His wife was now pregnant.
The night she told him he had just bought a television for the party. His
friends had come over, not to watch the TV, but to get him—they had been planning to drink booze, fuck sluts, have children, wives, homes, mortgages, it had been the
big idea, some going to war, to blow up Times Square, shoot themselves
in the head, build a shelf in the garage, take an introduction to oils workshop
at Kendall School of Art and Design. We protect ourselves. The phenomenal shape
of America, or else we've forgotten everything about ourselves. But all the
Arab could think of had been the television. What were their injunctions? He
had felt like he could see himself, could see himself in it, a swamp of a
thousand flags, his heroes riding pink horses with flames painted onto their
flanks, the children in handcuffs, the taxi in the orange light of its own
going forwards, his vanity, his beard mocked. He had resolved then to shave.
This upset his friends and they left feeling not only defeated at not having accomplished
what they had wanted to but seriously confused and somewhat offended. He stood
in the front hall, guiding them out of the home while rudely peeking
back over his shoulder, at the TV, which had been left on throughout their
visit. It was time to go to bed, he said without much interest in it seeming
like the truth, though it was. It was time to go to bed. His wife closed the
door after him when he went upstairs to their room, and they found themselves
holding one another at the foot of the bed, having a deep and meaningful
conversation, that went this and that way, each speaking of things they had
long kept secret, but now speaking seriously and honestly, out of love and
faith in one another. After she told him that he was going to be a father he put
his head in her lap and wept for happiness.
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