Read Online Home Land: A Novel by Sam Lipsyte - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Sam Lipsyte
Ads: Link
it’s just that I’ve never seen you with hope before.”
“Don’t worry, I still think we’re all fucked.”
“Good.”
We sat wordless for a while.
“You know,” said Gary, “when Liquid Smoke, I mean Mira, when she mentioned Nice Horizons, it reminded me of something. Somebody said Doc Felix works there now. Doesn’t even draw a salary. They just let him live in that dump. My lawsuit destroyed him.”
“Serves him right.”
“I feel responsible.”
“He did it to himself.”
“I don’t know. I’m starting to have these dreams.”
“The dope dreams?”
“No, like my mom with all these candles. Fiery dildos and childos and whatnot.”
“Felix made that stuff up. What’s a childo?”
“How do I know if he made it up?”
“Gary,” I said, “you’re a retractor.”
“Don’t label me. I hate labels. What if I retracted the retraction? Then what? I’d still be Gary, right?”
I followed his gaze to the terrace wall. He’d tacked up one of his old stick-figure diagrams. The figure marked Son was on his knees before the figure marked Father. Blue seeds flew out Father’s member. Gary took a long draw from his hip-high bong. His Truth Bazooka, he’d called it once. We’d both winced when he said it.
Now he sucked in smoke as though it were air, his last, perhaps, before a leap into the sea off some lush, poisonous atoll. I pictured fish, bitter-blooded, glittery. Hammerheads on patrol. Pink, living coral. Pink, moaning coral. The moans of the coral sounded like chimes.
Door chimes.
“Shit, that’s my sponsor!” said Gary. “Deal, Gary, deal!”
GARY’S SPONSOR HOLLIS is an asp of a man in soft Italian shoes. He fits my notion of a Christian pop producer with his overpruned beard, his tinted shades, the collarless shirts. He was a coke dealer in a former life. Now he claims to be in real estate, though most of his “closings,” according to Gary, occur at clubs after midnight.
Hollis is not what you’d call the nurturing type, and I wonder how good he is for Gary’s recovery. Gary said all the gentle sponsors were taken, that he offered Hollis the job because he felt bad for the guy. Everybody thought Hollis was evil, one of those mistakes of the species, steered clear. Nobody would ever identify with his feelings, which I gather is a big part of the healing process. At meetings most nights, according to Gary, Hollis would just sit there crushing his Styrofoam cup. Others talked about the fear goading them to drink, snort, shoot, binge on cheese dogs.
“I’m in a lot of fear,” they’d say.
Hollis would just crush another cup.
“Hollis is not afraid of fear,” he’d declare, out of turn. “Hollis is afraid of fun. Fun is what fucks Hollis.”
I’ve met Hollis more than a few times but he never remembers my name. I assume it’s because I am one of the unsaved. He once told me he could tell I was an alcoholic by the shape of my head. He cackled when he said it. He could have been kidding.
Now Hollis raced past me into the Retractor Pad. Together we watched Gary fumble with his bong out on the terrace.
“How is it out there?” said Hollis.
“Cooled off a little,” I said.
“Not on the terrace, lump. I mean how is it out there.”
“Out where?”
“In the fucking darkness, pal.”
“It’s not so bad.”
“Larry, is it?
“Lewis.”
“Lewis. Do you know, Lewis, that I can look right at you and tell by a single glance you are consumed by demons of nearly unimaginable ferocity? Do you know how I can ascertain this?”
“The shape of my head?”
“Primarily, yes. Do you pray, Lewis?”
“I don’t believe in God.”
“Who said anything about God, twat? Hey, do you like antiques? You’ll never guess what I’ve got in my car.”
“You’re right, I won’t.”
“A goddamn war mace. It was used by Ostrogoths to split skulls. Fucked-up skulls like yours. Got it in the mail. From an Ostrogoth.”
“I didn’t know there were any
“Don’t worry, I still think we’re all fucked.”
“Good.”
We sat wordless for a while.
“You know,” said Gary, “when Liquid Smoke, I mean Mira, when she mentioned Nice Horizons, it reminded me of something. Somebody said Doc Felix works there now. Doesn’t even draw a salary. They just let him live in that dump. My lawsuit destroyed him.”
“Serves him right.”
“I feel responsible.”
“He did it to himself.”
“I don’t know. I’m starting to have these dreams.”
“The dope dreams?”
“No, like my mom with all these candles. Fiery dildos and childos and whatnot.”
“Felix made that stuff up. What’s a childo?”
“How do I know if he made it up?”
“Gary,” I said, “you’re a retractor.”
“Don’t label me. I hate labels. What if I retracted the retraction? Then what? I’d still be Gary, right?”
I followed his gaze to the terrace wall. He’d tacked up one of his old stick-figure diagrams. The figure marked Son was on his knees before the figure marked Father. Blue seeds flew out Father’s member. Gary took a long draw from his hip-high bong. His Truth Bazooka, he’d called it once. We’d both winced when he said it.
Now he sucked in smoke as though it were air, his last, perhaps, before a leap into the sea off some lush, poisonous atoll. I pictured fish, bitter-blooded, glittery. Hammerheads on patrol. Pink, living coral. Pink, moaning coral. The moans of the coral sounded like chimes.
Door chimes.
“Shit, that’s my sponsor!” said Gary. “Deal, Gary, deal!”
GARY’S SPONSOR HOLLIS is an asp of a man in soft Italian shoes. He fits my notion of a Christian pop producer with his overpruned beard, his tinted shades, the collarless shirts. He was a coke dealer in a former life. Now he claims to be in real estate, though most of his “closings,” according to Gary, occur at clubs after midnight.
Hollis is not what you’d call the nurturing type, and I wonder how good he is for Gary’s recovery. Gary said all the gentle sponsors were taken, that he offered Hollis the job because he felt bad for the guy. Everybody thought Hollis was evil, one of those mistakes of the species, steered clear. Nobody would ever identify with his feelings, which I gather is a big part of the healing process. At meetings most nights, according to Gary, Hollis would just sit there crushing his Styrofoam cup. Others talked about the fear goading them to drink, snort, shoot, binge on cheese dogs.
“I’m in a lot of fear,” they’d say.
Hollis would just crush another cup.
“Hollis is not afraid of fear,” he’d declare, out of turn. “Hollis is afraid of fun. Fun is what fucks Hollis.”
I’ve met Hollis more than a few times but he never remembers my name. I assume it’s because I am one of the unsaved. He once told me he could tell I was an alcoholic by the shape of my head. He cackled when he said it. He could have been kidding.
Now Hollis raced past me into the Retractor Pad. Together we watched Gary fumble with his bong out on the terrace.
“How is it out there?” said Hollis.
“Cooled off a little,” I said.
“Not on the terrace, lump. I mean how is it out there.”
“Out where?”
“In the fucking darkness, pal.”
“It’s not so bad.”
“Larry, is it?
“Lewis.”
“Lewis. Do you know, Lewis, that I can look right at you and tell by a single glance you are consumed by demons of nearly unimaginable ferocity? Do you know how I can ascertain this?”
“The shape of my head?”
“Primarily, yes. Do you pray, Lewis?”
“I don’t believe in God.”
“Who said anything about God, twat? Hey, do you like antiques? You’ll never guess what I’ve got in my car.”
“You’re right, I won’t.”
“A goddamn war mace. It was used by Ostrogoths to split skulls. Fucked-up skulls like yours. Got it in the mail. From an Ostrogoth.”
“I didn’t know there were any
Similar Books
