The very thing that lets you apprehend feelings for other people also tends to keep you severed from them.
There was a Pack for her not two hours away. As soon as membership cleared five thousand in any one area, a Pack was born. The Helix was seventeen Packs in seventeen states. Fifty-two million website hits a month. Bonds nationwide.
Thurlow drank from a water bottle. He said, “Now, I know what people say. They say that extreme detachment usually means mental illness, but that the pioneering spirit of individuality just means you’re American. Freethinking and unencumbered. But what we have today? When so many of us are destitute of intimacy with other people—intimacy of any kind—that’s American, too. And it’s not right. Now, believe me, because I know. I know firsthand. From my life and also from polling and statistical modeling procedures that corroborate a decline in frequency of every single form of social, civic, religious, and professional engagement since 1950. These stats are the God of tedium. But I’ve read them. The Roper Social and Political Trends survey, the General Social Survey, the DDB Needham Life Style studies, Gallup opinion polls, Mason-Dixon reports, and Zogby files. The bottom line? We are cocooned in all things, at all times, and it’s only getting worse. Today we debrief with our pets and bed down with Internet porn. So what can we do?” He paused here while the crowd said, “Tell me something real!”
“That’s right,” he said. “Tell me something real. Talk to each other. Get back to basics. And start feeling better.”
As he spoke, he managed to contact the audience with his eyes, to see people one by one, and in this way to blinker and laser his attention.
When he was done, he thanked everyone for coming. He said they’d made his day.
Cheers, applause, exeunt.
There was a new suit waiting for him at his hotel. Twenty-four roses and puffer vests in red, blue, green, purple, yellow. He had it all sent to his penthouse, then headed there himself. He pressed his head against the elevator door and nearly fell out when it opened to his room. He was so tired. The event had taken hours—they all took hours—so he had time enough only to shower and shave. Perk up. Esme was coming. She might even be on her way. He had forgotten, though, about Vicki, who was standing tall at the foot of his bed with legs apart. PVC boots zipped up her thighs. A latex corset and thong.
He tossed his coat on the duvet. “Get dressed,” he said, and he took off his shoes. “Not today.” He made for the window, peered out the blinds. The White House facade was soft-lit, soft yellow.
Vicki looked herself over and shed her leather gloves. Her arms were marbled with self-tanner. She slapped the floor with a crop. “Slave!” she yelled, but she gave it up fast. “Oh, come on, Thurlow. Even a hooker has feelings. I’ve been waiting here forever.”
He plopped on the bed, faceup. Two minutes of rest, and then he’d shower. “Traveling Companion,” he said. “Please.”
She folded her gloves. “Sorry,” she said. “But what’s wrong? Are you okay?”
“Just tired,” he said. “Not to worry. Now get dressed—you have to go.”
Instead, she lay down next to him. She’d just had her hair cut and dyed. It was brick red and shorn so close, he could see a birthmark the shape of Vermont traverse her skull. He reached for the side table and handed her a gift certificate to a cosmetics store. “Here,” he said. “Spend it however you want.”
“Wicked,” she said. “I love presents.”
He went back to the window. Vicki sat up on her knees and jutted her lower lip. Pushed her head into his ribs. She wore silver studs in both cheeks, which she’d gotten after a Helix rally in North Hampton to celebrate the start of her new life. She had been coming to Thurlow twice a week for two months and traveling with him as he went. Everywhere except North Korea, about which she was peeved but smart enough not to say so.
“I need to shower,” he said. “If anyone knocks, take the back door out.”
The concierge rang to say he had a message, and could he send someone to deliver it? Vicki put on a robe and brought the envelope to Thurlow, who turned it over in his hand.
“Aren’t you going to open it?” she said.
“No.” He tossed it on the table.
“Can I?” When he didn’t answer, she opened