Fleishman Is in Trouble by Taffy Brodesser-Akner;

Author:Taffy Brodesser-Akner;
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Penguin Random House LLC
Published: 2019-06-17T16:00:00+00:00

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NOW TOBY STOOD in the middle of his apartment, clutching a jar of peanut butter like it was a baby. He had picked up the peanut butter as soon as he walked away from Miriam and Cyndi so that he wouldn’t look like some psychopath who just window-shopped at Whole Foods. He held it in both hands against his chest, like someone was trying to take it away from him. He wanted to tear the flesh from his face. He wanted to rend his garments. He wanted to smash this peanut butter jar with his bare hands but actually it was just hard plastic.

Focus, Fleishman. He turned to the kitchen, and his computer. He looked up Sam Rothberg’s name on Facebook. His last post was the Funny or Die video that everyone had passed around ten years before. He scrolled down through more: a Tawny Kitaen meme, some craft beer blog posts, a picture of him and Jack at STEM Night at the school, a picture of him and Miriam at the fundraiser for scleroderma that Miriam’s mother had bought a table at (said the caption). Then, most recently, two weeks ago, a picture of a pizza restaurant called Baba Louie’s with the caption “More like Baba booey, am I right? [crying-but-laughing emoji] [crying-but-laughing emoji] [crying-but-laughing emoji].” He typed the name of the restaurant into his search bar. It was in Great Barrington, Massachusetts. He then searched Kripalu. Twelve miles away. What a dumb fucking joke. Rachel was fucking a Howard Stern listener. He sat back in his chair, staring at the screen. Cripple you.

Last year, Toby and Rachel had invited the Hertzes and the Leffers for Friday night dinner. Toby had cooked the entire night before, and then he served dinner, and the women were oohing and making pointed jokes toward their husbands over how nice it was to be waited on by a man, and to have a man who participates. The understanding at the table appeared to be that Rachel had cooked, and Toby, in thanks, had let her sit throughout the meal. But it wasn’t true. He’d made chicken Milanese, one of his favorite recipes, and when Cyndi commented on it—“Mmm. Is that oregano?”—he’d said, “No, it’s tarragon.” He’d seen Rachel’s face darken at this, and he wondered what crime he had committed. How was it possible that he could work so hard so that she could impress her stupid friends and still disappoint her so deeply?

Later he was in the kitchen plating the dessert the Hertzes had brought, and Rachel came in and snarled into his ear that he could, ostensibly, have more self-respect than making sure everyone knew that he’d made the meal. “I could make a meal if I didn’t have to work day and night.”

There were so many ways to respond, Toby thought. Should he tell her that he hadn’t even thought about it when Cyndi asked? That he was sure it hadn’t registered with her because she

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