The email arrived at 3:17 PM on a Tuesday. My microwave clock has been stuck at 3:17 for eleven days. Twelve paragraphs of polite language: Arthur Levine, you are no longer employed. Budget reductions. Restructuring. We wish you well.
I read it seventeen times. Each reading a ritual of denial. I called Mike O'Connell. He writes a culture column for the New York Post. "Come drinking. I'm buying. It's in the contract." The friendship contract neither of us signed but both observed. I passed the piano in the corner. Nina and I bought it ten years ago. Walked past without looking. Six months since I opened the lid. "You look...
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