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both July and August out there with him, but the last couple of years the arrangement was more informal, and we came and went as we—and my father—pleased.
    “No,” he said. “I’m staying in town this weekend.”
    “Why?” I asked.
    “Nothing, really. I’m having a bit of minor surgery.”
    “Surgery? What’s wrong?”
    “Nothing’s wrong.”
    “Then why are you having surgery?”
    “It isn’t really surgery. It’s outpatient surgery. A very simple procedure. Nothing to worry about.”
    “Well, what is it? What are you doing?”
    My father said nothing.
    “Dad, what are you doing?”
    “I’m having eye surgery,” he said.
    “Oh,” I said. “Laser surgery?”
    “Not exactly,” he said.
    “Then what are you having?”
    “I’d rather not say, James. Suffice it to say I will not be at the house this weekend. You and Gillian are free to use it if you wish.”
    “Are you having plastic surgery?”
    “No,” said my father.
    “Good,” I said.
    “Why good?”
    “I don’t know. I’d just feel very weird if you altered your appearance for reasons of vanity. I think you look fine, Dad, and you don’t need any surgery.”
    “What about these bags under my eyes?” he asked.
    “What bags?”
    “These,” he said, indicating the dark slightly protuberant bag beneath each of his eyes.
    “Those aren’t bags, Dad. Just get a good night’s sleep. And stop eating meat. That’s all you need to do.”
    “Well, they are bags and I’m having them fixed on Saturday. And it’s none of your business.”
    “Wow, Dad,” I said. “Plastic surgery.”
    “It’s not called plastic surgery anymore. It’s elective cosmetic surgery.”
    “Wow, Dad. Elective cosmetic surgery.”
    “It’s not a big deal. Please don’t tell Gillian or your mother. Listen, I should head back downstairs. I don’t want to miss that conference call. Do you want dessert? You’re welcome to stay and order some if you’d like.”
    “No thanks. I’m fine.”
    “All right, then,” said my father. “Let’s blow this pop stand.”
    In the subway uptown, on my way back to the gallery, I thought about what I had said to my father. I had no desire to go to college, and practically from the moment I was accepted at Brown, I had been trying to devise a feasible alternative plan, but it had seemed inevitable—not going to college was simply not an option I thought I had. After lunch with my father, I realized it was. It wouldn’t be easy and it would piss my parents off, but I was eighteen, an adult, and they couldn’t force me to go to college against my will.
    The main problem was I don’t like people in general and people my age in particular, and people my age are the ones who go to college. I would consider going to college if it were a college of older people. I’m not a sociopath or a freak (although I don’t suppose people who are sociopaths or freaks self-identify as such); I just don’t enjoy being with people. People, at least in my experience, rarely say anything interesting to each other. They always talk about their lives and they don’t have very interesting lives. So I get impatient. For some reason I think you should only say something if it’s interesting or absolutely has to be said. I had never really been aware of how difficult these feelings made things for me until an experience I had this spring.
    A horrible experience.

3
     
    April 2003
     
    I WENT TO THIS SEMINAR THING IN WASHINGTON, D.C., called The American Classroom. Two students from every state were selected to participate and were carted off to Washington for a week. Every senior in my high school had to write an essay about some aspect of government or politics, and in an effort to ensure that I wouldn’t be picked, I wrote what I thought was this very lame and silly essay about how I believed women make better government leaders than men, because women seem better able to think about others, and men—or at least men who seek