In the Bag Read Online Free PDF

arrived.
    Instead of the traditional kiss on both cheeks, Solange welcomed me with a barrage of complaints.
    “The electronic window shades are stuck,” she began, clicking a remote device repeatedly as if to demonstrate its futility. “You said they would go up and down. Up at night when it is dark outside. Down during the day so people can see the exhibits. They are not working.”
    “We can fix that,” I said, rubbing my neck. I was sore from the hours I’d spent on the plane, craning my neck to see Ms. 6B.
    “And the circuits, pouf! They keep blowing,” Solange continued with her signature staccato delivery.
    “I’ll take a look at—” I started to say.
    “And the caterer called,” she went on. “His father died.”
    “That’s terrible.”
    “He cannot make food for the opening reception. Oh, and there is a bad smell in the lavatories. And—”
    It was no use. Solange didn’t want to discuss the situation. She wanted to vent. At me. So I let her, making sure to nod from time to time. The song “Wichita Lineman” started to play in my head.
     
I am a lineman for the county and I drive the main road
Searchin’ in the sun for another overload.
I hear you singin’ in the wire, I can hear you through the whine
And the Wichita Lineman is still on the line.
 
I know I need a small vacation but it don’t look like rain.
And if it snows that stretch down south won’t ever stand the strain.
And I need you more than want you, and I want you for all time.
And the Wichita Lineman is still on the line.
    I’d always loved that Jimmy Webb song. The image of a guy driving down a county road, longing for someone, had always resonated with me. And the line about needing more than wanting? It never failed to break my heart, even though I wasn’t exactly sure what it meant.
    Truth was, I’d never fully understood the song. Who was he listening to? Why was he still on the line? I’d never known. But to me this song represented art. It begged questions. It packed an emotional punch. There was a tension between the parts of the song I understood and the parts I didn’t. Plus, there was the necessary touch of sadness that all true art demanded. The ache of living and the comfort of love: that’s what I heard in “Wichita Lineman.”
    As Solange talked, I looked around at the postdigital nonsense trying to pass itself off as art. The most prominent installation was called Spin the Cell Phone. The artist had created an interactive obstacle course designed to replicate the art of finding love via texting .
    Who were these artists? Had they ever been in love? These were people who would prefer to sit in front of a computer rather than under a tree with another human being. People who had no idea what it meant to drive along a county road, yearning for someone. People, I hated to admit, very much like my own son.
    Solange had stopped talking.
    “Are you even listening ?” she asked, her balled fists wedged against her bony hips.
    “Yes,” I said. “We should . . . um . . . We should maybe consider . . .”
    “What?” she inquired. “What should we consider?”
    “We should consider sending flowers to the caterer,” I said. “For his father’s funeral. Let’s do that. And then we’ll get this other stuff sorted out.”
    “Listen to me,” she said, shaking a skinny finger in my face. “The opening reception is in two days. I am not telling you how to do your job. I am simply telling you what your job is . And that is to have everything à la perfection when the doors open on Tuesday night.”
    And with that, she marched off.

CHAPTER 12
    Daisy
    M aybe it was the lunch. Or the thought of a five-hundred-dollar shopping spree. Or the fact that she’d had a chance to connect with her friends in the Internet café. I didn’t know, and I didn’t have to know. I was just glad to see Coco grinning when she joined me on the sidewalk.
    “Thanks for waiting,” she said. “Oh, Mom. Look!”
    We were