose I get a lot done pretty much every day. Not the most exciting thing to talk about, I guess. Not very anecdotal, you know? It’s not like, for example, space exploration. How’s outer space, man?”
“Nothing like it on the planet.”
I made some laugh sounds. I said, “I like that. Do you think maybe you’ll go back?”
“I don’t think so. No. Definitely no plans to. NASA’s need for astronauts with a certain skill set that I don’t—I can’t talk about that, actually. Top secret stuff. I mean, they keep me half in the dark about it, myself.”
“That’s alright,” I said. “I understand about the secrecy. But how was it, you know? Being up there? I mean, what was it like?” I said.
“Well, you’ve seen the photos. The videos. Those bring it across better than I ever could. It was pretty much just like that, but…live.”
“Sure,” I said. “Sure. But what was it like, for you, being up there? That’s what I’m really interested in.”
“It was indescribable.”
I waited for more. More didn’t come.
“So you mean indescribable, like you’re actually incapable of, or unwilling to, or—”
“Right,” he said. “I don’t mean to come off cagey about it, but it can’t be described to anyone who hasn’t been there. The thoughts you think when you’re up there—the perspective you get. I mean, the whole point of going up there is to have an untranslatable experience. An unrelatable experience. Whole point for me, anyway. If I tried to describe it to you, it would sound like nonsense, and if that weren’t the case, then I guess it would kind of be ruined for me a little.”
“It would ruin outer space.”
“A little maybe. Sure. To some degree. I guess what I’m saying’s it’s a private experience. I want to honor that.”
“Of course,” I said. “Me too. Of course.”
“I appreciate that,” he said. “I do.”
“Well, so, Trip, huh?” I said. “Sharp young man.”
“It’s true. He is. Thanks for saying that. An artist. It’s great. I couldn’t be prouder. He’s gonna make some real waves in that world, I think. The good kind of waves. Visionary kind. Or—I mean, who am I to say, right?”
“You’re Jonny ‘Jonboat’ Pellmore-Jason, father of the artist.”
“Still,” he said. “Art’s not my field.”
“It’s everyone’s field,” I said. “To some degree.”
“Yeah,” he said. “I suppose you’re right. And I do see the way that people respond to him—positive, warm—I see that. See it all the time, and, maybe I’m wrong about this, but I figure that’s all he has to really do—and I tell him this, too—all he has to do is just bring himself across. In his work. If he can just bring himself across in his artworks, he’ll just: he’ll do great things. Important things. Won’t be able to help it. I mean, that’s all art really is, in the end, right? The artist bringing himself across? His way of looking at the world and so forth? Who he is? See, I sound like—I’m sure I sound provincial. Like I said: not my field. How’s your dad?”
“My dad?” I said. “Same as always. Still impelling at the plant.”
“And how long’s he been at that, now?”
“Since before we moved to Wheelatine.”
“Long time,” said Jonboat. “I guess he must like it.”
“Hard to tell,” I said.
“Oh?”
“He doesn’t say much about it.”
“Oh,” said Jonboat.
“He says so little about it, in fact, that I wonder, sometimes, if he secretly hates it, but because he’s more a man-of-action type, like as opposed to a complainer, he holds the hatred in.”
“That’s something,” said Jonboat.
“How do you mean?”
“Just that, that sounds like a…a lot to hold in, right? for so long a time? That’s all I meant.”
“I might be wrong about him, though,” I said. “Like just making things up. Like I said, he’s never really said anything about impelling to me. I don’t even know what it means to impel. Maybe it’s great.”
“Could be,” said Jonboat. “I hope so.”
“You hope so?”
“Well, for his sake,” said Jonboat.
“Right,” I said. “Me too.”
We nodded to ourselves, looked away from each other, the spinning globe’s soft hiss in our ears seeming to belie Jonboat’s earlier claims regarding its axle’s being “super-low-friction.”
“Go ahead if you want,” he said, “and try on that helmet. Please. Be my guest.”
“Try on the helmet?”