Read Online Boonville by Robert Mailer Anderson - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Robert Mailer Anderson
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by, but a miniature squirrel sculpture he had knocked off the window sill glowered at him. He got to his feet and flicked on the light switch. They were everywhere, bathtub, toilet tank, medicine chest, hallway, kitchen, living room, coffee table, bookshelves, bureau, nightstand, various widths and heights, well over a thousand, all with a look of sour disapproval. Squirrels, squirrels, squirrels. John suppressed a scream, hurrying to open the rest of the cabin windows, hoping fresh air might change the squirrelsâ expression, or more accurately, his own.
Then he piled his belongings from the Datsun into the center of the living room, sweating 120 proof and flaking hardened gastric juices. He didnât feel all there. Or maybe he was âall there,â but with more of himself on the outside than he was used to. He looked through his luggage for a towel to take a shower, deciding that the best thing about being hung over was the totality of effort it took to conquer simple tasks. Moving at half-speed, there wasnât enough energy to expand your focus beyond survival, causing you to disregard those obstacles that persuaded you to get swacked in the first place. It was the after-effects of alcohol that helped more than intoxication; John had wanted to get back to basics, to separate the neurotic from the necessary, and now he could accomplish that goal, wash, unpack, try not to vomit, and feel like he had put in a full day.
In the bathroom, the water trickling from the shower head was brown and smelled of sulfur. Enamel had been eaten away in spots from the tubâs bottom. Rust stains circled the drain. The sliver of soap in the soap dish was an unnatural color. It took a while for the water to get hot. When John finally entered the spray, it had the effect of smelling salts. Nose espresso, he thought,trying to convince himself that tourists paid top dollar for this kind of free-flowing mud bath.
Toweling off, he negotiated all odors with a splash of cologne Christina had given him. John didnât like cologne, believing natural scents were sexier. He thought he had left it behind, taking only his toothbrush, travel toothpaste, razor, shaving cream, comb, and a few hotel freebies of shampoo and conditioner from their bathroom. Somehow the cologne had made the trip. Today, it was a welcomed accessory. He wished he had snared some of Christinaâs other products accidentally-on-purpose, a moisturizer, an exfolient, shaving rasage. He wouldnât know where to buy some of that stuff. You might have to speak French to get it. They werenât going to stock it in Boonville.
John dressed, and after bagging his former clothes to be washed or thrown out later, he felt ready to settle into his new home. Someone, presumably Pensive Prairie Sunset, had already swept and vacuumed, mopped and dusted. There were no major cobwebs or ghost turds. The coffee table glistened with a wet sheen. The trash can beneath the sink had been lined with a new bag. The refrigerator was clean. John checked the cupboards, satisfied with Grandmaâs supply of pots, pans, glassware, plates, and utensils. The telephone was dead. He would have to get it connected. In the bedroom, he stuffed his socks, underwear, T-shirts, and sweats into the chest of drawers, hanging his good pants, ties, and dress shirts in the closet. He made a pile of Grandmaâs clothes for the Goodwill. When he realized there was no cable, he stuck the TV in the closet as well, finding a shotgun and three boxes of shells sitting in the corner. He remembered the rumor that Grandma had shot someone. He left the gun and ammunition alone, wondering what the real story was and why Grandma felt she had needed a gun.
Feeling motivated, he decided to make a general upgrade of aesthetics. With a whisk of his arm, he cleared a chessboardâs worth of squirrel sculptures from the coffee table in the living room. Mud-glazed ceramic forms joined the squirrels in
Then he piled his belongings from the Datsun into the center of the living room, sweating 120 proof and flaking hardened gastric juices. He didnât feel all there. Or maybe he was âall there,â but with more of himself on the outside than he was used to. He looked through his luggage for a towel to take a shower, deciding that the best thing about being hung over was the totality of effort it took to conquer simple tasks. Moving at half-speed, there wasnât enough energy to expand your focus beyond survival, causing you to disregard those obstacles that persuaded you to get swacked in the first place. It was the after-effects of alcohol that helped more than intoxication; John had wanted to get back to basics, to separate the neurotic from the necessary, and now he could accomplish that goal, wash, unpack, try not to vomit, and feel like he had put in a full day.
In the bathroom, the water trickling from the shower head was brown and smelled of sulfur. Enamel had been eaten away in spots from the tubâs bottom. Rust stains circled the drain. The sliver of soap in the soap dish was an unnatural color. It took a while for the water to get hot. When John finally entered the spray, it had the effect of smelling salts. Nose espresso, he thought,trying to convince himself that tourists paid top dollar for this kind of free-flowing mud bath.
Toweling off, he negotiated all odors with a splash of cologne Christina had given him. John didnât like cologne, believing natural scents were sexier. He thought he had left it behind, taking only his toothbrush, travel toothpaste, razor, shaving cream, comb, and a few hotel freebies of shampoo and conditioner from their bathroom. Somehow the cologne had made the trip. Today, it was a welcomed accessory. He wished he had snared some of Christinaâs other products accidentally-on-purpose, a moisturizer, an exfolient, shaving rasage. He wouldnât know where to buy some of that stuff. You might have to speak French to get it. They werenât going to stock it in Boonville.
John dressed, and after bagging his former clothes to be washed or thrown out later, he felt ready to settle into his new home. Someone, presumably Pensive Prairie Sunset, had already swept and vacuumed, mopped and dusted. There were no major cobwebs or ghost turds. The coffee table glistened with a wet sheen. The trash can beneath the sink had been lined with a new bag. The refrigerator was clean. John checked the cupboards, satisfied with Grandmaâs supply of pots, pans, glassware, plates, and utensils. The telephone was dead. He would have to get it connected. In the bedroom, he stuffed his socks, underwear, T-shirts, and sweats into the chest of drawers, hanging his good pants, ties, and dress shirts in the closet. He made a pile of Grandmaâs clothes for the Goodwill. When he realized there was no cable, he stuck the TV in the closet as well, finding a shotgun and three boxes of shells sitting in the corner. He remembered the rumor that Grandma had shot someone. He left the gun and ammunition alone, wondering what the real story was and why Grandma felt she had needed a gun.
Feeling motivated, he decided to make a general upgrade of aesthetics. With a whisk of his arm, he cleared a chessboardâs worth of squirrel sculptures from the coffee table in the living room. Mud-glazed ceramic forms joined the squirrels in
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