So just for now, in this resolutely private moment with You, in this prayer that can’t be forwarded or downloaded or mocked by the Twitterverse, I’m asking for everything, except for the lightning bolt that smites idiots who dare to ask for everything. I’ll ask, because the alternative, never asking, is sadness itself. Never asking isn’t just giving up or huddling under a Slanket on the sidelines; it’s admitting defeat without even trying, without daring to be a boldly-patterned-sock-wearing hero, or more likely a boldly-patterned-sock-wearing fool.

And now I’m terrified and hideously embarrassed and late for work, but I said it and You listened and—here we go!

CHAPTER 3

One of the perks of my job is getting to constantly visit new venues, because the company I work for, Eventfully Yours, promises, as its mission statement, “Vivid, life-affirming, experience-aware, visual, tactile and culinary event planning within a tristate celebration radius,” which means I’ve helped create fiftieth wedding anniversary rodeos on Long Island, complete with bales of hay and waitstaff in gingham and Stetsons; Game of Thrones–themed bachelorette parties in New Jersey, with ice-sculpture dragons and crude bronze tiaras; the introduction of a “sky-high energy-plus” sports drink with out-of-work actors dressed like bottles of the stuff parachuting onto the Brooklyn Bridge; and so many more, including the after-after party for a Lincoln Center film festival where I got to help Sandra Bullock navigate the red carpet, and she was the nicest human being I’ve ever met. Today I was headed for the United Nations, a landmark which, like most hard-core New Yorkers, I’d brag about to newcomers but had never actually been to.

A laminated security pass on a lanyard was waiting for me, and the many security guards guided me toward a large amphitheater paneled in sleek Mad Men–era blonde wood. There was a wide stage, which my boss, Cassandra Crastick, was standing on, issuing commandments.

“Bailey, please raise the banner with Prince Edgar’s official portrait five inches so it’s even with the photo blowup of him touring the refugee camp. No, one more inch, must I do everything myself? And Jesus, Carter, where have you been? We haven’t even started on the flowers or your precious acrylic panels, whatever they are, I hope you have a decent excuse, like you were hit by a bus while riding your ludicrous bicycle, I have told you, riding a bicycle in Manhattan is basically begging the world, ‘Please fracture my pelvis and give me a head injury.’”

Cassandra is not what I’d call merely high-maintenance, but a narcissistic personality disorder in a nubby cashmere poncho with foot-length fringe. She’s insane, but I love her, because she’s helplessly insane, as opposed to deliberately evil.