I Was Told It Would Get Easier(78)

I glanced at Emily. “And young people listen to you? That’s not been my experience.” She tossed a piece of bread at me, but I dodged, and Harvey caught it. I turned to Amanda. “How does he catch bread he can’t even see?”

“We think he’s developed food-specific echolocation.”

Rob looked better than I’d seen him in years. His color was good, he’d lost weight, he was wearing a really cool pair of sneakers I secretly coveted. Now he said, “You should quit your job and come work with us. We could definitely use a lawyer.”

I rolled my eyes. “Oh my god, everyone wants me to quit my job. How could I possibly afford to live in New York on a start-up salary?”

“You could live here,” said Amanda. “We’re going to turn the basement into an apartment and rent it out. We’ll rent it to you. We won’t gouge you too badly, although you will have to pay extra for laundry.”

Chloe coughed, and put down her glass. “You are? Since when?”

“Since ages. You guys are all out of the house, it’s pretty big for two of us. We’ll sell it eventually, but in the meantime we’re going to Airbnb or get a tenant or something.” Amanda topped up her wineglass. “We’re going to rent it to your godmother.”

Emily turned to me, her eyes gleaming. “Let’s do it! Let’s move to New York, it would be so cool.”

“You have to finish high school,” I said firmly. “Rob, I’m still not getting it. What do you do exactly?”

“Well, lots of things. It was started by a couple of friends of ours, whose kids had grown up and left home, but who were forever calling back with questions, right?”

“I guess,” I said. “I thought they all looked things up on the internet.”

“Well, sure. But sometimes they had specific questions, or situations they hadn’t experienced before, and they called home.” He shrugged. “We did that too, right? We didn’t even have the internet so much.”

I thought about it. “Uh . . . I remember calling my mom in a panic because the toilet was overflowing and she told me how to turn off the water.”

“Exactly. And the younger generation is used to being able to get answers to everything, but the internet isn’t always enough. The founders started getting calls from their kids’ friends, and emails, too. They realized there’s lots of practical information young people miss out on or need help with. They had some money, so they started a website and called it AskRabbit, kind of as a joke. You know, like TaskRabbit, but for questions.” He shrugged. “It took off, not in a stratospheric, internet unicorn way, but in a steady, meaningful way. They were fielding dozens and then hundreds of questions a day.”

“What kinds of questions?” Emily was interested.

Amanda laughed. “Bizarre questions, easy questions, hard questions, everything.”

Rob nodded. “But mostly practical questions. How do I settle a dispute with my landlord? How do I quit my job without burning bridges? How do I choose a credit card? How do I get a visa for another country when I don’t know my social security number?” He chewed and talked. “They can find this information online, probably, but they want to talk to an actual person.”

“And then they also get weird questions . . .” Chloe warned. “Like, how do I get this Malibu Barbie out of my butt?”

“We have never had that question, Chloe.” Her father frowned at her, then smiled. “But we do get personal questions, like how do I tell my girlfriend I’m gay, or how do I tell my parents I got arrested . . .” His expression was serious. “Last week we worked with a thirty-one-year-old man who’d found out he had maybe a year to live. We sat down with him and planned out everything he needed to do, legally, personally . . . It was hard. But it was easier for him to do it with us than with his parents, or his wife, all of whom were too devastated to think straight.”

“Wow,” I said, leaning back in my chair. “That sounds intense.”

Rob nodded. “But most days are filled with simple questions and general advice. We also have specialists, like me, who help with work-type questions. It’s rewarding. Last week I ran a workshop on developing relationships with whistleblowers, or confidential sources, for young journalists. Most of them had journalism degrees, but this is the kind of practical help you’d normally get on the job.”

“And they don’t get it there . . . ?”

“No, because there aren’t newsrooms in the same way there used to be. Everyone’s freelancing, or working remotely, and many bureaus fired a lot of senior people . . .” He looked at Amanda, and then at me. “And here’s the thing. The internet is great, and contains billions of bits of information, about pretty much every subject under the sun. But sometimes people want to look at someone, or hear their voice, when they’re worried about something. And not everyone has family, sadly.” He shook his head. “It’s been eye-opening.”

Amanda got up from the table. “Who wants dessert?”





EMILY


It would be awesome to live in New York, but I don’t think Mom’s going for it. Despite this morning’s sudden ditching of the tour, she’s not usually a quick-change artist. She’s . . . methodical. Predictable. Which I actually appreciate, even though sometimes her immovability feels like walls rather than foundations. (Sidenote: Is it a simile or metaphor if you say like in one case but not in the other? Ask Mr. Libicki.) To be fair, I’d probably think moving anywhere would be good, because I really want to run away. I’m dreading going back to school next week, because there is no doubt in my mind everyone is going to know who snitched and why. Information is like a bad smell; a little bit is enough to start pointing fingers.