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cash, a ghost-town feel. I half-expected a tiny tumbleweed to come rolling out. On the other hand I had a lot of change in my pocket. I dug it out.
    “Just some change, really. About three or four bucks.”
    Max nods, as if this confirms some private theory.
    “Only this guy…” He jerks a thumb at me. “Only
this guy
could waltz off a plane with no plans, no idea what he’s going to do next, and nothing but a pocketful of change. Sometimes I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.”
    This is a rhetorical technique Max often employs, of referring to me in the third person, addressing some unseen interlocutor who shares Max’s incredulity and exasperation vis-à-vis yours truly.
    “Tell me something, Dave. What would you have done if I hadn’t picked you up at the airport?”
    “I don’t know. Taken the subway, I guess.”
    “Yes, but where to? I bet you haven’t given any thought to that either. Where are you going to live?”
    He had me there, too. I had given it some thought but so far I hadn’t come up with much. I couldn’t stay at Mom’s. My younger brother, Scotty, had already boomeranged back from college. He was living in the basement, she rented out the top two floors, and lived in two cramped rooms on the first floor. No room there. My father lived with his girlfriend and former secretary in Simcoe, Ontario, about an hour out of Toronto. It wouldn’t be ideal, but at least it would be a roof.
    “Dad’s, I guess,” I said finally.
    “Oh, that’s great, that’s brilliant. The Great Genius has ruminated on the paradox of where to live, and, after a weighty pause, he illuminates the world with the fruits of his meditations. ‘I guess I’ll go live at my Dad’s.’ Won’t that be lovely? I can just picture the dinners you’ll have out there in Hellandgone, Ontario, just you, your Dad, and his girlfriend. ‘Pass the salt, Dave. Hmmm, salt, salt mines, that reminds me: did you look for a job today?’ ‘No, Dad, I spent the morning pondering over Spinoza’s theories, and in the afternoon I crafted a paragraph of prose. After that, naturally I became quite exhausted so I took a nap.’”
    Max adopted a foppish, quasi-British accent when impersonating me, which I found a bit odd, if not downright insulting. But he had a point, I had to admit that. Those dinners would be sheer torture. The appetizer: sautéed strips of Dave with a raspberry vinaigrette. The entrée: cajun-style Dave, raked over hot coals, then grilled with a third degree until thoroughly charred. And for dessert: Dave
flambé
, served with a side-dish of tart remarks. All the while, Dad’s secretary/girlfriend flits back and forth in the background, trying to “stay out of it,” meanwhile confiding to her secretarial colleagues all about the terrible tragedy of Professor Henry’s son. So sad, back from New York with no job, no direction, living with his father again at age 28. A complete failure…
    “You’re right as usual, Max,” I say miserably.
    Max casts a sidelong glance in my direction.
    “Relax, Dave. You can stay at my place.”
    This thought has also crossed my mind, but I know I couldn’t do it. I’m not an easy guy to live with, and I didn’t want to risk screwing up my friendship with Max. Then, I would truly be a man with nothing.
    “Thanks, I appreciate the offer, but I can’t do it.”
    “What’s the problem? I’m never there, I’m always at Sam’s anyway.”
    “I can’t explain it, I just can’t do it. I’ll have to figure something else out.”
    “God will step in and save your miserable hide, is that it?”
    “That’s more or less my plan, yes. As Jesus said, consider the lilies of the field; they toil not, neither do they spin. Yet Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.”
    “What does that mean?”
    “Well, translated roughly, it means: look at those flowers. They don’t have a job, but they look great.”
    “That could be your new motto.”
    “Jesus