Read Online I Sailed with Magellan by Stuart Dybek - Free Book Online Page B

mouth open. A hand was pushing on the seat of my suit, I opened my eyes, my father stared at me underwater, bubbles came from his mouth as he moved his lips like he was trying to tell me something important.
    Stars were out over the lake. The bronzed dome of the Planetarium glowed otherworldly over the ridges of limestone. Mick stood at the edge of the Rocks waving and yelling, “Come on in … I wanna go home … mosquitoes!”
    Behind him floodlights were enveloped in bugs. They landed drowning in kicking circles on the oily troughs of swells. The surface glistened, rocking with moonlit suds. Sir was surrounded by Mexican kids, all shampooing with the laundry soap, laughing, dunking, flinging handfuls of lather.
    â€œMe Tarzan!” they shouted, howling ape calls across the water.
    I was still coughing and spitting up, ears plugged and ringing.
    â€œDon’t swallow too much water,” Sir said, looking at me. “People do their business in it.”
    â€œI’m going in for a while.” I dog-paddled away, then hung in
the water, letting a warm jet of pee run through my suit. Then I timed a wave and let it boost me up the rusty metal rungs sticking from the concrete. The sides went straight down, scarred with watermarks. It wasn’t hollow under the walkway after all.
    I sat on the edge of the Rocks watching the beacons from Meigs field crisscross as winking planes cranked in for the night.
    â€œHow’s it goin?” The same young Mexican kid squatted down beside me. His lips were still chattering. He was dragging at a wet cigarette.
    â€œI thought that big ship out there came in.”
    â€œThose red lights way out there, man?”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œThat’s the pumping station,” he said, and before I could say I know he whirled and called something in rapid Spanish to his brother.
    His brother came over, grinning.
    â€œSee that guy in the water?” I said quickly. “He swam all the way out there once.”
    The kid passed me the cigarette, wet paper sticking to his fingertips. I glanced over at Sir. He was propelling on his back, holding the soap over his head while the others thrashed after him trying to catch it.
    â€œTarzan! Me Tarzan!” they were yelling.
    I took a drag and passed it to the older brother.
    â€œMan,” he said, “even the real Tarzan ain’t gonna swim out there.” He inhaled deeply, squinting out past the glowing ash.
    The red lights blinked on and off in the descending darkness. They seemed to be slowly moving.

Breasts
    Sundays have always been depressing enough without having to do a job. Besides, he’s hungover, so fuck Sunday. Taking somebody out on Sunday is probably bad luck.
    And Monday: no wheels. He’s got an appointment with the Indian at the Marvel station on Western. That man’s a pro—can listen to an engine idle and tell you the wear on the belts, can hear stuff already going bad that won’t break for months. The Indian is the only one he lets touch the Bluebird, his powder blue, 312 Y-block, Twin Holley, four-barrel T-bird.
    Tuesday, it’s between Sovereign and hauling more than a month’s laundry to the Chink’s. Not to mention another hangover. He strips the sheets, balls them into the pillowcases, stuffs in the towels. He’s tired of their stink, his stink, of dirty clothes all over the floor, all over the apartment. He’s been wearing the same underwear how long? He strips naked and stares at himself in the bedroom mirror. His reflection looks smudged, and he wipes the mirror with a sock, then drops to the carpet to do a hundred push-ups—that always sharpens the focus.
    He manages only seventy, and then, chest pounding hard enough to remind him that his father’s heart gave out at age forty-five, lights a cigarette. He slaps on some Old Spice, slips back into his trousers and shirt without bothering to check the mirror, stuffs another