"Dad," I start.
"What?"
I can't really look at him.
"That's a guy, but whatever."
"You're kidding me."
"No, that is a guy. He has that whole, y'know, boy-girl thing going."
"You've forgotten to take off your sunglasses."
"I haven't forgotten." I take them off, blinking a couple of times. "So what's the story, morning glory?"
"Well, I've been keeping tabs on you." He taps the folder ominously. "And whenever I think about my only son, my thoughts drift back to that conversation we had last summer about perhaps returning to school?"
"Oh shit, Dad," I groan. "I went to Camden. I barely graduated from Camden. I don't even know what I majored in."
"Experimental Orchestra, as I recall," Dad says dryly.
"Hey, don't forget Design Analysis."
My father's gritting his teeth, dying for a drink, his eyes roaming the room. "Victor, I have contacts at Georgetown, at Columbia, at NYU for Christ sakes. It's not as difficult as you might think."
"Oh shit, Dad, have I ever used you?"
"I'm concerned about your career and-"
"You know, Dad," I interrupt, "the question that I always dreaded most at Horace Mann was whenever my counselor would ask me about my career plans."
"Why? Because you didn't have any?"
"No. Because I knew if I answered him he'd laugh."
"I just remember hearing about you being sent home for refusing to remove your sunglasses in algebra class."
"Dad, I'm opening this club. I'm doing some modeling." I sit up alittle for emphasis."'Hey-and I'm waiting to hear if I have a part in Flatliners II."
"This is a movie?" he asks dubiously.
"No-it's a sandwich," I say, stunned.
"I mean, my god," he sighs. "Victor, you're twenty-seven and you're only a model?"
"Only a model?" I say, still stunned. "Only a model? I'd rethink the way you phrased that, Dad."
"I'm thinking about you working hard at something that-"