Lost December (4 page)

“What’s Smokey Joe’s?”

“It’s a local hangout. It’s kind of famous. You must be new to Philly.”

“Brand-new,” I said.

“So am I. Want to come?”

“Yeah, sounds great.”

“Good. Where do you live?”

“I’m on the fifteenth floor of Sansom Place West.”

“We’re neighbors. I’m on the third floor. We can meet in the lobby and walk together.”

“What time?”

“Around six?”

“Great.”

“Great,” she echoed. She leaned back in her seat.

I found myself smiling through the rest of the class.

Clever people can be invigorating or draining.
Sometimes both
.

Luke Crisp’s Diary

That evening I went downstairs to the lobby of my building about five minutes before six. Candace wasn’t there. Around ten minutes past the hour I wondered if she was going to stand me up. I was about to go back up to my room when she came out of the elevator.

I didn’t recognize her at first as she had changed her clothes. Her hair was pulled back and she wore expensive-looking denim jeans and a blue, short-waist suede jacket that accentuated her figure. She walked up to me, her face lit with a broad smile. “Sorry I’m late. My roommate came home crying and I couldn’t just run out on her.”

“No worries,” I said. “You said this is a study group. Should I bring my books?”

She smiled wryly. “It’s really not much of a study group,” she said. “I don’t know why we call it that. Probably so we don’t feel so bad about all the time we waste. Most of us met the first weekend of preterm courses and just started hanging out.” I followed her outside and we started walking west. “Smokey Joe’s is this way.”

The air outside was crisp and the sun was hidden beneath a canopy of low clouds.

As we walked, Candace asked, “Where are you from, Luke?”

“Scottsdale, Arizona.”

“Scottsdale,” she said. “Scottsdale Fashion Square.”

“You’ve been there?”

“Several times. I love Arizona. I usually stay at the Phoenician.”

“That’s only three miles from my house—right by Camelback Mountain.”

“I’ve hiked Camelback,” she said. “That’s a beautiful area.”

“It’s home,” I replied. “Where are you from?”

“Cincinnati. Mostly. Growing up, my family moved a lot. But I call Cincinnati home.”

“What got you into business?” I asked.

“In the words of Willie Sutton, ‘That’s where the money is.’”

“Who’s Willie Sutton?” I asked.

“He was a famous bank robber during the Great Depression. When they asked him why he robbed banks, he said …”

“… That’s where the money is,” I said.

She smiled. “Right.”

“What’s this Smokey Joe’s place like?” I asked.

“You know, it’s your typical college hangout. President Ford called it ‘the seventeenth institution of higher learning at the University of Pennsylvania,’ or something like that. They call themselves the Pennstitution. I’m not sure what that means. It’s just a good place to unwind.”

“It sounds fun.”

“I hope it is,” she said, sounding a little cautious. “I should warn you about my friends. They can be a little … jarring.”

“Jarring?”

“Yeah, like a car accident. But at least they’re not dull. They’re never dull.”

“That’s good,” I said.

“Yeah, that’s good,” she said. Then she added, “Usually.”

Smokey Joe’s was located on campus in University Square, about a ten-minute walk from my apartment. The place looked like what you’d expect from a college hangout, with low ceilings, wood paneling and framed photographs on the wall. It was noisy and crowded with students. There was a jukebox playing ’80s music. Candace looked around until a red-haired woman waved to us from across the room. Candace took my arm. “We’re over there.”

We pushed our way through the restaurant to the east corner, where a group of five students were sitting at a table with a half-eaten pizza and two large pitchers of beer. The man at the head of the table looked a little like James Dean. His hair was golden brown and he wore a cotton oxford shirt unbuttoned to his chest, with the sleeves rolled up. He looked at me coolly.

“Everyone, this is Luke,” Candace said.

Everyone waved or bobbed their heads except for the James Dean look-alike who studied me for a moment before speaking. “Luke-warm,” he said. “I’m Sean. Have a beer.”

“Thanks,” I said.

Candace and I sat down. Candace said, “That’s Marshall, Suzie, Lucy and James.”

“Hi,” I said.

A tall blond guy reached across the table and shook my hand. “I’m Marshall.”

“Hi,” I said.

“What’s your last name, Luke?” Sean asked.

“Crisp.”

“Crisp, like, Crisp’s Copy Centers?” asked James, a thin, olive-skinned man with dark brown curly hair.

“Yeah, just like it,” I said, purposely not making the connection.

“That’s not a common name,” Lucy said. Lucy was the woman who had waved to us as we entered. She was a resplendent redhead with beautiful emerald green eyes, full lips and a shapely figure. She had one hand on Marshall’s arm, so I assumed they were together. “Are you any relation to the owners of Crisp’s?”

“It’s my father’s company,” I said.

Candace looked at me in surprise.

“Carl Crisp is your father?” Marshall practically shouted. “I read his
Forbes
write-up last April. Now there’s a capitalist. He’s put more people out of business than Hurricane Katrina.”

“Who’s your father,” I asked sharply, “Che Guevara?”

Everyone laughed except Marshall.

“Che Guevara. That’s good,” Sean said, looking impressed. “Then you’re definitely one of us. We are the fruit of capitalism
and the spawn of privilege. We have everything and we have nothing.” He raised a beer. “To champagne dreams and cardboard souls.”

The phrase made me smile. I wondered how closely it truly described him.

“Cardboard souls,” echoed Suzie, a very thin young woman with short blond hair.

“So, Mr. Crisp,” Sean said, his gaze settling on me. “What is the meaning of life?”

Candace rolled her eyes.

“He asks everyone that,” Lucy said.

I felt a little awkward. “Haven’t answered that one yet, Sean. I’m just happy to be here.”

“I like that,” Candace said.

“Yes, the unexamined life,” Sean said, “That is a statement of its own. Now James, here, says he’s a born-again, whatever that means …”

“It means I’m Christian,” he said to me.

“As I said, whatever that means,” Sean said. “Making fun of Christians is like hunting cows with a machine gun.”

James just shook his head.

“Now Lucy here is an agnostic, even though that’s kind of a big word for her …”

Lucy playfully hit him.

“… And Marshall is a hedonist.”

“Altruistic
hedonist,” Marshall corrected.

“What is an altruistic hedonist?” I asked.

Marshall said, “We believe that the only things in life worth pursuing are beauty and pleasure—the honest fulfillment
of the senses. But, we also acknowledge that altruism brings a type of pleasure as well.”

“I haven’t figured out what Suzie is,” Sean said.

“Moral capitalist,” Suzie said.

“There’s an oxymoron for you,” Marshall said.

“What am I?” Candace asked.

“You,” Sean replied slowly, “are careful.”

Candace shrugged. “Unlike you,” she said.

“So what are you?” I asked Sean.

He smiled. “I am deeply superficial.”

“Which means he doesn’t know what he is,” Suzie said.

“Which means,” Sean said, “that I’m not arrogant enough to claim that I know the meaning of life, if there is such a thing.”

“Did you actually use the words ‘not’ and ‘arrogant’ to describe yourself?” Candace asked.

“Since you all have handles,” I said, “I suppose I’m a capitalist too. That’s why we’re chasing the M.B.A. carrot, right?”

“I love carrots,” Lucy said. She turned to me. “I’m vegan.”

Marshall said, “Now hold on, that doesn’t preclude you from being a hedonist. Would you say your capitalism is a means or an end?”

“A means or an end to what?” I asked.

“Let me put it this way,” Marshall said, “If you had a billion dollars, would you keep on working?”

I thought about it. “Probably.”

“Then you’re as much a hedonist as me.”

“How did you come to that conclusion?” Candace asked.

“I’m just saying, that if your ultimate goal is to make
money for the sake of making money, then you are the most extreme of hedonists, taking pleasure in the most obscure of pleasures.”

“Marshall’s right,” Sean said. “Modern capitalism has created a new aesthetic, a shiny new species of man—one who doesn’t value what money can buy, only money itself. It’s like preparing a feast just to look at it.”

“That can be pleasurable too,” Candace said.

“You,” Sean said, pointing at Candace, “don’t talk so much.”

Candace rolled her eyes.

“There’s always been that man,” I said. “Just read Dickens.”

“You’re right,” Sean said, nodding, “Our culture has invented nothing, it just unabashedly embraces cultures’ past failures—wipes them off and calls them new. It’s philosophically fascinating—the relativists have asserted for centuries that the journey
is
the destination, and this new breed of capitalist is living that. Create and hoard. It’s poetic.”

“I don’t know why anyone would bother,” Lucy said, “It’s too much work. I say, work to live, not live to work. Just enough to afford life’s pleasures.”

“What do you know about work?” Marshall asked.

“Ask me what I know about pleasure,” she replied, leaning into him.

“Well, it does raise interesting questions,” Candace said, “How much is enough? Are we born for greed or good? And, ultimately, what is good?”

“That’s
the right question,” Sean said, touching the tip of his nose as if we were playing charades. “Greed
is
good.”

“God
is good,” James said. He had spoken so little I’d almost forgotten he was there.

“This might surprise you,” Sean said, turning to James, “but for once I’m not disagreeing with you, my twice-born friend. If you believe in God and that God is good, then it would be wrong to not acknowledge the good He’s created. It would be like worshiping the tree but shunning its fruit. Good is to be found in the pursuit of the pleasures of the world.”