But the princess sniffs the bowl and backs off. “Is that almond milk?”

“Just read your book and eat,” I say. “The test will be on the first hundred pages. Go.”

I trot upstairs and sit down for a nice long Beck sesh, which consists of listening to Rare and Well Done, looking at pictures of you I stole from Facebook, watching scenes of Pitch Perfect on mute. I get so lost in you that it gets bright in the shop and I should be tired given all the drinks, all the excitement, but I’m high on you and I want to take you to the London that Bowie sings about in the album you love. But what I have to do right now is go back downstairs to see if Benji learned to follow the directions.

What a sight, Beck. He isn’t just reading King. He’s devouring the new book like a chubby kid with a candy bar. I start to applaud and of course he drops it and fakes a yawn. I tell him it’s time for a test and he doesn’t want a test—no duh—and I tell him it’s time for a Club Soda Test.

“But you said to read the King.”

“That’s right. And you did. Congratulations.”

And now comes the sissy rant. He doesn’t want a club soda test because he has a stomachache and a headache and he thinks he’s allergic to something in the books and he needs a Band-Aid (is this camp, asshole?) and a B vitamin and a cream for his eczema, which is aggravated by the “cheap” coffee (of course the milk is from a cow tit, Benji) and he’s tired and he doesn’t want to be tested anymore.

“It’s time to get started, Benji.”

“I need more time. I’m telling you I’m intolerant of dairy. This cereal is like poison,” he tells me.

“Club soda will settle your stomach.”

“Please,” he begs.

“You never read Brief Interviews either, did you?”

He doesn’t say anything and I’m shaking my head and I feel like calling Yale Fucking University and telling them that their product is bullshit.

“I’m not a bad person,” he says.

“Of course you’re not.”

And you know, Beck, he’s not an asshole. He’s just so fucking insecure he has to drop the King he loves. I give him another shot.

“So, how’s that King?”

“Eh,” he says and he still hasn’t learned a thing.

I line up three identical red Solo cups, each full of club fucking soda, on a tray.

“You didn’t read Brief Interviews and every day there’s a test.”

“I have serious money, Joe, family money. I have a car, a mint Alfa Romeo. Do you want a car? Because I can get you a car.”

I pull the drawer open and lift the cups off the tray and into the drawer, gently, Joseph, one by one.

“All right, Benji, it’s time to get started.”

“Joe, wait. Don’t do this.” He falls to his knees. “I mean it. I have money.”

He really is an idiot and can’t read a situation and I almost feel sorry for him and I motion for him to stand and he stands. Good dog.

“Benji, I’m not drugging you.”

“Thank God.”

“This is a test. Each cup contains club soda,” I explain. “And you’re gonna take a sip from each cup and then you’re going to tell me which cup has Home Soda. We’re going to see if you recognize your own product.”

He crosses his arms. “I need something to cleanse my palate.”

I’m a step ahead and I reach into my bag and pull out a stale bagel.

“Were all three bottles opened at the same time? Club soda changes as it’s exposed to air.”

“They were, Benji.”

“I need glass cups because plastic interferes with the chemistry.”

“Drink.”

I hand him the first cup and he takes it and closes his eyes and gargles and swishes and I want to smash his head into the cup. He spits it in the piss pot and stretches and walks around.

“You know my father has access to a jet. I can get you anywhere in the world. I can get you anywhere and then we forget this ever happened. He’d never even know it was gone. He expects me to blow money, I mean that wouldn’t raise a red flag at all.”

“Bite the bagel, Benji.”

“Thailand. France. Ireland. You could go anywhere. Everywhere.”

“Bite the bagel.”

He bites the bagel and I pick up the second cup.

“Joe, please. Think about what you want here.”

“Take the cup.”

“The test still isn’t valid because the yeast from the bagel compromises my taste buds and I should gargle with salt water.”

I never raise my voice so it scares him pretty good when I do. “Take the fucking cup.”

He falls on his knees, the fucker, and he’s probably overidentified with the title character in Doctor Sleep. Ignorant Benji probably doesn’t even realize that Dr. Dan Torrance is a character that originated in The Shining, a character that struggled, and Benji’s never worked a day in his life, not really, probably made it halfway through The Shining and turned on the movie and never even held an ax. Benji is not a real man. You can’t call what he does work.

“Stand up.”

“Salt water. I’m begging you.”

“They don’t give salt water out in those Coke and Pepsi tests.”

“Do you know what distinguishes club soda from seltzer and sparkling water?”

I groan.

“It’s salt, Joe. Sometimes it’s sodium bicarbonate. Other times it’s sodium citrate or disodium phosphate.”

“Just drink it, Benji. You’re not bullshitting your way out of a test.”

“I’m not bullshitting you,” he says. “No bullshit this time. This is what I know.”

“Drink it.”

He sips from the third cup. He gargles. “This isn’t my product.”

I ignore his calls to find out if he passed or failed and walk up the stairs. Suspense is good for people. It makes us stronger. This is why America loves Stephen King so much; he keeps us on the edge of our seats until it hurts. He also knows that all people, whether groundskeepers at Fenway or privileged young fucks, are capable of going insane if placed under the right circumstances. Stephen King would appreciate my work with Benji and I smile as I lock the door.

THE deli around the corner has salt and they have Mason jars, and I stock up on both. The guy at the deli is cool and gives me a box, which makes the walk back to the shop easier. The more time I spend on this club soda project, the less surprised I am to know that a few idiots buy into Home Soda. And the more time I spend with Benji, the more I understand why a million other rich idiots don’t buy into it. Home Soda will never be as popular as Stephen King. You win over consumers by showing you understand them. And you can’t market a product if you don’t understand the potential buyer for said product.

Benji doesn’t know shit about marketing. Coke has tried every marketing strategy known to mankind. That’s why Coke is hip and classic, original and new, and dietetic and caloric. Coke is wild-eyed J. Lo’s favorite and it’s also the whitest, blandest American drink we got. It’s a contradiction. It’s fucking genius. And Coke spent a shitload of money to be everything to everyone. Your boyfriend Benji’s got it all wrong. He thinks it’s all about being special, scientific, but you don’t get anywhere in this world unless you know how to blend in.

“Gargle,” I tell Benji when I get downstairs.

He gargles like he’s at the dentist and it’s not like I’m not trying to give him a chance. I think most pricks deserve a shot at being something other than a prick. For instance, I know that Benji was, quite literally, spoiled by his family, raised by a mother who never said no and a father who never said boo and a series of nannies who quietly let the little fucker do whatever he wanted. He told me all this shit the second night in here, the night he failed the quiz on Gravity’s Rainbow and admitted to paying for every essay he ever wrote at Yale. He said he read the first five pages of the book and loved it so much that he couldn’t read any more. He said he’s too sensitive to read, too moved, that he’s built for small doses. For someone so fucking sensitive he sure does take a long time to gargle the salt water.