Read Online Going Native by Stephen Wright - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Stephen Wright
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an exemplary patient position. He closed his eyes and watched inside himself a thin rodlike beam of laser energy tracking around his interior, pausing to spotlight the dominant organs, each in its turn then playing its own distinctive song. When the ruby wand touched the gnarled surface of his heart, his eyes came spontaneously open, and standing over him was Ms. Angelcake, the ward nurse, gazing compassionately down. His head lifted off the pillow. "The stethoscope," he cried. "I can't believe you forgot the fucking stethoscope."
"Sorry." She exited, muttering.
In a moment, properly attired, she returned. "Well now, Mister CD, what seems to be the problem?" He pointed.
"Oh, what a nasty growth. Does it hurt?"
He nodded.
"Well, let's see what we can do to reduce the swelling and alleviate the pain."
She remembered how it ended after finally begging him to stop and she remembered stripping off that hateful uniform and that was all until now and the miracle of the cracked ceiling she had been acutely attending for hours and hours, it was glowing, the intensity of its illumination multiplying surely but imperceptibly under the care of her watch, she imagined a hidden rheostat somewhere manipulated by a withered old hand, and then, with a start, she comprehended the meaning of this fascinating phenomenon. "Is this this day or is it yesterday?" she asked.
"What the fuck are you talking about now?"
"Days. The days of our lives."
"No fucking sense. None. In fact, you haven't made a lick of sense since I met you."
"Oh right, go ahead, let out your pig. What do you care?"
"I like to have conversations, you know. I enjoy a good conversing. But there's gotta be something coming back at me I can understand."
"In your teeth."
"Sure." He rolled off the mattress and onto the floor, where he began executing a swaybacked set of push-ups. "Been thinking," he wheezed, "about getting me. . . a pair. . . of good. . . handcuffs."
She turned away, faced into the windows, the coming light. "I can't believe myself," she announced to the solidifying day. "All the time I've spent sitting in this house with you. In the dark." For her, time was the memory of a shaped sensation and this most recent period of her life didn't seem to have a shape, unless it was a bar of chrome you just rode.
"You love me."
"I do?" She could hear him messing with the plastic bags.
"You do."
A pair of big brown irises stared back at him over her shoulder. "But who are you?"
"I'm Mis-ter Cee-Dee," he sang, "low-est pri-ces, larg-est in-ven-toe-ree. . ."
The tune was like one she'd heard before, then it was that tune. She was sitting in a field of clover in the shade of a shaggy bark tree, chestnut mare nibbling on a handful of gumdrops scattered among the dandelions, mild wind riffling the sunny grass, clear sky soft as felt. She supposed there was a weathered red barn with a Red Man chewing tobacco ad plastered to its wall and a row of blackbirds on a telephone wire and a nice white fence, too: things that lived in a tune. Fake memories. Cool.
"So who'd you steal the song from, anyway?"
"What do you mean? I wrote it myself. It's a tribute to Benny."
"Oh." End of discussion. The five-year-old-son mauled to death by a neighbor's Doberman. The one story in Mister CD's life she did know in pertinent detail. How the settlement money from the lawsuit provided the down payment for the business. The wife, Celia, crying for a year. So they had another kid. And another. She still cried. Boo hoo, why me? Why us? Mister CD hadn't the slightest. But he did know this: the money was holy, sanctified in the blood of his loins, so of course the business would succeed, and every customer who left the store with a CD in his or her hand was carrying a living piece of Benny into their homes.
"You going in today?" she asked.
"Yeah, yeah. In a minute."
"I don't even know what day of the week it is." She was gazing wistfully at the screen. "There's no time without
"Sorry." She exited, muttering.
In a moment, properly attired, she returned. "Well now, Mister CD, what seems to be the problem?" He pointed.
"Oh, what a nasty growth. Does it hurt?"
He nodded.
"Well, let's see what we can do to reduce the swelling and alleviate the pain."
She remembered how it ended after finally begging him to stop and she remembered stripping off that hateful uniform and that was all until now and the miracle of the cracked ceiling she had been acutely attending for hours and hours, it was glowing, the intensity of its illumination multiplying surely but imperceptibly under the care of her watch, she imagined a hidden rheostat somewhere manipulated by a withered old hand, and then, with a start, she comprehended the meaning of this fascinating phenomenon. "Is this this day or is it yesterday?" she asked.
"What the fuck are you talking about now?"
"Days. The days of our lives."
"No fucking sense. None. In fact, you haven't made a lick of sense since I met you."
"Oh right, go ahead, let out your pig. What do you care?"
"I like to have conversations, you know. I enjoy a good conversing. But there's gotta be something coming back at me I can understand."
"In your teeth."
"Sure." He rolled off the mattress and onto the floor, where he began executing a swaybacked set of push-ups. "Been thinking," he wheezed, "about getting me. . . a pair. . . of good. . . handcuffs."
She turned away, faced into the windows, the coming light. "I can't believe myself," she announced to the solidifying day. "All the time I've spent sitting in this house with you. In the dark." For her, time was the memory of a shaped sensation and this most recent period of her life didn't seem to have a shape, unless it was a bar of chrome you just rode.
"You love me."
"I do?" She could hear him messing with the plastic bags.
"You do."
A pair of big brown irises stared back at him over her shoulder. "But who are you?"
"I'm Mis-ter Cee-Dee," he sang, "low-est pri-ces, larg-est in-ven-toe-ree. . ."
The tune was like one she'd heard before, then it was that tune. She was sitting in a field of clover in the shade of a shaggy bark tree, chestnut mare nibbling on a handful of gumdrops scattered among the dandelions, mild wind riffling the sunny grass, clear sky soft as felt. She supposed there was a weathered red barn with a Red Man chewing tobacco ad plastered to its wall and a row of blackbirds on a telephone wire and a nice white fence, too: things that lived in a tune. Fake memories. Cool.
"So who'd you steal the song from, anyway?"
"What do you mean? I wrote it myself. It's a tribute to Benny."
"Oh." End of discussion. The five-year-old-son mauled to death by a neighbor's Doberman. The one story in Mister CD's life she did know in pertinent detail. How the settlement money from the lawsuit provided the down payment for the business. The wife, Celia, crying for a year. So they had another kid. And another. She still cried. Boo hoo, why me? Why us? Mister CD hadn't the slightest. But he did know this: the money was holy, sanctified in the blood of his loins, so of course the business would succeed, and every customer who left the store with a CD in his or her hand was carrying a living piece of Benny into their homes.
"You going in today?" she asked.
"Yeah, yeah. In a minute."
"I don't even know what day of the week it is." She was gazing wistfully at the screen. "There's no time without
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