“Arrgh.” The Kilmax, I noticed, had produced several troubling side effects. Ben’s eyes— usually so bright and searing— had dimmed to a pale ocher. His horns were pointed downward and his fur was falling out in clumps. I was telling him about another option — the birthright trip to Israel — when he suddenly held up his claw, cutting me off midsentence. “No . . . more.” I screamed for Alan, and he came running. “Ben spoke!” I cried. We leaned in toward our son, keeping as still as possible. Ben gasped a few times, obviously struggling. Eventually, though, he managed to continue. “No more . . . arrrrrgh! Pleeeeeaseeeearrrrrgh! Me . . . not . . . sick. Me . . . arrrrrrrgh! Monster. Let . . . be . . . monster. Let be monster.” My eyes filled with tears. I’d always assumed that Ben would never talk — and now here he was, carrying on a full conversation! If Ben could master language, there was no limit to what he could achieve. I whipped out my iPhone and typed in Han’s number from memory. It was time to start thinking about law school. Simon Rich is the author of The Last Girlfriend on Earth, What in God’s Name, Ant Farm, Free-Range Chickens, and Elliot Allagash. His work appears frequently in The New Yorker. He lives in Brooklyn, New York. *
“Aaaaaarrrrrgggh!” he screamed with obvious elation. “Aarrrrrrrgh!” Apex Consulting introduced me to Jean Petis, an award-winning painter based in the Williamsburg section of Brooklyn. After I showed him Ben’s portfolio and committed to buy a series of twenty-by-thirty-foot paintings, he agreed to take him on for a three-month period. Ben’s internship was not without incident. He gored some paintings, which Alan and I were forced to replace, and he did not get along with Jean Petis. After just four days, Ben quit his internship and disappeared into the Connecticut forest, where he lived as a beast for several weeks, drinking wild-deer blood to survive. I had to admit, part of me was disappointed. I’d trusted Bard to prepare my child for a career in the arts, and they’d completely “dropped the ball.” I wondered if we had made a mistake by not seriously considering Oberlin. After Ben was captured, we got him a prescription for Kilmax, which is a slightly stronger medicine than Adderall. Then, on a rainy February morning, I sat down with him to talk about his future. As usual, it was difficult for us to connect. “Do you think you’d like to try another internship?” “Arrgh.” “Would you like us to rent you your own artist’s studio in Williamsburg?”
slightly stronger medicine than Focalin. It took nearly seven years, but Ben eventually earned his BA in painting. I’ll never forget how handsome he looked on the podium, with his cute little horns poking out through his mortarboard. No sooner had he snatched his diploma, though, than my heart began to race. All I could think was, What now? Ben moved back home and quickly settled into his old teen-age routine, sleeping past noon and drinking blood out of the carton. After several long months, Alan and I were beginning to get nervous. One day, though, we read an interesting article in the New York Times Magazine. It was a very long piece, but the gist of it was this: College alone does not prepare children for the modern workforce. Writing papers and taking tests is all well and good. But if a kid is really going to succeed in the rough-and-tumble business world, he needs hands-on experience in his chosen field. Armed with this knowledge, I decided to hire the Apex Consulting Group (a small boutique firm that specializes in career planning). After several enjoyable meetings, they gave me their recommendation: Ben should intern with a working artist. When they told me this idea, I was so excited I could barely breathe. Finally, after decades of work, Ben would have a chance to fulfill his dreams. When I told him the plan, he was so enthused he punched his fist through a wall.
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