"Don't worry about it. I just got a seven thousand dollar refund from the school. We can have burgers and fries, if you like. s.h.i.t, you can even go nuts and order a milk shake. For once we're rolling in it, pally."

It's a typical Greek diner, with autographed glossy photos of soap opera actors n.o.body ever heard of grinning down on the brisk afternoon trade. Jake and I take a booth near the window. We order identically medium-rare cheeseburger platters with c.o.kes. People tend to eat poorly on the days they get bad news, I've noticed. I once sat in the kitchen of a woman whose husband had just been killed by a falling air conditioner (DEATH FROM THE SKY, read the front-page headline for my exclusive story), and in the course of a half-hour interview she chewed her way through an economy-sized bag of Cheetos and a box of Mallomars. She had not been happily married, but of course that particular detail never made it into print. (Unwritten tabloid rules: all widows grieve, and all guys who get killed by falling air conditioners were wonderful husbands.) I watch my son eat. He doesn't wolf his food the way I do. He takes a bite of his burger and sets it back down on the plate, while I hang on to mine as if I'm afraid somebody might swipe it. He has a neat puddle of ketchup beside his fries, while I've Jackson Pollocked the stuff all over my fries. I'm glad to see that one of us has a touch of cla.s.s.

He chews and swallows. "Why did they fire you?"

"They didn't. One guy did. The day city editor." didn't. One guy did. The day city editor."

"Why?"

"It doesn't really matter. We weren't getting along."

"How long have you been there?"

I need a moment to think about it. "Twenty-eight years." A shiver goes through me. "Almost twenty-nine. Would have been twenty-nine next month."

If I'd been a cop or a fireman, I'd be long retired, with a pension. As it is, I'm an ex-tabloid newspaperman, and I'm screwed. Jake knows it, too.

"G.o.d, I'm sorry, Dad."

"Like I said, don't worry about it. I'll get another job."

"Where?"

"Jake, you let me figure that out. Come on, eat up. We've got the whole day to figure things out. The whole weekend, actually, with your mother away."

I look out the window and see cars pulling up at the school, and kids piling into them. "Kind of early to be getting out of school, isn't it?"

"Friday dismissal," Jake says. "We always get out early on Fridays."

Somehow I never knew that. "Why?"

He shrugs. "So the rich kids' parents can get a head start on the way to their country homes and beat the traffic, I guess."

Jake has never had a country home. His mother lives on West Eighty-first Street, and my place is on West Ninety-third. Our joke is that during the hot weather he likes to stay with me, because it's a little cooler up north.

Suddenly two kids are standing at our booth, one tall and thin, the other short and chubby. Both carry book bags on their backs, and they're breathing hard, as if they'd run a long way to get here.

"Jake," the short one says, "what happened in Plymouth's office?"

"I'm out," Jake says flatly.

The two of them look at each other, eyes wide. "Man," the other boy says, "that sucks." sucks."

"I'll be all right," Jake says.

The tall one turns to me. "Are you Jake's father?"

I nod, but don't offer my hand. Somehow it doesn't seem like the right time for a handshake, and this is something these boys understand.

The tall one shakes his head in wonder. "Your son's essay rocked, rocked," he says. "Did you read it?"

"I sure did."

"Great s.h.i.t," the short one says. "Really, really really great s.h.i.t." He thinks he's being bold, saying "s.h.i.t" to an adult. This is the kind of kid whose idea of rebellion is wearing a baseball cap backward, or going to Colgate University instead of Yale, the way his father and grandfather and great-grandfather did. great s.h.i.t." He thinks he's being bold, saying "s.h.i.t" to an adult. This is the kind of kid whose idea of rebellion is wearing a baseball cap backward, or going to Colgate University instead of Yale, the way his father and grandfather and great-grandfather did.

Jake is smiling at them, the falsest smile I've ever seen him wear, but they don't know that. "You guys really liked my essay?"

"Oh, dude, it was awesome." awesome."

"Funny how neither of you mentioned that when Edmondson asked for comments."

Their faces fall. The tall one swallows, and his Adam's apple looks like a Ping-Pong ball lodged in his throat.

Jake laughs. "I'm just busting your chops," he says. "It's no big deal."

The boys seem relieved. The short one asks, "What are you gonna do, man? I mean, where are you gonna go?" go?"

Jake shrugs. "Ask my father."

They turn their gaze to me. I take a sip of my c.o.ke. "I have no idea," I say as cheerfully as I can. "Maybe I'll put him to work somewhere."

The boys laugh, then abruptly stop laughing. What at first seemed like a joke suddenly strikes them as a possibility both real and terrifying. You can quit school at age sixteen in New York City, but that's a concept that's never dawned on these kids. What with college and then graduate school or law school or med school, plus the "year out" here and there for the Peace Corps, or just to go backpacking across Europe, they could be crowding thirty before they're ready to go out there and turn a buck. That way, the gap between the start of a career and the maturation of a ma.s.sive trust fund is only a few years.

I laugh out loud. "I'm just busting your chops," I say. "I'm not going to put Jake to work just yet. Truth is, I have to find myself a job first."

The two kids look at me, then at Jake, their mouths hanging open.

"He just got fired," Jake explains helpfully, almost cheerfully, and it's nearly balletic, the way they take identical steps backward, away from our booth. They have obviously been taught to stay away from losers, because losing is contagious. But they've also been taught to be polite, so they're in a little bit of a jam. I decide to let them off the hook.

"Well, fellows, it's been nice meeting you," I say, and it's just what they need to make their move. They tell me it's been nice meeting me, and then turn to Jake.

"Stay in touch, man," says the short one.

"You know where to find us," adds the tall one, and with that the two of them are gone, good-bye, out of there.

Jake takes a sip of his c.o.ke. His former cla.s.smates pa.s.s the front window of the diner but don't look back for a final wave. It's dangerous to do that. Look at what happened to Lot's wife.

"Pair of a.s.sholes," Jake says, almost sympathetically. On another day I might have been stunned to hear my son speak this way, but not today. Foul language won't even crack the top ten list of this day's concerns.

"Why are they a.s.sholes?"

"I don't know, Dad. Maybe they were dropped on their heads when they were babies."

"No, what I meant was, what makes makes them a.s.sholes?" them a.s.sholes?"

"Coming in here and acting as if they care about me getting kicked out."

"They don't care?"

"Are you kidding? They're like people who slow down on the highway to look at a wreck. All they want is some juicy stuff to report back to the rest of the guys."

"You know, that's exactly the impression I got from them, but I didn't want to say anything."

"They're not complicated people, Dad. They'll just play the game for all it's worth, and get the jobs they're supposed to get, and marry the people they're supposed to marry. Then one day they'll die."

My son, the philosopher.

"And they'll be buried where they're supposed to be buried," I say. "You left that out."

"Good point, Dad."

"Listen, I want to know about this teacher, Edmondson. He's really the one who started this whole mess."

Jake rolls his eyes. "Edmondson's an old fart who's been there too long. He read what I wrote and he panicked. Don't be p.i.s.sed off at him. He's just a frightened old man. He felt compelled to report what I'd written to Plymouth, another frightened man." Jake gestures in the direction of the school. "You'd be surprised at how much fear there is in that place."

"Fear?"

"Yeah, fear. Everybody's hanging from a thread, or they think they are. But look what happens when you cut the thread, Dad. You don't die. You don't even get sick. You go to a diner and have a burger and fries."

"Is that how it works?"

"Far as I can see."

For the first time, I'm getting a little angry with him. He's no longer in private school, but he's still got that private school mentality, where you're coc.o.o.ned from the meteor shower that is the real world. It's time to slice open the coc.o.o.n.

"Let me tell you how I I see it," I begin. "Right now I'm numb. But I have a feeling that when the numbness pa.s.ses, I'm going to be scared." see it," I begin. "Right now I'm numb. But I have a feeling that when the numbness pa.s.ses, I'm going to be scared."

Jake stares at me. "Scared of what?"

"Oh, you know, the usual mundane things. Making a living. Taking care of you. Little things like that."

"Don't worry about me. I can take care of myself."

"Is that so?"

"You'll see, Dad. Trust me."

"Trust you with what?"

"I've got a plan."

I laugh out loud. "You've been out of school for twenty minutes, and already you've got a plan?" plan?"

"It just came to me, in a flash. It's a pretty d.a.m.n good plan, too."

"Jake. Don't screw around."

"I'm not!"

"All right, then. Care to share this great plan plan with me?" with me?"

"Not just yet, Dad. I'm still polishing it."

"Polishing the plan?"

"Yeah. I need a little time. And for the moment, I'd just like to enjoy my meal."

I'm dying to hear this plan, however ridiculous it might be, but I don't push him. We don't have much to say for the rest of the meal, which sits in my gut like lumps of lead. I finish eating before Jake does and I check the time. It's barely three o'clock, and there's no sign of any student life anywhere out on the street. They've all cleared off as if there's been a bomb scare.

"I won't ask you about your big big plan," I say, "but have you got any plans for tonight?" plan," I say, "but have you got any plans for tonight?"

Jake shrugs. "I was going to see my girlfriend. I'm not sure she'll be my girlfriend anymore, after this."

This is a girl I've been hearing about without ever meeting. I have to wait for Jake to make the occasional remark about her and a.s.semble the remarks into a human being, like an archaeologist trying to piece together a civilization from a few shards of pottery. All I know is that she goes to a private school on the Upper East Side, and they met at a party a few months ago.

"You think she'd break up with you because you got kicked out?"

"Let's just say it wouldn't amaze me."

"What's her name again?"

"Sarah. What's your girlfriend's name these days, Dad?"

"At the moment I don't have one."

"Yeah, right."

"It's the truth."

Actually, it's not the truth. For the past month or so I have been dating (if that's the right word, and I doubt that it is) a thirty-seven-year-old lawyer named Margie. Last night we got drunk together, and I remember her saying it would be nice to take a trip together, and suddenly I realize this has developed into a relationship of unspoken seriousness that has me uneasy. I rarely make it past the month mark with a woman, and my usual distance is actually more like three weeks. In matters of romance I'm a sprinter, even though I don't really have the legs for it anymore.

I have no intention of introducing Margie to Jake. He's met just two of the women I've dated since I split from his mother, and both times it was a mistake, so my policy since then has been to restrict myself mostly to midweek s.e.x and keep the possibilities open for father-son activities on the weekends-possibilities that have been drying up, I've noticed, as Jake's relationship with Sarah has progressed. Lately all I've gotten is Sat.u.r.day morning breakfast with the kid.

But this weekend is special. With his mother away I've got Jake sleeping over for two nights, so Margie is on hold until Monday. Margie said she understood, but her words didn't exactly match her narrowed eyes.

Jake finishes the last of his french fries. "Come on, Dad," he says. "Tell me her name."

"Whose name?"

"This woman you've been seeing."

I sigh, shake my head. "How did you know?"

"Your voice gets funny when you lie."

"It's nothing serious."

"Just tell me her name."