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“and they not only printed it, they hired you?” I nodded.
    Paul hopped over the back of the couch, sat down, and, with a gossipy zeal, said, “Just between you and me, did you fuck him?”
    Paul said “fuck” the same way as Doug—as if it were equivalent to offering someone a piece of gum or asking How to Kil _internals.rev 2/22/08
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    2them to pick a card. Maybe that was the key to getting rid of the loneliness, I thought. Treating love as entertainment, not as salvation.
    “No.”
    “ No ? Come on, he must’ve at least tried to fuck you.” The way I saw it, Doug had made no real effort. He’d simply, matter-of-factly offered up the idea. My response hadn’t seemed to matter to him either way.
    “Actual y, Doug talked a lot about his family. He’s been married for thirty years, you know. And he has two sons. The youngest one’s in film school.The older one, Loring, he’s about your age. He just released his second record. His first one did pretty wel but Doug thinks this one’s going to be huge.”
    “I know Loring.” Paul was fiddling with an unlit cigarette. “Wel , sort of. I used to play at this place on Avenue A cal ed Emperor’s Lounge. They had an open-mike night where anyone could show up with their guitar, and the ones who showed up first got the gigs. Loring and I were always there by noon to make sure we got on. We’d wait around the bar watching talk shows until it was time to play. Back then he went by the name Sam Langhorne and no one knew who he was—even I didn’t know until he signed with a major label and I saw his goddamn picture in the paper.”
    “He’s talented, huh?”
    “In a radio-friendly way,” Paul said, which didn’t sound like a compliment. “He’s a decent songwriter. Honest, at least.” Paul got quiet as he tinkered around the kitchen, but I wanted to keep talking music with him. “Ever heard of a band cal ed 66?”
    He crinkled his nose and stuck out his tongue like he’d just swal owed cough medicine. “My manager works with them. Why?”
    “I get to review their show at Irving Plaza tomorrow night,” I said, thril ed about my first real assignment. But How to Kil _internals.rev 2/22/08 4:59
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    Paul burst my bubble.
    “I can write that review for you right now,” he said.
    “They’re a saccharin band. Sweet but artificial. Vocalist’s name is Amanda Strunk. She’s a media-hungry bitch and she can’t carry a tune to save her life, but she bought herself a nice pair of tits and now she’s famous. Actual y, I went out with her a couple times, and I think she stil has the hots for me, but even I have standards.”
    “Tel me how you real y feel.”
    Paul shook his head. “We have this weekly gig over at Rings of Saturn—it’s a smal place, only holds about two hundred people, but it’s the best thing that’s happened for us yet. Not that it matters because who gets the record deals and the big marketing campaigns? Shitty bands like 66.”
    “So why do it, if you feel that way?” Paul smiled faintly, but al of a sudden he looked sad. “If I could do something else besides make music, believe me, I would. I’ve been here for over eight years, playing in different bands, trying to put together the right bunch of guys, trying to make a living doing the only thing I care about.
    But I’m almost thirty and my day job is folding shirts at the Gap. Have you seen my room? I’m not messy. I’m rebel ing against folding.”
    “Vera says you’re talented.”
    “I am,” he replied without modesty. “But sometimes talent isn’t worth shit. There are tons of talentless people out there making zil ions of dol ars. And unfortunately, an equal number of bril iant artists whose names and voices you’l never hear.”
    The verity of Paul’s statement, the idea that the world—
    that I—might miss out on the life-altering genius of an artist simply because the powers that be couldn’t see the light caused my heart to feel