Read Online A Better Goodbye by John Schulian - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: John Schulian
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I know?â Nick said. âI havenât read the story yet.â
But he did later that morning, though not from top to bottom. He zeroed in on words or phrases that grabbed his attention, then looked elsewhere when they began to make him uncomfortable. He nodded at the mention of the two fights that had made him a contender, and he scarcely remembered some of the anecdotes that were intended to prove he was flesh and blood. Had he really strutted around Chicagoâs North Side shouting, âWhoâs the toughest guy in the neighborhood?â Had the raggedy kids whoâd made him their hero really answered, âYou are, Nickâ?
Rigby had squeezed the essence of Nickâs life as a boxer into seven hundred words. Nick couldnât make himself read the last of them, though. It hurt too much to be reminded of the days when he had a chance to be someone special. But there was no holding back the memories. There had been promises of big paychecks, and women had lined up to get in his bed, not girls from down the block or barroom sluts, but the kind you shine your shoes for. And then the good life that was supposed to be his went away in the time it took to send a man to his doom.
Now Nick sat with a hollow feeling in his chest and the sports section in his hands, consumed by thoughts of what might have been. It was as close to self-pity as he allowed himself to come, and he always beat it back with guilt and embarrassment. Alonzo Burgess was deadâno way the toughest guy in the old neighborhood could feel sorry for himself. What kind of joke would that have been? Nick smiled ruefully. He even laughed. There wasnât anything else for him to do until a reason to live came along, and he hadnât had one of those since the night the lights went out in Oakland.
6
Scott Crandall wondered if the Pink Dot geek had run over old ladies to show up so fast. Okay, geek was harsh, but really, what else could the guy be, fighting Westside traffic all day to deliver smokes and groceries, wine and home pregnancy tests? He might even have been driving one of the original Pink Dot VW Bugs, with the royal blue body, the Pepto-colored dots, and the pink-and-white propeller hat on the roof. Honest to God, a propeller on the ugliest car the sixties ever saw. Scott had heard Pink Dot still had a few of them on the road. Geekmobiles. And he knew there was only one species that could drive them. Geeks.
He handed over three twenties and a ten and told the geek to keep the change. Then he closed the door without waiting for a thank you and carried his two bags of goodies back to the IBM ThinkPad heâd fired up as soon as he had dragged his ass out of bed. He kept his computer on the dining room table, not that there was a dining room in his one-bedroom. It was more like a place to eat if he wasnât standing at the kitchen counter, wolfing down cold pizza or takeout Thai orâtalk about inescapable for the man who couldnât cookâsomething from Pink Dot.
In fact, he planned on having a late breakfast/early lunch/whatever there before he headed to Warner Bros. for a 1 P.M. casting session. So would it be spaghetti with marinara sauce or the Southwest taco salad? Better go with the salad. The spaghetti felt like it was frozen solid. Good thing it was in the same bag as his Smirnoff vodka and Twix candy bars. That would be everything for the evening if he spent it at home. Well, maybe heâd have a Twix now. Just one. And a cigarette.
Scott was chewing the last bite of his candy bar when he lit up an American Spirit. He swallowed, took a drag and returned his attention to tailfeathers.com . With Daily Variety and the Hollywood Reporter out of the wayâtook you twenty minutes to get through them and two hours to get over themâit would complete his Internet reading for the day. His only reading of any kind, not that anybody cared.
Tailfeathers was devoted to hookers and johns all over the
But he did later that morning, though not from top to bottom. He zeroed in on words or phrases that grabbed his attention, then looked elsewhere when they began to make him uncomfortable. He nodded at the mention of the two fights that had made him a contender, and he scarcely remembered some of the anecdotes that were intended to prove he was flesh and blood. Had he really strutted around Chicagoâs North Side shouting, âWhoâs the toughest guy in the neighborhood?â Had the raggedy kids whoâd made him their hero really answered, âYou are, Nickâ?
Rigby had squeezed the essence of Nickâs life as a boxer into seven hundred words. Nick couldnât make himself read the last of them, though. It hurt too much to be reminded of the days when he had a chance to be someone special. But there was no holding back the memories. There had been promises of big paychecks, and women had lined up to get in his bed, not girls from down the block or barroom sluts, but the kind you shine your shoes for. And then the good life that was supposed to be his went away in the time it took to send a man to his doom.
Now Nick sat with a hollow feeling in his chest and the sports section in his hands, consumed by thoughts of what might have been. It was as close to self-pity as he allowed himself to come, and he always beat it back with guilt and embarrassment. Alonzo Burgess was deadâno way the toughest guy in the old neighborhood could feel sorry for himself. What kind of joke would that have been? Nick smiled ruefully. He even laughed. There wasnât anything else for him to do until a reason to live came along, and he hadnât had one of those since the night the lights went out in Oakland.
6
Scott Crandall wondered if the Pink Dot geek had run over old ladies to show up so fast. Okay, geek was harsh, but really, what else could the guy be, fighting Westside traffic all day to deliver smokes and groceries, wine and home pregnancy tests? He might even have been driving one of the original Pink Dot VW Bugs, with the royal blue body, the Pepto-colored dots, and the pink-and-white propeller hat on the roof. Honest to God, a propeller on the ugliest car the sixties ever saw. Scott had heard Pink Dot still had a few of them on the road. Geekmobiles. And he knew there was only one species that could drive them. Geeks.
He handed over three twenties and a ten and told the geek to keep the change. Then he closed the door without waiting for a thank you and carried his two bags of goodies back to the IBM ThinkPad heâd fired up as soon as he had dragged his ass out of bed. He kept his computer on the dining room table, not that there was a dining room in his one-bedroom. It was more like a place to eat if he wasnât standing at the kitchen counter, wolfing down cold pizza or takeout Thai orâtalk about inescapable for the man who couldnât cookâsomething from Pink Dot.
In fact, he planned on having a late breakfast/early lunch/whatever there before he headed to Warner Bros. for a 1 P.M. casting session. So would it be spaghetti with marinara sauce or the Southwest taco salad? Better go with the salad. The spaghetti felt like it was frozen solid. Good thing it was in the same bag as his Smirnoff vodka and Twix candy bars. That would be everything for the evening if he spent it at home. Well, maybe heâd have a Twix now. Just one. And a cigarette.
Scott was chewing the last bite of his candy bar when he lit up an American Spirit. He swallowed, took a drag and returned his attention to tailfeathers.com . With Daily Variety and the Hollywood Reporter out of the wayâtook you twenty minutes to get through them and two hours to get over themâit would complete his Internet reading for the day. His only reading of any kind, not that anybody cared.
Tailfeathers was devoted to hookers and johns all over the
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