I say nothing. “Why don’t I just email you the interview,” he says. “Well, let me ask at least two questions so I don’t feel like a complete tool.” “Very well.” “Why elevators?” “They are obscene on their own. I make them palatable by transforming the social expectations of the space of elevators.” “You were born rich?” “My family owns a series of mines.” “Goodbye, Mr. Duffrey,” I say, standing, holding out my hand. He takes it. * I am on a plane. The young woman is asleep next to me. My bank account just increased by $15,000. I checked. It wasn’t the company. It was Duffrey. I am flying west over the Alps. Then I will cross the Atlantic, change planes in New York. Then back to Los Angeles. Does money always keep revolutions at bay? I only want to live; we all do.
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