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Our food arrives, smelling like heaven. We dig in, and the conversation turns to lighter topics, such as the baseball season and the new video game we’ve been waiting to play. But in the back of my mind, I’m dreading the evening ahead.

A few hoursand one masturbation session later to de-stress, we’re standing outside an art gallery in Dumbo, Brooklyn.

“Are you sure this is the right place?” I ask Daniel, eyeing the Brooklyn Bridge at the end of the street.

He double-checks the address on his phone. “Yeah, this is it. Olivia said to look for the giant duck.”

I blink. “The what now?”

Daniel points to the window behind me. Sure enough, a massive yellow duck sits in the middle of the window display. It’s easily six feet tall and appears to be made out of some sort of inflatable material. Its beady eyes stare blankly ahead, and its orange beak is frozen in a permanently warped smile.

Now, I’ve seen many horrifying things since moving to the city. Dead rats, tourists getting mugged, Jason Voorhees taking Manhattan. But none of that compares to this inanimate object plotting my demise.

Next to the abomination is a small title card that reads—in a pretentious cursive font, no less—Existential Quack.

I stare at the duck, then back at Daniel. “What the actual fuck is that?”

To his credit, he appears equally disturbed. “No idea, man. But I think it’s sizing me up for dinner.”

“Do you think it’s also going to come to life and peck out our eyes?”

Daniel gasps dramatically. “Don’t even joke about that. I’m going to have nightmares for months now.”

“Months? Try the rest of our lives. Who in their right mind would create such a thing?”

People joining us in line apparently share a different opinion. They ooh and aah, applaud and whistle as if it were the second coming of Christ.

“So profound,” one woman says.

“A commentary on the human condition,” says another.

“It’s a big-ass duck,” I whisper to Daniel. “What’s so profound about it?”

He shrugs. “Guess this is what they consider art nowadays.”

I distract myself with a shelf full of brochures about the gallery. Apparently, it’s owned by a woman named Danielle Nichols. I balk at the picture they’ve chosen to accompany her short bio.Was the photographer on crack or something?She looks scarier than the duck.

The back of the brochure contains a couple of photos from the most recent exhibition. I smile at the canvas covered in colorful lines and squiggles. It reminds me of the book my mom used to read to me when I was younger—Howard and the Purple Crayon.

And then there’s an image of a blank, white square. I bring the brochure up to my face, thinking that maybe my vision is getting bad or something, but nope. Still just a whole lot of nothing.

The caption beneath it reads, “The Absence of Presence.” I stare at the words, mouthing them silently to myself.The absence of presence? What the hell does that even mean?

Is it supposed to be a commentary on the emptiness of modern life? The futility of human existence? The artist’s lack of talent?

I go to ask Daniel what he thinks, but he’s no longer beside me. Matter of fact, I’m all alone out here.

The door to the gallery opens, and Daniel pokes his head out. “Dude! Are you coming in or what?”

Tucking the brochure into my back pocket, I follow Daniel inside and pray that I don’t die of boredom. I’d much rather go out in a blaze of glory.

Chapter 8

Explosive Heights of Pleasure

Daniel

My face is on fire,as is my crotch. The last time I was this hard in public was back in high school. Somehow, we always had the hottest substitute teachers, and my teenage hormones were constantly in overdrive.