There are scrunched-up, soaked-through
piles of Kleenex all over the apartment. There's a bowl of
cold chicken soup that Tano thought would help. It didn't help.|
"I can't go to the symphony," I tell him.
"It's Ligetti," he says. "I was so excited to go with you. He tunes all the instruments to his very own scale."
"I can't," I say, "I don't want to be sick for work. It's my big week. I hired two artists. I have to be there to manage them. I don't want to miss my chance to manage things."
Tano says he's going to call a friend. He climbs into bed next to me with the phone and his list of numbers.
He says, "Let's see who my friends are," and he looks through his list. He updates his list on the computer every month and then prints.
I perk up because I've never seen the list. "Let me see," I say.
Each entry has a name, address, phone number and an explanation of who the person is. Next to Madlyn's name he wrote "Ex." Victoria Coulsen is "Daughter of a pathologist Mom once worked for." Lou Stoumen: "Photographer. RIP."
"He's dead," Tano tells me.
I discover that Tano has another list organized in a four-column chart. On the long side of the chart is a list of people. On the top of the cart are categories: Friend, Email, Call to Say Hi, and Ask for a Job. He has four pages of people. He has six check-marks in the Friend column. After my name he has a check-mark in the column for asking for a job.
He calls the six people who got check-marks in the Friend column.
No one is home.
No one calls back.
Tano goes to the symphony alone.
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