LOBSTER NEWBERT

There's something about this heat wave. It's loosening. You feel almost drunk, even though you're not. On the Upper East Side, Newbert's hormones are up. He wants to have a baby. In the spring, his wife, Belle, had told him she could never be pregnant in the summer, because she wouldn't want to be seen in a bathing suit. Now she says she could never get pregnant in the summer, because she doesn't want to have morning sickness in the heat. Newbert has reminded her that, as an investment banker, she spends her days behind the green glass walls of a coolly air-conditioned office tower. To no avail.

Newbert, meanwhile, spends his days puttering around the apartment in a ripped pair of boxer shorts, waiting for his agent to call with news about his novel. He watches talk shows. Picks at his cuticles with blunt instruments. Calls Belle twenty times a day. She is always sweet. "Hello, Pookie," she says.

"What do you think about the Revlon stainless-steel tweezers with the tapered ends?" he asks.

"I think they sound wonderful," she says.

One night during the heat wave, Belle has a business dinner with clients. Japanese. A lot of bowing and shaking hands, and then they all go off, Belle and five dark-suited men, to City Crab. Halfway through dinner, Newbert makes an unexpected appearance. He's already quite drunk. He's dressed like he's going camping. He decides to do his version of the Morris dance. He takes cloth napkins and stuffs them in the pockets of his khaki hiking shorts. Then, swinging napkins in both hands, he takes a few steps forward, kicks up one leg in front, takes a few steps backward, and kicks up the other leg behind. He also adds in a few side kicks, which, technically, are not part of the original Morris dance.

"Oh, that's just my husband," Belle says to the clients, as if this sort of thing happens all the time. "He loves to have fun."

Newbert pulls out a small camera and starts taking pictures of the clients. "Everyone say robster," he says.

Date: 2014-12-29; view: 899