-That's you being racist.

-It's me being not insane, Billy. Just because we hired a black president, it does not mean every citizen of this nation gets to call himself black. It doesn't work that way.

-Your racism colors everything you say. Pun intended.

-If I were you I wouldn't advertise that pun.

-You're saying it was a bad pun.

-Yes.

-You're saying that African Americans are no good at puns.

-That's precisely what I'm saying, if by "African Americans" you mean "you, and you only," and by "puns" you mean "that last really bad pun."

-I won't let you box me in.

-Okay.

-I'm saying you can't box me in.

-I get it. Are you trying to write a song?

-Why? You don't think I could write a song?

-I never gave it much thought, honestly.

-By your tyrannical European standards of harmony and the well-tempered piano and so on ...

-You don't even know what well-tempered means.

-... But by the rhythmic innovations of my forebears ...

-Are you descended from bears?

-What?

-I thought you just said you're descended from bears.

-Why would I say that?

-I'm just saying what I thought you said. I'm not inside your head. I don't know why you say half the things you say.

-Are any humans descended from bears?

-I don't think so. Maybe. I'm not a scientist.

-That would be pretty neat, don't you think?

-Neat? h.e.l.l yeah, it would be neat.

-We might still have some residual bear characteristics. Like maybe that's why I like salmon so much.

-I've never seen you eat salmon.

-You've never seen me eat anything but burritos, practically. That's a question of affordability, not taste.

-Okay. So you like salmon?

-I love salmon. It's probably my favorite kind of sea-food.

-You better trim your claws.

-What?

-I'm just saying, watch out for those things. If you have residual bear characteristics. That would probably manifest in extremely fast-growing, sharp fingernails. You could cut yourself.

Billy examined his fingernails carefully. -They do grow fast.

-You see?

Billy flashed his teeth at Guy, who recoiled in horror.

-Why would you do that? asked Guy.

-Did you see anything fanglike?

-I'm actually blind now.

-Seriously.

-Seriously, I didn't look and I'm not going to look. This is why G.o.d invented the mirror.

-I don't trust mirrors.

-Of course you don't.

-Say what you want, but I don't think a mirror gives you a good idea of what you look like.

-Compared with ...

-Compared with reality.

-How would you go about measuring something like that?

-It's like, when you look in the mirror, you get a different picture of yourself than when you see yourself on videotape or something. Because in the mirror you only look directly at yourself. But no one else sees you that way.

-So in your opinion, film or videotape is a more reliable metric for self-evaluation.

-Umm ... yes?

-I don't know. There's so many variables in both areas, but I do see your point.

-That's all I ask.

-Lighting, film stock, exposure, on the one hand, not to mention the nearly limitless possibilities offered by digital manipulation of the image, whether moving or still. But the mirror thing ... I do see your point. Plus, there's no way of really knowing whether the mirror isn't skewed in some way, like maybe it has an almost imperceptible flaw that produces a disproportionate distortion in the reflection. An unintentional funhouse mirror.

-That's as well as I could put it.

-Actually, it's much better than you could put it. But I think you meant it as a compliment and so I will take it as a compliment. Gracefully. With a graceful shrug that indicates both acknowledgment and grat.i.tude. Without overdoing either.

-That sounds really ...

-Articulate? Thank you, said Guy.

-I like your thinking.

-What does that mean, I like your thinking?

-What do you mean, what does it mean? It means what I said: I like your thinking.

-Score one for you on the tote board.

-What's a tote board? asked Billy.

-Maybe just a dry-erase board, which could then be configured for multiple uses.

-Can I ask you a question: are my eyes too far apart?

-What do you mean?

-I feel like my eyes are too far apart. Like weirdly so. Billy stared at his face carefully in the mirror on the pa.s.sengerside sun visor. -Wide-set eyes look untrustworthy, I think. To girls, especially, he continued.

-There's also the fact that you're a compulsive liar, replied Guy.

Billy kept staring in the mirror. -No, I don't think that's it, he said after a while.

31. GUY AND VIOLET DO DRUGS ON VIOLET'S BED, THE ONE NIGHT GUY WAS ALLOWED IN VIOLET'S APARTMENT, FIVE DAYS BEFORE THE KOREAN CHECK-CASHING FIASCO

She handed him the crumpled and perforated tinfoil, in the center of which was smeared "the dark blood of the opium," as Guy liked to call the sticky brown tar that Violet had developed a serious habit of consuming, and which Guy felt duty-bound, as a way of protecting her from herself, to share.

He held his lighter under the foil and breathed the smoke. This stuff has no effect on me, he thought, attempting to stand up and failing. I don't see the appeal.

Guy handed the foil and lighter back to Violet, who immediately took a long and deep drag.

-Good stuff, she said, exhaling.

-Yeah. So you want to go to this thing at the Gagosian?

-Not really.

-But it's your friend, right?

-I have lots of friends. And besides, remember what happened the last time we went.

Guy remembered. He remembered that if you go to the Gagosian in Beverly Hills to see a Vanity Fair photographer's exhibit you will encounter Damien Hirst, who does not travel light, entouragely speaking, and the exotic, swanlike Tilda Swinton, avec mari. Guy said let's turn off all the lights at once but Violet would not let him. I know these people, she hissed. I know people here and that would be incredibly juvenile and immature and embarra.s.sing. Guy was not drinking the free wine because he had temporarily stopped drinking, so he didn't switch off all the lights, even though he still-to this day-believes that would have been better art than anything on display at the G.o.dd.a.m.ned Gagosian.

Because, and here you have to maybe allow for Guy's immaturity and whatever Violet said, juvenility, but if art with a capital or even a small initial letter is meant to provoke a reaction from the spectator or audience or what-have-you-the rabble, right?-then turning out the lights when everyone is crowded together in their expensive clothes sipping cheap wine would create a small-time panic at the disco, at least, and wouldn't last very long-you could put the lights back on, since you're standing at the light switch panel in the first place, before the first ladies-in-waiting had begun to scream and the babble had barely begun to rise above a murmuration-and you could moreover walk away quickly enough from the light switches (which for future reference are right behind the stairway that leads up to the second floor) and stand a decent chance of getting away with it.

But no, this was at a time when Guy would do anything Violet asked. A time that, despite everything, never stopped existing, and will now exist forever, because Guy is in a coma, and while the best coma research sheds little insight into the actual mental processes of a comatose patient, we can a.s.sume that if Guy was in love with Violet (and despite what he would tell you, if he could speak, he was) pre-coma, then he is still in love with her now. Because he doesn't know anything that happened after he crashed through the restraining barrier, flipped over three times, and lost consciousness forever.

-You mean the nothing that happened last time we went?

-I mean the thing that would've happened if you ... G.o.d this stuff is strong.

-Just admit you don't want to go because you'd rather stay here and get high.

-Will that make you feel better about yourself?

-Can I ask you a serious question? said Guy.

-Oh G.o.d, anything but that! Serious questions are so tedious. You know, Guy, for someone who claims to like things blurry and unstated, you're really a constructivist at heart.

-I don't suppose there's a chance you're ever wrong about anything.

-No.

At that moment, the phone in Violet's apartment rang. She leaned over to see the caller ID and groaned.

-Who? asked Guy.

-Just some guy who can't take a hint. I may have to take out a restraining order.

-You want I should, like, kick his a.s.s?

Violet exploded with laughter that quickly turned into a coughing fit. She reached for the tinfoil and took another deep drag.

-The idea of you kicking anyone's a.s.s. Sorry. Too funny.

-I suppose you're right. I could hire someone to do it, though. I know people.