note: ten-part series continued! | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5

On a sunny Sunday afternoon, he found himself on his couch flipping back between golf and tennis on his television while sipping on a cold bottle of Sam Adams. Both sporting events were of smaller tournaments, but the big names were still playing. He especially looked out for Tiger Woods and Roger Federer because they were both number one in their respective sports. How does it feel to be the best in the world at something, he wondered. And something that makes a ton of money. He reached for the can of Planters Honey Roasted Peanuts on his messy coffee table and grabbed a handful. Like his father, he always felt that beer was best enjoyed with a complementary anju. He flipped back to tennis when they started showing John Daly whipping out a driver. How pathetic – that guy looks like me, he thought as he rubbed his protruding belly. He then watched in awe as Federer easily handled the Australian Lleyton Hewitt to win yet another tournament.

The three-day weekend had been unexpectedly pleasant. He took a sick day on Friday because he drank too much beer on Thursday night while watching re-runs of reality shows on VH1. He eventually got out of bed on Friday around 3pm and willed himself into making ramen noodles. He even remembered to crack two eggs and throw in some of the spoiled kimchi for extra flavor. For the rest of the day, he browsed various Internet sites, reading up on various celebrity gossip, techie news, and even a few New York Times articles before it all degenerated into pornography. The dangers of mindless web surfing: the slightest hint of sexuality anywhere – perhaps a photo of a celebrity in a revealing outfit or a pop-up advertisement with an air-brushed image of a hot model – was enough to give him a tingle and an automatic click of his Windows Media Player, the preferred venue for the delivery of fantastic audio/visual aides. He hated the way Japanese videos always blocked out the genitals with a pixelated blur, but he sometimes found the girlish screams of the women to be arousing. While nobody ever visited him anymore, he still kept the bottle of Jergens lotion in the medicine cabinet of the bathroom. He always remembered to put it back.

He was in the middle of a self-love session on Friday evening when his cell phone rang. He glanced to see if it was a call from his parents, which, if it was, he would ignore. It was a number he did not recognize. He turned the volume down, wiped his hands, and picked up the phone.

“Hey, it’s Greg. What’s up?”

He paused. He hadn’t heard the voice in many years. They had seen each other at parties and gatherings several times after their friendship-ending argument, but they avoided any direct contact. They had exchanged feeble greetings here and there, but rarely made eye contact. They discreetly inquired after each other through friends once in a while, but never went any further.

“Hey. Nothing much. How’re you doing?” he asked, detecting a slight tremble in his own voice.

“Not too good, man,” Greg said, letting out a sigh.

“What happened?” he asked.

“Well. I was laid off last month. I don’t know what to do. I can’t keep asking my parents for money,” Greg replied.

“That sucks. Sorry to hear that,” he said, in a serious tone, “but why are you calling me? Do I owe you money or something?”

“No,” Greg said. “Listen. I heard about you. Your divorce, your shitty appearance, and your stupid job. What the fuck? User support? Com’on. You’ve got to be kidding. You don’t even like tinkering with computers.”

“Okay, so I’m not the glowing success that I thought I’d be. What the fuck do you want with me?” he asked. Who is this asshole, thinking he can talk down to me after all these years, he thought, growing angrier.

“Calm down. I’m not calling to piss you off. I’m here to make amends, okay?”

“What amends?” he asked.

“Look, we’re both down and we both know it sucks. Why don’t we just forget about what happened ten years ago? That shit is trivial now. We both fucked up, so let’s just admit to it,” Greg said.

“And what? Be friends again? You think it’s really that easy?” he said.

“Okay. Let’s forget about that for now. I’m desperate, and you’re not doing so hot either. I’m thinking about getting into it again. Our old business. And I want shit like it was before. The market is hot right now. We can make it happen,” Greg said, beginning to sound more optimistic.

“Are you for real? We’ve hated each other for the past ten years, and you’re asking to be business partners? Is this some sort of joke?”

“No. I’m serious. Let’s meet up. Monday, 8pm at Wolfgang’s. My treat. If shit doesn’t work out afterwards, at least the meal will be free. Deal?” Greg said.

It was happening too fast. Minutes before, he had been watching close-ups of a woman’s breast being molded by a man’s hand. Now, he was being asked to consider a career change. What did he have to lose? He searched his mind for an answer. Nothing.

“Okay, I’ll see you there.”

“Great. See you then,” Greg said.

After they both hung up, the conversation kept repeating itself in his head. He stared blankly into the screen, which continued to play the porno clip. How did Greg get my number? This is weird. He dragged the mouse cursor to the upper-right hand of the screen and clicked on the X. He was no longer in the mood. He needed a beer.

He woke up unusually early on Saturday. He even made the effort to grab coffee from the nearest food cart on the street. He spent the greater part of the day familiarizing himself with real estate and interior design again. In ten years, he had not completely abandoned the industry, having read a few articles from magazines from time to time and helping a few family friends to arrange things in their new homes; but he hardly considered himself an expert now. Tastes had changed and technology had made things different as well. He read various magazines to get a flavor for recent trends. He browsed through the real estate section to see the value of properties in the city. The prices were nearly four-fold from what they were a decade ago. More and more, people, it seemed, had shelled out a great deal of money for property. Less was being spent to let others design the space; people began to place more faith in their own abilities to lay out and style the interiors of their homes. They watched Martha Stewart on television and read House&Garden.

He returned to his apartment with a notepad full of things copied from books and magazines as well as a few original ideas. He felt as if his blood had begun to flow again. Productivity, and more importantly, the desire to be productive had breathed in a sensation of rebirth. How long it would last, he did not know, but he wanted it to go on. He went to his desk and began to browse the web for more ideas. He closed pop-up ads without a thought and pored through online photos and sketches of rooms late into the night.

He watched as Federer held up the winner’s cup, a small and insignificant-looking item. He wondered where the cup would go on Federer’s trophy case along with the championship items from the Grand Slam finals. After taking his last sip of beer, he turned off the television and got on his feet. He opened up his closet and reached for a black Adidas shoebox. It contained photos and notes from ten years ago, of projects he had worked on with Greg. He remembered the days when they took cab rides all over the city, measuring tape and Polaroid camera in hand, eager to scope out new spaces or find treasured antique furnitures at corner stores. Within the pile, he found a photo of himself, Greg, and Janet. Janet had been a personal assistant of a high-powered real estate lawyer who had recently purchased a brownstone on the Upper West Side. The lawyer had asked her to find the right people to design his new property and to oversee the process.

The first time they met, she made him wait in a chair for twenty minutes while she sorted out an issue regarding a late payment by one of the lawyer’s clients. Boy, does she sound like one nasty bitch, he remembered himself thinking at the time. Yet, it was hard to deny her attractive features – her thin yet determined body, her shiny black hair, her fierce almond-shaped eyes, and her full lower lip. Twenty minutes was a blur in the mind of a man in the presence of a pretty woman.

He shuffled through a few more photos and then put away the box. It was still only the afternoon. He decided to take a walk to Chinatown to see what sort of furniture they carried these days.