If you asked Reed, the difference between him and Wendell was that Wendell didn't know what the fuck he was doing. Reed knew he wasn't doing anything, and so he thought he was God.
I am God, he would say to Wendell, who would throw him an irritated stare and tell he didn't know what the fuck he was talking about. Reed would laugh like a wise-ass and tell him he didn't know what the fuck he was doing.
You don't know what the fuck you're doing, said he. And Wendell gave up cooking and started putting away the eggs, flour, and vinegar he'd gotten out to bake a cake for his wife's anniversary, because he knew he was right and that he didn't know how to cook, not even a cakemix.
Look, it goes without saying, he mumbled.
It wasn't going, Reed pointed out. You kept trying.
I could have gotten it eventually, indignant.
You don't have that much cakemix, conclusive, and Reed turned around in his barstool that was sitting at the kitchen table and watched some show called Fortune's Fool that was giving away thousands to attractively stupid people.
Wendell needed a comeback, a flippant remark to prove he wasn't an idiot. I wonder why stupid people are so attractive.
Reed didn't even turn. I don't know, but I guess you just can't do any better.
That's not what I meant. Nothing. Take you. You're a reasonably stupid fellow. But you never have any problems with women. So either most women can't tell the difference – so they're stupid dolts too – or they don't care.
They must really go for guys with smaller heads, as he watched a gorgeous woman laugh at a joke he'd heard and told twenty times before. The host, who had just bought a second enormous house right next to the first in Beverly Hills, after having the bad judgement to give the original to the woman divorcing him because of the woman sleeping in one of his three condos in New York, the woman who was his cousin just come in from out of town, both towns — the host flashed his winning smile at his beautiful but stupid co-host who did nothing but sleep with him poorly but richly, and Wendell opened the fridge and gazed at the bread, wondering whether he could get away with making matrimonial toast in the morning.
Maybe, she'd let me get away with making toast in the morning.
Reed judged and found liable, suggesting Wendell didn't know how to make toast either. I do, he said, but I'd better not rely on that. She's a light sleeper. It'd be no good getting her up before I could make breakfast.
Nodding, definitive, cooking is not your strong suit.
I'm not a poor cook, resentful.
But you are a bad one, punning, although, considering, that may be your best trait.
Wendell sensed he was losing the epic battle of wits, and couldn't conceive how he couldn't master a holiday. He really didn't know what the fuck he was going to do.
I really don't know what the fuck I'm going to do, postulating.
Pensive, die and have kids.
That, posed Wendell, may have to suffice.