used to sell dope back behind Dino’s?”
“Gary.”
“Not for me, man. I’m just taking sociological note.”
Outside, a man stopped at a traffic light leaned from his Jeep, blew something chunked from his nose to the blacktop. A few state troopers stood under the awning of Abel’s Bagels, hooting. One drew his pistol, mimed a shot at the snotsman. Gary peeled the cakey lid off his muffin, took a bite, handed it to me.
“Best part,” he said.
“Let’s go,” I said.
“Not yet.”
“New plan?”
“I’m going back to the Gary thing,” said Gary. “It’s who I am, what I’m about.”
“You’ve never stopped being Gary.”
“Never will, brother,” said Gary, walked back to the counter.
“Mira,” he said.
“What.”
“My name is Gary.”
“Hello, Gary.”
“I’ve got to go to the bathroom. May I borrow the key?”
“You know the rules.”
“I won’t poop anywhere, I promise.”
“Now you’re definitely not getting the key.”
“I came here because I think you’re beautiful.”
“That’s nice.”
“I didn’t even want the muffin, or the coffee.”
“That’s stupid.”
“I’m not that scone guy I was before. I’m not from the Horizon.”
“If you say so.”
“Would you like to go out with me sometime?”
“Where do you want to go?”
“My apartment?”
“That’s not really going out.”
“For you it would be.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Okay. How about … . I don’t know. Dinner?”
“You’ve got money to take me out?”
“I’ve got money.”
“What do you do, Gary?”
“It’s a long story.”
“You sell drugs.”
“No.”
“Then tell me.”
“I thought my mother and father raped me. Then it turned out they didn’t.”
“And you got paid for that?”
“I did okay.”
“That’s wild. But what if they did do it? Do you still get paid?”
“No.”
“Damn.”
“So?”
“So what?”
“Will you go out with me?”
“I don’t give a fuck.”
“Cool.”
WE LEFT with Mira’s phone number, if you’re given to believe women who give them out. Digits, I think the Mikey Saladins of the world call them, not that he’d need them, a handsome giant with soft hands and otherworldly bat speed. What does a man like Mikey need with numbers? A hero like that, women simply appear, unbidden, in his bed at night, with calves of moonstone, or so I have heard. Or heard myself tell myself.
We retired to the Retractor Pad to celebrate. Gary filled his bong with some puce sports drink. We took our party to the terrace, which is one of the perks of retraction, along with an ice-making refrigerator, heat lamps in the john. We’d hauled this half-rotted park bench to the terrace and we lazed upon it now, watched men load trucks at the mayonnaise factory across the street.
“I had this way-ancient uncle,” said Gary. “I asked him how he got to be sixty-seven, or whatever. He said, ‘No condiments.’ Can you believe that?”
“Mustard,” I said. “He must have used mustard.”
“No mustard. Maybe some pepper.”
“Pepper’s not a condiment. It’s a spice.”
“You say tomato.”
“What?”
“Cultural relativity.”
“Relativism.”
“It’s all bullshit.”
“What about perception?” I said.
“What about perceived relativity?”
“What about this,” I said. “Say you’ve got some fake flowers that could pass for real but you know they’re fake. What have you got then?”
“Shit, man, let me answer that question with another question. Do you think Liquid Smoke is smokin’?”
“Her name is Mira, Gary, and yes, I do.”
“I think I could make a life with her.”
“You just met her.”
“I feel like I’ve known her a long time. I don’t mean in a dumb mystical way. Or maybe I do. I just know that I’ve taken a bad path so far. The thumb thing, the drugs, the stuff with my folks. This Smoke situation could turn my life around.”
“Maybe.”
“You don’t believe me?”
“No,
“Gary.”
“Not for me, man. I’m just taking sociological note.”
Outside, a man stopped at a traffic light leaned from his Jeep, blew something chunked from his nose to the blacktop. A few state troopers stood under the awning of Abel’s Bagels, hooting. One drew his pistol, mimed a shot at the snotsman. Gary peeled the cakey lid off his muffin, took a bite, handed it to me.
“Best part,” he said.
“Let’s go,” I said.
“Not yet.”
“New plan?”
“I’m going back to the Gary thing,” said Gary. “It’s who I am, what I’m about.”
“You’ve never stopped being Gary.”
“Never will, brother,” said Gary, walked back to the counter.
“Mira,” he said.
“What.”
“My name is Gary.”
“Hello, Gary.”
“I’ve got to go to the bathroom. May I borrow the key?”
“You know the rules.”
“I won’t poop anywhere, I promise.”
“Now you’re definitely not getting the key.”
“I came here because I think you’re beautiful.”
“That’s nice.”
“I didn’t even want the muffin, or the coffee.”
“That’s stupid.”
“I’m not that scone guy I was before. I’m not from the Horizon.”
“If you say so.”
“Would you like to go out with me sometime?”
“Where do you want to go?”
“My apartment?”
“That’s not really going out.”
“For you it would be.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Okay. How about … . I don’t know. Dinner?”
“You’ve got money to take me out?”
“I’ve got money.”
“What do you do, Gary?”
“It’s a long story.”
“You sell drugs.”
“No.”
“Then tell me.”
“I thought my mother and father raped me. Then it turned out they didn’t.”
“And you got paid for that?”
“I did okay.”
“That’s wild. But what if they did do it? Do you still get paid?”
“No.”
“Damn.”
“So?”
“So what?”
“Will you go out with me?”
“I don’t give a fuck.”
“Cool.”
WE LEFT with Mira’s phone number, if you’re given to believe women who give them out. Digits, I think the Mikey Saladins of the world call them, not that he’d need them, a handsome giant with soft hands and otherworldly bat speed. What does a man like Mikey need with numbers? A hero like that, women simply appear, unbidden, in his bed at night, with calves of moonstone, or so I have heard. Or heard myself tell myself.
We retired to the Retractor Pad to celebrate. Gary filled his bong with some puce sports drink. We took our party to the terrace, which is one of the perks of retraction, along with an ice-making refrigerator, heat lamps in the john. We’d hauled this half-rotted park bench to the terrace and we lazed upon it now, watched men load trucks at the mayonnaise factory across the street.
“I had this way-ancient uncle,” said Gary. “I asked him how he got to be sixty-seven, or whatever. He said, ‘No condiments.’ Can you believe that?”
“Mustard,” I said. “He must have used mustard.”
“No mustard. Maybe some pepper.”
“Pepper’s not a condiment. It’s a spice.”
“You say tomato.”
“What?”
“Cultural relativity.”
“Relativism.”
“It’s all bullshit.”
“What about perception?” I said.
“What about perceived relativity?”
“What about this,” I said. “Say you’ve got some fake flowers that could pass for real but you know they’re fake. What have you got then?”
“Shit, man, let me answer that question with another question. Do you think Liquid Smoke is smokin’?”
“Her name is Mira, Gary, and yes, I do.”
“I think I could make a life with her.”
“You just met her.”
“I feel like I’ve known her a long time. I don’t mean in a dumb mystical way. Or maybe I do. I just know that I’ve taken a bad path so far. The thumb thing, the drugs, the stuff with my folks. This Smoke situation could turn my life around.”
“Maybe.”
“You don’t believe me?”
“No,
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