I said, “I’m a filmmaker.”

Chip blinked. He said, “Can you do a website?”

I said, “Whatever,” and walked out.

I went down the hall to my office. I shut the door, and five minutes later I walked back down the hall and leaned into Millhouse’s doorway and said, “Are you gonna farm out video to somebody else?” He shrugged. He was on the phone. I said, “Am I that bad?” He covered up the mouthpiece and said, “Are you blind? I’m talking!” He’s terrible with people. I packed my briefcase with papers and told Donna at the switchboard that I was sick and ran down to the garage and got my car.

I drove through the city. It was almost lunchtime. The lab was supposed to return film for two spots this afternoon so we could synch the sound, quarterly expense reports for my department were due at five o’clock, and we were having a barbecue that night with Linda’s father and Barbara and six of our closest neighbors. I hadn’t seen these people in weeks; I wanted everything to be cool. The scene at home was tricky enough. I was wearing a beautiful dark-green cashmere turtleneck sweater Linda had bought me, and the sweat was pouring out of my armpits, rolling down my sides. I had the air conditioner on full blast, sweating my ass off. I kept calling my voice mail at work and hanging up. I called home. Phil, of all people, answered.

“Can I talk to Linda?”

He said, “I’m on the phone.”

I said, “Guess what? Is your offer still good from last night?”

Phil said, “I don’t follow you. Look, I’m on another call. Just call back.”

I drove around, staring at my car’s reflection in passing store windows. I was an idiot for bringing up that stuff with Linda’s father. I thought of everything he’d done—broadcasting live from wars, hosting presidential debates, kneeling at the coffins of kings in photos on the covers of every newspaper in the world. Every time I saw a guy in a car on his cellular phone, I flipped out. I needed something immediately—a hug from my wife—and I jetted home.

THEY WEREN’T THERE. I remembered they’d gone to pick up steaks for the barbecue that night, and I sat down to wait.

The dog came over and stood in front of me. He needed to be brushed. He had a cow’s head and a long coat—he looked like a dusty, exploded buffalo rug. I said, “Come here, Ripley.” He stared at me with his black eyes, and I thought of how brain-dead he was and yet, even so, was able to engender love in every living thing around him. I hugged him and patted his head.