Mark Glassman does a surprisingly good job of feigning confidence, fooling everyone but himself. Below is an exclusive excerpt from the novel Glassman by Steve Oskie.

The trouble started when I was nineteen, after I made the willful decision to give my mother a hard time.

“Mom,” I said, “does Harry really expect me to work as a busboy?”

“Why wouldn’t he? He already talked to Mitch.”

Mitch Frankel owned the coffee shop in the lobby of 2601, our apartment building on the Benjamin Franklin Parkway. He owed Harry a favor, but he had no idea how big a favor it would be if he actually offered me a job. I was a slacker before the word was invented.

“What right did he have to talk to Mitch? I never agreed to that!”

My poor mother. She was a hapless, handwringing go-between in my interactions with my stepfather, which meant that she had to do the talking whenever Harry refused to take up a topic with me directly. As a result, there was a worn path in the shag carpet between their bedroom and mine, where I typically blasted “Monkey Man” by the Rolling Stones or some other sonic assault on middle-aged ears.

“You’re nineteen years old,” she said. “You’ll have to work eventually.”

“You know what? Maybe I’ll join the army and get shot up in Vietnam. Is that what he would prefer?”

“Where did that come from?”

“I’m serious. If they ship me home in a flag-draped casket, Harry would have some explaining to do.”

My mother paused for a moment, staring at my blood-shot eyes. “Were you up on the roof again?”

This was her euphemism for smoking pot. A day after we moved in to 2601, I discovered a fire exit that led to an unlocked door on the roof, where I could fire up a joint, look out over the city, and dream my dreams of a permanent vacation.

“I mighta been—why?”

“Because you say things that you wouldn’t dream of saying if you hadn’t been up there.”

“It must be the altitude. It goes right to my head.”

“All right. We’ll finish this discussion another time. I’ve gotta get my brisket in the oven.”

Obviously, she was just as relieved as I was that we had an excuse to change the subject.

“Are you making farfel?” I asked.

“Yes, I’m making farfel!”

“Do we have apple sauce?”

“Yes, we have apple sauce!”

Her nostrils tended to flare when she was dealing with the teenage version of me—especially when I was getting to her. Whenever her nostrils did that, it was a beautiful thing to behold.

“Musselman’s or that cheap kind you buy in the commissary?”

“Oh, for God’s sakes! Musselman’s!”

“I’m just asking. I like to drag the brisket through the applesauce every few bites.”

“I’m well aware of that. I made you a spice cake also.”

“I appreciate it, but the spice cake has no bearing on whether or not I get a job.”

“You won’t work in the coffee shop? Is that final?”

“Probably not.”

Her frightened expression was priceless—especially for a pervert like me.

“What should I tell Harry?”

“Tell him I have an idea.”

Now that we were on the verge of a breakthrough, my mother restrained herself, not wanting to jinx her possible good fortune.

“Really?” she followed, deliberately removing any trace of optimism. “You’ll get a job?”

“I know you want me to become a doctor, a lawyer, or an accountant, but this is the wrong way to go about it.”

“I thought you had an idea.”

“I do. Now please, get that brisket in the oven. I want to finish eating by seven. The Phillies are playing the Pirates.”

Related: Read an interview with Steve Oskie, author of Glassman