Generation Loss Read Online Free PDF Page A

a real Scary Neary
story."
    "I
know what Mojo is," I said. "Perfect for me? As in,
'Underemployed Losers and the People Who Hate Them?'"
    "That's
my girl! Close, very close! You know Aphrodite Kamestos?'"
    "Do
I know her? Or do I know who she is?"
    "Well,
either." Phil's eyes widened. "You don't actually know her, do you?
No, of course not," he said and quickly went on. "This editor, he
wants to do some kind of old-time photography feature. 1950s, '60s . . . you
know, Avedon, Diane Arbus, that kind of shit. I was telling him how I'd
actually been up at Aphrodite Kamestos's place once. It was wild. So he wants a
piece on her."
    "So?
You know her, you do it."
    "I
don't really know her," Phil admitted. "This guy she was involved
with, he and I did a little business, back in the day. I still hear from him
every couple of years. So I emailed him and asked could he maybe get me an in
with Aphrodite Kamestos."
    "Is
she even still alive? She must be, what? A hundred?"
    "Nah.
Maybe seventy. But well preserved. She's got this place up in Maine, an island.
There was a little commune there, that's how I got involved. I was their
private dope peddler for a couple months. So I told this editor I have a
contact, I could probably get someone up there again. The money's pretty good.
Plus you'd be paid in pounds—good exchange rate."
    I
stared at my coffee and considered throwing it in his face. "Why didn't
you suggest he do a story on me, Phil?"
    "He
said the fucking 1960s, Cass!" Phil looked hurt. "Christ, I'm trying
to do you a favor!"
    "Oh,
right. A Phil Cohen favor—I almost forgot."
    "I
pitched you big time to this guy, Cass. I told him no one else on earth is as
well qualified for this particular job as you are."
    "Why
the fuck would you say that?" I finished my coffee and pitched the cup
into a trash can. "Again: why aren't you doing it?"
    "I'm
not a photographer!"
    "So
why doesn't this guy send a staff photographer?"
    "Because
I guess Aphrodite wanted someone they've never heard of. She's, like, crazy or
paranoid or something. She wants an unknown."
    He
pinched his lower lip between thumb and forefinger. I started to laugh.
    "An
unknown? What'd she say? 'I need a total unknown—I know, let's get Cassandra
Neary!'"
    "Pretty
much."
    "Shit."
    I
sat and said nothing. After a moment, Phil shrugged. "Look, I was just
trying to help you out some. I mean, she specifically asked for you, God knows
why. But it could be an interesting gig. Remember how they used to say if you
tipped the country on its side, everything loose would roll into California?
Well, it's like they tipped it up again, only now everything that was still loose
rolled back up into Maine. And these islands—Cass, it's your kind of place.
'The old weird America'—this is, like, the new weird America. You oughta think
about it."
    I
sighed, then looked at him. "Really? She really asked for me?"
    Phil
shifted in his seat, staring at his cell phone. "Yeah," he said after
a moment. "She did. Go figure."
    "Okay.
I'll think about it."
    Phil
glanced at his watch. "You've got, uh, five minutes."
    "What?"
    "I
told the editor I'd call him back by three—three his time. Five hour
difference. And it's almost ten."
    "But
I can't—I mean, how'd you even know you'd run into me?"
    "I
didn't. I was gonna call you—hey, I swear it!"
    "But—Jesus,
Phil. What, has this editor told her I'm coming?"
    He
shook his head. "No. I did. I promised I'd send you. Listen, don't think
about it, okay? Just say yes, I can set it up. You got a license, right? A
credit card? You're not a total fucking Luddite, right? You can still rent a
car and drive?"
    "Yeah."
I gazed brooding out at the street. The rain had turned fallen leaves and blown
newspapers to gray sludge. "Shit. Can they give me an advance?"
    Phil
looked as though Id asked him to cook a baby.
    "Well,
is there a kill fee?"
    "I'll
get you a kill fee. If it doesn't go down, Cass, I'll pay your kill fee out of
my own goddam pocket, how's