THENEWYORKER, NOVEMBER 11, 2019 65
lating whether my case would produce
a commission and how much work it
would involve. You could practically see
her brow and mouth creasing into plus
and minus and equals signs. Or she was
thinking how best to get me out of her
office. She said decisively, “You need to
think of yourself as a car, or a helicopter.
You’re going to need protection against
accidental damage to yourself—it’s
called A.D.&D., and covers death or
dismemberment—and you need lia-
bility insurance, in case you cause loss
to others. The tricky piece is assessing
the risk. We’re going to have to give
the underwriters some guidance.” She
swivelled to her keyboard. “I’m send-
ing you the application form.”
It seems that nothing can proceed,
at a certain point in life, without filling
out a form—without boring a new hole
in one’s small bowl of time.
That’s O.K. The older I get, the
greater grows my respect for the un-
derground deeds that make our lives
persistently functional. Nobody told
me, growing up, that in addition to
a regular career one must embrace a
secret administrative vocation. I can
hardly believe that for years I lived
in a fantastical world in which I gave
no thought to ventilation solutions,
health-provision networks, wood con-
ditioner, bylaws, credit scores, auto-
matic-payment dates, storage space,
and propane.
When we got home, I ate some choc-
olate-peanut-butter ice cream, for the
calories, then made use of the bath-
room, then retreated to bed in order to
fill out the insurance questionnaire.
Viki and Molly were in the living room,
cutting paper with tiny yellow scissors.
Please describe the activity for which you
seek insurance coverage, specifying the scope
of the activity, including frequency, locations,
safety measures. State any relevant experience
or qualifications.
The assumption, here, was that I
would zip around of my own free will.
But why on earth would I do that?
Who knew how long I could stay aloft?
What about the wind, rain, lightning,
radiation, and cold? What would I
wear? What about my glasses? What
about drones and aircraft and wind tur-
bines and electrical wires and chim-
neys and miscellaneous poles? Any siz-
able city would be a death trap, basically.
As for the countryside, everyone out
there was locked and loaded. Anything
that moved in the sky they shot. They
gunned down ducks and turkeys by the
million. I’d have to fly at night, like
an owl. No: I needed insurance only
for involuntary or emergency flights.
Who knew what lay ahead? I might
fall out of an airplane. I might find my-
self caught in a fire or fleeing rising
waters. Even then, even in extremis, I
would fly only as a last resort. There
were systems in place. The parachute
had been invented. We had fire exits
and flood alerts and evacuation plans.
We had disaster preparedness. The great
fray, in the real world, wasn’t good ver-
sus evil. It was perils versus protocols.
From the bedroom doorway I said,
“Hey, Molly. What would you do if
you could fly?”
Molly stayed focussed on her work.
Even a five-year-old could see that the
question was absurd. She said, “I would
fly to pasta.”
I said, “What else?” I was convinced
that she knew something that I could
not know.
“I would fly to you,” Molly said, to
her mother.A
day or two later, there was a meet-
ing at the office. The purpose of
the meeting was to review the draft
annual report. My bodily presence was
required, and the C.C.O. himself was
also going to be there. I was excited. It
had been a long time since I’d gone in.
I got dressed up. My one belt, I dis-covered, was now too long for me, and
like a teen-ager I had to punch an extra
hole in the strap to accommodate the
prong. Viki said, “Why don’t you put
on your blue sweater? It makes you
look taller. I can’t explain it, it makes
you taller.”
The meeting went well. “I have no
idea what ‘agile feedback loops’ means,”the C.C.O. said. “I like it.” Everyone
laughed. I waited for somebody to credit
me with the phrase, but no one did. In
fact, and I guess to my relief, I wasn’t
mentioned or called on at all.
Afterward I accompanied Valerie
Acevedo and Alexis Chen, who were
workplace buddies and funny, to the
smoking balcony. I didn’t smoke, but
to hightail it home right after the meet-
ing would risk giving the wrong im-
pression. This balcony was on the thirty-
second floor and had snow on it. The
daylight was fading. Across the street,
a lustrous tower was filled with white-
shirted workers.
“What this place needs,” Alexis said,
vaping, “is Acapulco chairs.”
“Which ones are they?” Valerie said.
“You know—with the bouncy vinyl
cords. They’re made for the outdoors.
Hence ‘Acapulco.’”
I started laughing. “Wait—‘Hence
Acapulco’?”
Alexis continued, “Well, how did
last night go?”
“Fun. Good,” Valerie said evenly.
Alexis made a listening noise.
Valerie, suddenly inspired, said, “It’s
like I’m like a restaurant. Like he liked
me like he’d like a restaurant. Like,
‘That was cool. I should come here
again.’ ”
Alexis said quickly, “‘The osso buco
was excellent.’”
They both laughed and drew on
their e-cigarettes. I made a proximate
sound, but quietly. I didn’t feel like a
party to the conversation; I felt merely
privy to it. It surprised me that they
were talking about this stuff, because
I thought a masculine presence would
be inhibitive. Maybe corporate-ban-
ter norms had changed in my absence.
Alexis said, “And?”
Valerie said, “Yeah, it was sweet.
He was kind of ... focussed on the de-
tails. On trend. What’s that word?
Artisanal.”
Alexis said, “Yeah, the craft-brewer
thing. Expert but traditional. I’m on
the fence.”
Valerie waited a beat, like an actual
comedian, then said, very dryly, “Still,
it’s been a while since I saw penis.” The
two women laughed explosively.
It was at this moment that I did
something stupid. I put my weight on
my heels and, from my position next