The other night, Barnaby Sandwich decided to attend a mixer in a bookstore on Maple Street. After he had checked his coat, filled his pockets with broccoli, and loaded up on Portuguese shiraz, he found himself being addressed by a beautiful woman who kept looking over his shoulder for someone else to talk to. Every time she looked over his shoulder, he turned around—which, for a gentleman of Barnaby’s girth, is no small thing. But he saw nothing in particular except dozens of other beautiful women looking over dozens of other men’s shoulders. Glabber glabber glabber—one hundred gazes on the prowl.

“Barnaby,” muttered this woman confidentially, leaning in and whispering, “I am worried about you. You clearly expend enormous energy on your work, but I’m afraid that there’s something missing. Why are you so afraid of emotional committment? Why can’t you be kinder to the women in your life? Why can’t you engage with the problems of the people? You’re—well, you’re moderately—that is, you have a certain sort of rough talent, Barnaby, that’s undeniable, but as it stands now you’re essentially wasting it. Is it a question of laziness, or of an overdeveloped sense of entitlement? I don’t know what the problem is. You see, if I were you, I would be traveling in North Africa, selling trinkets to Bedouins and starving to death. That would be a real experience. Or else maybe working in the post office, or selling Avon door to door. That would get you in touch with the real world. That would allow you to grow as an artist. My goodness, what could be more obvious? What on earth is preventing you? Instead of moving to Appalachia and working in a Wal-Mart for ten years and doing something worthwhile, you insist on trying to make hay out of your overprivileged, phony, artificial, bullshit, unfair, son-of-a-bitch bourgeois little, silly little, ridiculous little life. What good is that? I mean, seriously, Barnaby, it’s awfully condescending, don’t you think? If you won’t take the trouble to go out and rub shoulders with the meatloaf-eating plebeians, why on earth should you expect them to be interested in what you do? My goodness! Stand up straight, man! Look at you! All of your chakras are out of alignment, and this one—” here she jabbed him in the belly with four well-trained karate fingers “—is totally dead. You’re passionless! You’re an ice cube! You’re all locked up! How do you expect to be an artist if you haven’t got any passion? I mean, my God, Barnaby, commit yourself to something! Open yourself to the winds of change! Take some criticism! Look reality in the face! Stop masturbating into a phone booth and get out and do something in the world!”

Barnaby listened to this monologue in slack-jawed shock; when she jabbed him in the belly, he choked on a mouthful of shiraz; and at the words “do something in the world,” the damn broke, and he began to blubber.

“Oh, God, you’re right!” cried Barnaby into the glabber glabber glabber of the crowded cocktail party. “Who am I trying to fool? My entire life has been a misdirected waste! I’m a fraud! I’m a joker! I’m worse than Pol Pot! I—uh—I—uh . . . I’m sorry, who did you say you were?”

“Oh!” the woman said and broke into a magnificent smile that made Barnaby’s heart flutter. “Justine Prune. We went to nursery school together! Isn’t it incredible? It must be twenty years since the last time I saw you!”

“Uh—oh,” said Barnaby, coughing, furrowing his brow, and smearing half a pint of mucus across the sleeve of his corduroy Norfolk jacket. “Well, it’s—yes, it certainly has been—I mean, of course it’s wonderful to see you, Justine, but if you don’t mind my asking—forgive me, I don’t mean to be presumptuous, or ungrateful, but if you don’t mind my asking, if we haven’t seen each other in twenty years—the time sure does fly, doesn’t it—well, but if we haven’t seen each other, the advice you just gave me, well . . .”

Justine Prune shook her head in a brisk, businesslike fashion.

“Barnaby,” she said, “your problems are obvious simply from the way you cut your hair and handle crudité. Even if I hadn’t spent two years after college working as a receptionist in a psychoanalyst’s office, your life would still be as clear to me as day.”

Barnaby excused himself from the lovely Ms. Prune and pushed and clattered his way through the mating young men and women toward the bar. He was politely, supplicantly, desperately asking for another glass of shiraz when a fellow he knew named Antonio pulled him by the sleeve. They both got their drinks, moved into a small empty corner, and made small talk for a few moments. Then Antonio said this:

“I ran into a girl who knows you, Barnaby. I mean, she doesn’t know you, really, but she says she’s been admiring you from afar. Christ, she was fucking gorgeous, too. She’s a brilliant photographer, unattached, comes from money, and is kind to children and animals. Anyway, that’s the impression I got. I might be wrong.”

“What?” Barnaby said. “Who? Who are you talking about?”

“I met her at a bar and for some reason I mentioned that I knew you,” said Antonio.

“What?” said Barnaby. “Why did you mention that?”

“I can’t remember,” said Antonio. “Anyway, she said to tell you that she had sent you several letters—”

“Letters? What letters?”

“—but they might have gotten lost in the mail. But it doesn’t matter. She only wanted to tell you that her uncle Mortimer Nadelbrawn is a big fan of yours, and hopes you keep up the good work.”

“A big fan of—what? Who’s Mortimer Nadelbrawn? What’s the girl’s name?”

“You know,” said Antonio. “He works with Ben Hessel at Schechter & Plotz.”

“Schechter & Plotz?”

“You know,” said Antonio. “They handle Tony Blaffit and the Levine Sisters. They represented Captain Santa’s Snowman Explosion, and I don’t have to tell you, they really cleaned up on that shit. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. The point is, the guys over at Schechter & Plotz are rooting for you, and so’s the whole team down at Henderson, Raditz, and this girl said to tell you that if you want to have a drink sometime, she’s there every Friday.”

“She’s where every Friday?”

At this point, Antonio spotted Justine and lit up into a smile.

“Justine!” he called out.

“She’s where every Friday?” cried Barnaby.

Antonio called out “Justine!” again and dove away into the crowd. Barnaby smelled his shiraz, winced, and decided to leave. As he pushed his way out through the glabber glabber glabber, past a blonde yoga teacher who had once taught him to say “lick my ass” in German, Antonio gave him an enthusiastic thumbs up, and Justine waved, winked, and carefully mouthed the words “Wal-Mart.”