Mark had been out of work ten days before he answered the phone, content to stare at the answering machine as Lou Ciotta and all his minions called in on the hour, slimy with apologies. Mark walked around the house on Skyway Lane in his boxer shorts, unshaven. It astonished him to realize that his maid, pool man, and gardener had had the house to themselves for years, while Mark was only in residence from eleven at night to seven in the morning. He felt vaguely guilty being in their way, but knew they would all vanish as soon as he got sick. Meanwhile, one day at a time, he could feel himself recovering from the telephone. It was an accident that he took Steven’s call. He was having a cliché nightmare, the lid of a coffin being lowered over his face. He bolted awake from his third nap of the day and grabbed the phone unthinkingly, like oxygen. When he heard Steven’s voice, he thought at first it was about airline tickets. He was about to say his travel days were over when Steven suggested lunch—a Sunday drive up Topanga Canyon.
