When he lost his job, his friends all said how sorry they were. His parents called up and said it was the economy, the cycle of things, bad luck. He told them, Hey, this could be the best thing that ever happened to me. I’ll finally have time to do the stuff I’ve been putting off. Travel, of course. Read. Get that guitar out of storage. Start hitting the gym. Take some kind of outdoor class. Meet a woman. No more excuses. His friends told him he was brave. They were excited to hear him talk about his dreams again. Back in high school, they had all thought he would go far.

After cleaning out his apartment and knocking up some shelves, he started in on the Great Authors in alphabetical order. He made it as far as Dante. It seemed good for twenty minutes, then he would get bored. When he caught himself being bored by the Great Authors—bored by Dante’s Inferno!—he felt stupid and guilty and made himself start over. He read paragraphs without blinking. He would start leafing ahead, hoping the section would end soon so he could go make coffee. Part of him knew that making coffee would lead on to another thing and another thing—and he wouldn’t have to face the Inferno again for a long time. If the next section was more than four pages away, he would just skip to it. Eventually he gave up and read an online summary. It was by some unemployable PhD, concise, well-written, covering all the major themes. Actually, the summary was so intriguing that he thought about trying to read the poem again. But what was the point of wading through all those footnoted Italians and their personalized hells, anyway? Not only did nobody believe in hell, it was embarrassing that men as smart as Dante ever had. On the summary website there was an ad for an online dating service, and he signed up.

He threw out his shabbier clothes and put in a chinning bar in his bedroom doorway. You could see him jogging the area before lunch, up and down the quieter streets, slogging home with a thousand-yard stare. Out for drinks with his married friends, he told them how he never missed his Wednesday evening salsa class. How nice it was to have time again, no need to rush through the day, grabbing take-outs, always on edge, making bad impressions, letting life pass him by. No more of that! The dancing was tricky, but the teacher promised he would get the hang of it. Besides, he was pretty sure there was some “or your money back” thingy in the fine print. His friends smiled and asked, eyebrows-up, if there was any potential in the class. He said, Oh yeah, you bet, I can spot potential, but the Filipino one doesn’t speak too much English, and the other, well, cute and the right age, but always being critical, you know, telling me to relax my hands, which is silly, because if you want a guy to relax you should just be nice to him, not tell him to relax—that tenses any guy right up, right? Am I right? They said that that was probably about the truth of it.

He would be eligible for unemployment benefits for at least eight more months, and he had some savings. There was no rush to get another job. He stayed up nights and napped in the daytime, nuking frozen food when he got hungry. He thought about life. Everything was so clear to him now. He’d lived only for his parents, for other people’s expectations. That had been the problem all along. Now he would live for himself. He decided to see his friends less and less. He’d had enough of their wry consolation and easy answers. They hung onto their pointless little careers and partners they’d settled for and they acted like they knew the meaning of life. They made such a show of being tolerant of everything and everyone. At least his father had the guts to tell him he was arrogant and shiftless. But with his friends, if someone was having a harder time with it all, was a bit different, didn’t want what they wanted—bewilderment. Yet all in all it was another chance for them to prove how enlightened they were by taking an interest and tolerating such a malcontent. Actually, he realized, being around them for so many years, letting them judge him, must have done considerable damage to his self-esteem. But he wasn’t too old, only 35, there was time to set it right.

He worked up the courage to ask out the Filipino woman. She pretended not to understand for a while, then made some excuse. He never went back to the salsa class. He joined Facebook and wrote warm comments on the walls of people he hadn’t seen for ten, fifteen years. He looked at their friend lists. It took a few short messages to say all they could possibly say to each other. He’d heard that one of his best friends from his hometown was now a successful artist in New York, but this artist would leave his friend requests pending for a couple of weeks, then the request would disappear. He couldn’t reconnect with anyone. He saw how it was: you had 25 years to meet and collect all the friends you were ever going to have, then you were stuck with them or nobody for the next half a century. In a caffeine-fueled long weekend, he retaught himself the guitar and wrote a sad but dignified song about loneliness and webcammed himself and was about to post it on YouTube. Fortunately, he caught himself before he could do something so derivative, such a phony cry for help. He gave the guitar away to the neighbor’s kid.

As winter came on, he spent more time holed up in his place, thinking things through. He would turn off the lights and sit by the window and open the shutters to watch people talking in the street. He wondered what it was that made them do that.

He began to screen his calls, listening to the messages four or five times. He only went out to buy food, always making sure to shop at a different place. It was possible his apartment looked different, smelled different now, but the change had been gradual enough that he was used to it. He was watching more and more internet porn. With a supply of food and a good DSL connection, he had to think to come up with good enough reasons to do things besides sleep, eat and watch internet porn. There was a never-ending supply of it and most of it was interesting enough to watch at least once. He reasoned that porno was what it was: never as good as the real thing, maybe, but never as bad, either. And even for those who never watched, it was beneficial: it let them believe their sex lives were real. But it was they who were compromising and deluding themselves to get by, not him. Porn was free, he always knew what he was getting, and, like alcohol (which he never touched anymore), it always did what it was supposed to do. And there was no lying to women or himself to get it. It was pleasure without a price tag, so of course it had to be stigmatized. The system was clever, he had to give it that.

He got to know all the sites, all the acronyms and categories. His favorite category was Asian. His favorite performer was called Lilly Lipps. Her trademark was glass slippers with six inch heels. At the end of a scene, Lilly ran out of the master bedroom, the locker room, the poolside area, to get back in her coach and four and home by midnight, or she would transform back into a shy science major in a cardigan and loafers.

He followed the links to Lilly’s site and clicked on the option to write her a message. She wrote back the next day:

Receiving your incoming letter so nice, my dear one of fantastic fans! Due to you is all the reason I make everything I do. Please forgiveness for my English I do not speak at all, not one word. I am here in writing Chinese through the internet machine translation program. I hoped that you can understand may me. You are so it sounds a wonderful and its a handsome man. Due to I hope to hear and possess them all, please tell me your fantasies!
Kisses, Lilly

He wrote back a short list of made-up scenarios and fetishes to make himself sound more adventurous. Then he launched into a long letter explaining how his company cut his position and how he discovered the people he thought were his friends were anything but, and how what he’d thought was a great crisis had in fact turned out to be the greatest growth and learning experience of his life. He had a reply in his inbox in two hours:

Dear compassionate one,
Your Chinese is teasing to like very much and funny! But I knew it is not you are funny, it is the network machine translation program. And even through that me felt that we have deepest of connections. I am so gladdened you decided to writes to me. At some variable times, I do get lonely, because not everyman is like you, most men users only looking for one thing. I could possibly tell you any, how I feel! Now please listen. My dear father lost in its kidney's function, he has been gets sick, in dialysis. So sad! It is therefore I make the movies, pays the very high medical expense. Howsoever, it was still not enough. Therefore I decided that sells my glass slippers. As a result of ours special relations, I hoped that provides them for you 300 US dollars. I possibly to auction them, but I knew that you will appreciate. Please buy my slipper, and helps me! Possible, when the father was better I may arrive at the US and find the way to demonstrate that to you how will feel grateful I will be.
With all my loves,
Lilly

He transferred the money for the slippers and waited. Two weeks later a DHL truck pulled up outside. He signed for the box and tore it open. Inside were a shipping list, a packet of desiccant, and a pair of size five clear plastic women’s slip-on heels. On the sole was stamped: MADE IN CHINA. He lifted them to his face and inhaled the phenolic, shop-floor smell. He shooed the cat off the windowsill and placed the slippers there and watched how they caught and bent the sunlight into wispy rainbows.

Bit by bit, he cut down on the internet porn. He started washing and shaving and ironing and keeping regular hours again. Through a self-designed personal fitness program, he got back in shape and threw out the frozen and processed food. He got rid of reality TV and Facebook and online dating profiles. He got up on current events. He started a journal dedicated to self-improvement. He read the Great Authors clean through to Z with very good recall. He made an effort to improve his posture. The single mom next door invited him over to teach her kid the guitar and have a glass of wine. He smiled and said thank you, thank you very much, but I have to go to the airport now.

He had applied for a job in a faraway city and they were flying him in for the interview. They wanted him to account for all that time he’d spent out of a job, but on the whole the interview went well. He asked what kind of car the job came with, what kind of perks. This question startled the interviewer, who shuffled some papers and assured him they’d work something out. He nailed the second interview, and the third interview, too, and started the next morning. He worked very hard. Even though he’d never done this kind of work before, he had great talent and got even better at it. Before long, he was promoted.

He bought a small house. He was at work or traveling on business almost all the time now, but at those few times when he was at home awake, alone—he never had guests—he found it hard to remember just what it was he did at work. He would visualize the documents that popped up on his widescreen display all day, the same ones he always knew exactly what to do with when they were onscreen, but in his memory they were in some shorthand he couldn’t read. It was as if his work was so important that he’d signed a secret confidentiality agreement not to think about it or even about the agreement when out of the office. This confusion lasted only as long as it took him to look at the slippers in the display case by the front door. Then he felt reassured.

He flew his parents into town and showed them around the big city, took them out to dinner, bought them gifts. He finally had a real talk with his father. They forgave each other. When he dropped them off at the airport, mother cried and they group-hugged. As he walked out of the terminal he could see behind himself: it was that redhead at check-in, smiling at him with admiration and desire.

He was careful not to make any friends. Still, he had a good reputation around the office: a bit of a loner, maybe, but nice enough, with a good sense of humor. A stand-up guy. A straight shooter. Everyone said that he was not from around here—they just couldn’t agree where. Once there was an argument over what the first initial on his door stood for. The women noticed him and read his signals and debated him. He wasn’t so tall or good-looking, true, but the more they watched him, they more they talked. A rumor made the rounds that his wife had died in a climbing accident and being a workaholic was just his way of dealing—he could never love again. Others said that he was an orphan who’d never been to college, had started as a janitor and worked his way up by sheer force of will. The women never missed a chance to flirt with him. He was happy to chat, to make the little nothing jokes they were waiting for so they could laugh. With the pushy ones, he would have lunch or a drink, nothing more. Some said he must be gay, but no one really believed it.

It’s been a hard day at work. The vital documents keep popping up on his screen, and he has to keep going because he’s the only one who can do what he does: review them, amend them, ferret out the dealbreakers and nuances. He replies and CC’s as needed, sends, and already his inbox is chiming in with another. He can’t stop for lunch, he has to keep going. If it gets boring, he makes it into a game, tries to beat his best time. Time passes.

Pain churns his lower back. It’s light out, an irradiative noon, not a cloud, but it feels like he’s been in this chair all day, staying on after hours, just him and security. He doesn’t remember them installing it, but he knows there’s a Murphy bed in the wall behind him. Does he live in the office now? Right there at his elbow are the slippers in their display case—so he must.

A secretary bustles in with a tray of his favorite food. He recognizes her as one of the internet porn stars he used to watch. In fact, it’s Lilly Lipps. But he won’t shame her by mentioning it—good for Lilly, if she wants to turn it around, go legit. She does look shorter in pumps. She sets down the tray of food, says nice tie, asks him if there’s anything else she can do for him. He clears his throat, smiles tightly and says no, that will be all.

Outside it’s the city, too far below for him to see any movement. The Sun will not dip today. Has he left the office and returned to Lilly or have they always been here? He feels he should know other places, places he came from, but he can’t imagine what they could be. He looks at the slippers. This is the moment when he breaks the display case glass and rapturously fits the slippers on Lilly’s feet and tells her of his love. This is the moment she breaks the glass and takes the slippers back and he wakes up back on his filthy couch, bedraggled and raving. This is the moment the president storms in and has security perp-walk him to supermax confinement for lying his way into HQ and embezzling millions. This is the moment when Dante, dour and laurel-crowned, rises from the dead and takes him on a guided tour of the Underworld.

I won’t have to look back at the computer and find out what it is I’ve been working on all this time, he tells himself. As long as something happens next.

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