Read Online Home Land: A Novel by Sam Lipsyte - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Sam Lipsyte
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around.”
“He’s an Ostrogoth by choice. You can be whatever you want to be in this country, in case you haven’t heard.”
The terrace door slid open and Gary stepped in, his eyes puckered, pinked.
“Good and stoned for the meeting?” said Hollis.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I practically invented drugs,” said Hollis. “Don’t play Hollis, son. Players don’t play Hollis, and you sure as hell shouldn’t. Let’s go. And now that you’re all Bakey Bakerton, just shut the fuck up. No sharing until tomorrow. You got me? You better not share. Are you coming, Larry?”
“No,” I said.
“Well, then, you can lock up. And make sure Bishop Bowlpacker here didn’t start a fire under that bench.”
“Will do,” I said.
“I’m watching you,” said Hollis. “I’m noting the shape of your head.”
I WENT HOME, studied my head in the mirror. Misshapen, sure, but in the same old ways. I cooked up some dinner, shells and peas, leafed through these magazines I’ve been getting lately. Free offer. No immediate obligation. Congratulations, you have thirty days to cancel our plan to pluck out your pancreas. How did they get to me? Did I buy something? Sign something? That girl with the clipboard in the park? I’d figured she was just handing out those light-up sweatbands to get a fad going. Didn’t they double-check with the credit bureau? Don’t they know I’m not good for it?
I guess that’s the whole idea, though. That’s what Gary says, anyway.
I’ve read a lot on the subject, but I don’t really understand this capitalism stuff. It doesn’t seem tenable.
Nice in theory, though.
Then, Catamounts, the shocker. I’m tonguing shell for pea when I read it: “Actor Killed in Acting Mishap.” Apparently, in the dull interlude of a camera jam, Lenny put his prop pistol to his head, pulled the trigger. The blank charge tore through his temple. God’s a lousy comic, a Catskills hack. Give God the hook!
I called Gwendolyn.
Her voice was fuzzy from the pharmacy. She said she had a house full of out-of-work actors groping through her fruit baskets, her pill drawer. Grief-scene fuel. A director who’d known Lenny less than a week had punched a breakfront in the kitchen, torn meaningful tendons.
“Lenny, why?” he’d cried. “Why did you fuck me?”
He’d had Lenny attached to star in the “Jew of Malta” set on an alien mining colony.
Mourning rituals were invented hourly. They’d found Lenny’s agent in the garage. He’d knifed a strip of felt from the pool table for a bandana, wept while he reenacted choice bits from pioneering black sitcoms. Lenny’s personal trainer had dug out Lenny’s favorite pair of snakeskin boots, basted them with teriyaki sauce on a no-fat grill. The accountant had stolen paperwork from the study, deal memos, itemized tax returns, hauled them down to the beach with a compound bow, shot them, aflame, into the sea. The poodle was on suicide watch.
“Come home,” I said.
She said maybe she would.
“It’s terrible about Lenny,” I said. “We never got along, but that’s only because we both loved you so much.”
“I go now,” said Gwendolyn.
“You go now?” I said.
“Phone off. Funny feel.”
“Whatever pills you’re taking,” I said. “Don’t take anymore.”
“Anymore I take I want. You don’t tell it, me.”
“Okay, baby,” I said. “Just come home.”
“Don’t baby it, flatter yourself.”
“Understood.”
WELL, alums, it’s been a week and I’m still waiting for Gwendolyn to call back. I’ve put off mailing this update to Fontana thinking I’ll have a hopeful, if fragile, conclusion to this installment. I’ve left messages in Malibu, even talked to a woman named Quince who said Gwendolyn was “at a loss” and could not be disturbed. I told her to tell Gwendolyn the “L” in Lewis was for Love.
“You’re adorable,” she said. “You’re the one Gwen ditched, right? Or are you the
“He’s an Ostrogoth by choice. You can be whatever you want to be in this country, in case you haven’t heard.”
The terrace door slid open and Gary stepped in, his eyes puckered, pinked.
“Good and stoned for the meeting?” said Hollis.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I practically invented drugs,” said Hollis. “Don’t play Hollis, son. Players don’t play Hollis, and you sure as hell shouldn’t. Let’s go. And now that you’re all Bakey Bakerton, just shut the fuck up. No sharing until tomorrow. You got me? You better not share. Are you coming, Larry?”
“No,” I said.
“Well, then, you can lock up. And make sure Bishop Bowlpacker here didn’t start a fire under that bench.”
“Will do,” I said.
“I’m watching you,” said Hollis. “I’m noting the shape of your head.”
I WENT HOME, studied my head in the mirror. Misshapen, sure, but in the same old ways. I cooked up some dinner, shells and peas, leafed through these magazines I’ve been getting lately. Free offer. No immediate obligation. Congratulations, you have thirty days to cancel our plan to pluck out your pancreas. How did they get to me? Did I buy something? Sign something? That girl with the clipboard in the park? I’d figured she was just handing out those light-up sweatbands to get a fad going. Didn’t they double-check with the credit bureau? Don’t they know I’m not good for it?
I guess that’s the whole idea, though. That’s what Gary says, anyway.
I’ve read a lot on the subject, but I don’t really understand this capitalism stuff. It doesn’t seem tenable.
Nice in theory, though.
Then, Catamounts, the shocker. I’m tonguing shell for pea when I read it: “Actor Killed in Acting Mishap.” Apparently, in the dull interlude of a camera jam, Lenny put his prop pistol to his head, pulled the trigger. The blank charge tore through his temple. God’s a lousy comic, a Catskills hack. Give God the hook!
I called Gwendolyn.
Her voice was fuzzy from the pharmacy. She said she had a house full of out-of-work actors groping through her fruit baskets, her pill drawer. Grief-scene fuel. A director who’d known Lenny less than a week had punched a breakfront in the kitchen, torn meaningful tendons.
“Lenny, why?” he’d cried. “Why did you fuck me?”
He’d had Lenny attached to star in the “Jew of Malta” set on an alien mining colony.
Mourning rituals were invented hourly. They’d found Lenny’s agent in the garage. He’d knifed a strip of felt from the pool table for a bandana, wept while he reenacted choice bits from pioneering black sitcoms. Lenny’s personal trainer had dug out Lenny’s favorite pair of snakeskin boots, basted them with teriyaki sauce on a no-fat grill. The accountant had stolen paperwork from the study, deal memos, itemized tax returns, hauled them down to the beach with a compound bow, shot them, aflame, into the sea. The poodle was on suicide watch.
“Come home,” I said.
She said maybe she would.
“It’s terrible about Lenny,” I said. “We never got along, but that’s only because we both loved you so much.”
“I go now,” said Gwendolyn.
“You go now?” I said.
“Phone off. Funny feel.”
“Whatever pills you’re taking,” I said. “Don’t take anymore.”
“Anymore I take I want. You don’t tell it, me.”
“Okay, baby,” I said. “Just come home.”
“Don’t baby it, flatter yourself.”
“Understood.”
WELL, alums, it’s been a week and I’m still waiting for Gwendolyn to call back. I’ve put off mailing this update to Fontana thinking I’ll have a hopeful, if fragile, conclusion to this installment. I’ve left messages in Malibu, even talked to a woman named Quince who said Gwendolyn was “at a loss” and could not be disturbed. I told her to tell Gwendolyn the “L” in Lewis was for Love.
“You’re adorable,” she said. “You’re the one Gwen ditched, right? Or are you the
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