Read Online Death Before Facebook by Julie Smith - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Julie Smith
Tags: B008DP2B56
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her through unwed motherhood. “Should I Have an Abortion?” was the topic she’d posted in Confession. The woman had no shame. That was followed by “Lamaze or No?” and a seemingly endless stream of self-involved dramas having to do with whether she should tell the baby’s father the kid existed, what she should name it, and of course, how much motherhood meant to her, she’d known, of course, she’d been told, but she really couldn’t have imagined…
Right Firm grasp of the obvious. That was Lenore.
Pearce had helped to get “Out on the TOWN” going; that had been fun (though at the time, the way he felt it seemed more like a necessity—he had to talk to somebody, even if it wasn’t really talking). But it was fun because it was an opportunity to use his mastery over his subjects. He always enjoyed that.
However, the thing it had become wasn’t his cup of tea. These people were serious. They were sorry Geoff was dead and they were seriously trying to do something about it (in their lame little ways, of course). They actually thought they could solve a murder just by yakking electronically at each other. All of which might be amusing if it wasn’t such bad taste to display wit in the face of grief, and wit was Pearce’s forte. His baby had turned into an ugly duckling.
Disgustedly, he typed EXIT . He might as well use his computer for what he’d bought it for.
He opened a file called “Regrets,” possibly a chapter in something, he wasn’t sure yet, but definitely an exercise he needed to do right now. He typed 1967, and the very sight of the four digits excited him, conjured up the scent of patchouli oil and pot smoke; the sounds of throngs shouting “Hell no, we won’t go!”; the touch of a thousand skinny girls in peasant blouses, with center-parted waist-length hair. The most beautiful of them all was… he couldn’t bear to think of her, not yet, not without setting the stage.
He rummaged through his vinyl records—he still had all of them, along with his old-fashioned stereo. The CD player would come, as soon as he sold a novel or two. Or his screenplay. That was probably what he should be working on—everyone knew it was easier, quicker, and worth more money. But lately, he’d been working on this other thing, this “Regrets,” whatever that was. That was the way writing worked for him; it bubbled up and couldn’t be stopped. If it wanted out, he released it.
Bob Dylan was what he wanted, something along those lines. But what he found was better—the Jefferson Airplane,
Surrealistic Pillow
. He found “Today,” the cut that, of any song in the world (except maybe “Light My Fire”) was the most evocative of 1967, of the way he’d felt about her. It began like this: “Today I feel like pleasing you.”
He poured himself another bourbon and settled down to write:
She was older than I was, but not by much. Twenty-nine, I thought, maybe even thirty, which excited me in an odd sort of way, because of course that was over the line. It meant you couldn’t trust her. But then trust was the last thing on my mind when I saw her there, smoke swirling blue around her head, the glare of the lights cruel as napalm; and yet even whited out as she was—a lesser beauty would have been a caricature of harsh lines and tiny sags—she exuded a tropical lushness; smelt, practically, of ylang-ylang or plumeria.
A rubber band held her hair at the nape, but loosely, so that it fell in wings to her chin, and when she bent her head—so serious, so moody—over her guitar, a shadow fell across her chest. She wore bell-bottoms and a white peasant blouse. A ropy sort of belt that she had woven and then decorated with some flowered thing was tied round her waist, the ends allowed to flow at her right side. The same trim, a strip of pink flowers embroidered on a yellow background, had been sewn to the hems of her jeans.
But the thing you noticed most was the way she clutched that guitar—like
Right Firm grasp of the obvious. That was Lenore.
Pearce had helped to get “Out on the TOWN” going; that had been fun (though at the time, the way he felt it seemed more like a necessity—he had to talk to somebody, even if it wasn’t really talking). But it was fun because it was an opportunity to use his mastery over his subjects. He always enjoyed that.
However, the thing it had become wasn’t his cup of tea. These people were serious. They were sorry Geoff was dead and they were seriously trying to do something about it (in their lame little ways, of course). They actually thought they could solve a murder just by yakking electronically at each other. All of which might be amusing if it wasn’t such bad taste to display wit in the face of grief, and wit was Pearce’s forte. His baby had turned into an ugly duckling.
Disgustedly, he typed EXIT . He might as well use his computer for what he’d bought it for.
He opened a file called “Regrets,” possibly a chapter in something, he wasn’t sure yet, but definitely an exercise he needed to do right now. He typed 1967, and the very sight of the four digits excited him, conjured up the scent of patchouli oil and pot smoke; the sounds of throngs shouting “Hell no, we won’t go!”; the touch of a thousand skinny girls in peasant blouses, with center-parted waist-length hair. The most beautiful of them all was… he couldn’t bear to think of her, not yet, not without setting the stage.
He rummaged through his vinyl records—he still had all of them, along with his old-fashioned stereo. The CD player would come, as soon as he sold a novel or two. Or his screenplay. That was probably what he should be working on—everyone knew it was easier, quicker, and worth more money. But lately, he’d been working on this other thing, this “Regrets,” whatever that was. That was the way writing worked for him; it bubbled up and couldn’t be stopped. If it wanted out, he released it.
Bob Dylan was what he wanted, something along those lines. But what he found was better—the Jefferson Airplane,
Surrealistic Pillow
. He found “Today,” the cut that, of any song in the world (except maybe “Light My Fire”) was the most evocative of 1967, of the way he’d felt about her. It began like this: “Today I feel like pleasing you.”
He poured himself another bourbon and settled down to write:
She was older than I was, but not by much. Twenty-nine, I thought, maybe even thirty, which excited me in an odd sort of way, because of course that was over the line. It meant you couldn’t trust her. But then trust was the last thing on my mind when I saw her there, smoke swirling blue around her head, the glare of the lights cruel as napalm; and yet even whited out as she was—a lesser beauty would have been a caricature of harsh lines and tiny sags—she exuded a tropical lushness; smelt, practically, of ylang-ylang or plumeria.
A rubber band held her hair at the nape, but loosely, so that it fell in wings to her chin, and when she bent her head—so serious, so moody—over her guitar, a shadow fell across her chest. She wore bell-bottoms and a white peasant blouse. A ropy sort of belt that she had woven and then decorated with some flowered thing was tied round her waist, the ends allowed to flow at her right side. The same trim, a strip of pink flowers embroidered on a yellow background, had been sewn to the hems of her jeans.
But the thing you noticed most was the way she clutched that guitar—like
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