"Yeah," I said, making it clear that I didn't want to talk about it. To his credit, Malcolm took the hint and backed off. "So what about you?" I said, trying to change the subject.
"What about me?" he asked.
Yeah, that would probably be a good thing to specify... "Don't you have a personal assistant?" I asked him. "Hopping around from place to place, booking appearances and accepting invitations to charity functions and whatnot?"
Malcolm shook his head. "I have a secretary at my office," he said, "but I rarely go in any more. He holds down the fort while I'm away."
The way he said it left me with the impression that he didn't work much at all. Which might explain his behavior. Perhaps he was bored and looking to spice up his life with a little eccentricity and a little sex in front of a camera? For some reason, the idea annoyed me. I'm not sure why it did. After a bad breakup I'd once seriously contemplated feigning amnesia so I wouldn't have to go through the inevitable postmortem period with all our mutual friends. Surely that was worse? "So he knows all your business stuff?"
Malcolm nodded. "He does. He's very dedicated to his job, and we go out for dinner twice a week where he tells me everything that's been going on. Most of the meetings can be handled by people under me, and I compensate them for the risks they take. Really, the life of a CEO can get repetitive, and most problems are the same problem in different clothing. Most of the time the heads of other companies just want me to go play golf so they can convince me to do some business deal or other." A rueful smile crossed his lips, and I realized I had turned completely toward him as he spoke. I was leaning forward, hanging on his words. I had to force myself to move back as I made a curious noise, trying to not make my interest in him so screamingly obvious. I'm not sure why. After all, his interest in me was apparent, and if I weren't so attracted to him it might have been rather creepy.
"I chose the wrong thing to do," he said. "I hate golf. I'm not sure you can hate golf and be a CEO. It's just not possible.
"Do you hate it because you're bad at it, or because it's boring and wasteful?" I asked him.
A grin broke across his face. "The latter," he said. "I'm very good at it. I'm very good at most things."
I raised my eyebrows. "And modest, too."
He shrugged. "It is just fact."
Oh really? "And what are you not good at?"
He pursed his lips. "Art. Yet," he said.
I supposed that was true. "You do have talent," I had to admit to him. "There was something in those photos that was very... magnetic."
"It's you," he said, catching me off guard. "You are the magnetic part of those pictures."
I looked away. "I didn't look half as terrible as I usually do in photos," I conceded grudgingly. "But that was maybe the lighting. And I actually took the time to do my make up yesterday."
"And today?" he said as the subway car screeched to a halt. People got off, and people got on. An old hobo staggered through the doors. One of the ones that likes to sing. I hate those guys, because I never have enough cash to give to all of them, and it makes me feel like shit. I know, I know, living in the city, I should be over this by now, but I could have been one of those guys. Anyone could. It's just an accident of birth. Absently I patted my pockets as I tried to formulate an answer to his question.
"I probably dolled myself up a bit," I admitted with a sigh. Just as I'd thought, I didn't have any cash on me. I'd spent the last of it on beer and cigarettes. If I'd had one of those beers still with me, I could have given it to him, but that probably wasn't the wisest decision. I'd feel better, but the next thing you know there's a homeless dude frozen stiff under a bridge.
The hobo clanged a beat-up cane against the subway car pole. "Attention," he said. "Attention please." The car started up and he stumbled, only managing to catch himself at the last moment. He cleared his throat as he straightened up and I looked away. I hated to see people like this. I wish I had Felicia's idealism when it came to the world, but no amount of money was going to change that guy's life. Money could never make him sober, or induce his kids to talk to him again, or whatever terrible, sad story he had hidden away inside.
He gave a little speech in a gruff voice, and then launched into Goodbye, My Coney Island Baby. I wanted to sink into the floor. He held his hat out as he walked up and down the car, and he passed me quickly, seeing that I had nothing. His voice was quite fine, but it was so sad to see his talent wasted on a subway car full of commuters that it mostly made me depressed, and I averted my eyes.