Read Online Light Lifting by Alexander Macleod - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Alexander Macleod
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just one person? So, so, so gross.
What we will or will not do. She spits. Itâs like a spoonful of salty, spicy snot.
THEY PROVIDE US with choices. Second options. Back door solutions. Science and witch doctor stuff. In vitro. Voodoo remedies. Test tubes. Special teas. Surrogates. Yoga. Deep breathing. Are you too hot down there? Too tight? Forms to fill out for adoption. Somebody elseâs trip back from a Chinese orphanage. Maybe it will be just ourselves. And can you please tell me what would be so wrong with that? A clean house. Newspapers read cover to cover. Film festivals. Money. We might have money. Maybe just ourselves. Think about that for a second. Could we stay like this all the way through?
No, she says. No.
Twenty-six months of trying. But only twenty-six. Positive test result. Nobody can tell us why. Sometimes these things happen, they say. Sometimes. Zygote. Meiosis. Change. A series of diagrams I remember from a high-school Biology test. Still with me. Chromosomes pulling to the side, dividing on their own. Hold that stick directly in the stream of your urine. Wait for it. A mark emerging from the white background. Plus sign.
Zinsser. My crazed epidemiologist. How much I like him: âBut the louse seems indefinitely committed to the materialistic existence, as long as lousy people exist. Each newborn child is a possible virgin continent, which will keep the louse a pioneer â ever deaf to the exhortations to better evaluate his values. If lice can dread, the nightmare of their lives is the fear of some day inhabiting an infected human being.â
The night off. Home for Christmas and everybody else in bed. The baby goes down easy. Nervous energy from the road. Hit The Bridge with my brothers. Bring it on. Pitchers of draft and over-salted stale popcorn. There is never enough. Stay through to close. Rush to pay. This is on me. The next pitcher and a round of shots. Deep swallows and sour faces. Accept all obvious consequences for our actions. See the future. What is going to happen to us: Stagger back home, compete for couches. Sleep on the floor for two or three hours. Wake to the same hard morning. The world starting up again. My brain and your brain and your brain. Same hangover beating in every head. Know you will throw-up hours before you actually do.
Talk about nothing. Talk only for the voices, the sounds they make. The way they hold the table together. A good topic is all you need. Best nickname in the history of the Pistons.
Has to be The Worm.
Well, that sucks. He probably got it right there.
Might have to stop before we start.
You canât beat that. A professional athlete who called himself The Worm. Weâre talking the early Rodman here. Before the Bulls and the piercings and the multi-coloured hair. Before Madonna. Just a skinny freak of nature going up for the ball, boxing out guys six inches taller than he was. He gave up at least forty pounds every single night and still nobody could stop him. Defensive Player of the Year a million times. Crazy.
They had Spider Salley back there, too. All arms and legs. Coming off the bench. The front court was full of bug names.
James Buddha Edwards?
Nobody, nobody, worked the Fu Manchu better than that guy. It looked normal on him.
And you think Rodman was skinny, what about Tay Tay?
I like the way George Blaha says his name: âTayshaun scoops it and he scores it.â
Even Blaha kind of works when you think about it.
Yeah. Blaha is a possibility. You just leave it out there by itself: The Bla and then the Ha.
Thatâs not a nickname, though, right? Blaha is his real name.
Fuck you.
Big Ben is too obvious. Swinging his sledgehammer with his homegame Afro teased all the way out.
âLetâs go to work.â That was perfect.
Or Zeke. Remember when Isiah did those public service announcements for Detroit Edison. I guess they were trying cut down on accidental childhood electrocutions.
â Hey kids,
What we will or will not do. She spits. Itâs like a spoonful of salty, spicy snot.
THEY PROVIDE US with choices. Second options. Back door solutions. Science and witch doctor stuff. In vitro. Voodoo remedies. Test tubes. Special teas. Surrogates. Yoga. Deep breathing. Are you too hot down there? Too tight? Forms to fill out for adoption. Somebody elseâs trip back from a Chinese orphanage. Maybe it will be just ourselves. And can you please tell me what would be so wrong with that? A clean house. Newspapers read cover to cover. Film festivals. Money. We might have money. Maybe just ourselves. Think about that for a second. Could we stay like this all the way through?
No, she says. No.
Twenty-six months of trying. But only twenty-six. Positive test result. Nobody can tell us why. Sometimes these things happen, they say. Sometimes. Zygote. Meiosis. Change. A series of diagrams I remember from a high-school Biology test. Still with me. Chromosomes pulling to the side, dividing on their own. Hold that stick directly in the stream of your urine. Wait for it. A mark emerging from the white background. Plus sign.
Zinsser. My crazed epidemiologist. How much I like him: âBut the louse seems indefinitely committed to the materialistic existence, as long as lousy people exist. Each newborn child is a possible virgin continent, which will keep the louse a pioneer â ever deaf to the exhortations to better evaluate his values. If lice can dread, the nightmare of their lives is the fear of some day inhabiting an infected human being.â
The night off. Home for Christmas and everybody else in bed. The baby goes down easy. Nervous energy from the road. Hit The Bridge with my brothers. Bring it on. Pitchers of draft and over-salted stale popcorn. There is never enough. Stay through to close. Rush to pay. This is on me. The next pitcher and a round of shots. Deep swallows and sour faces. Accept all obvious consequences for our actions. See the future. What is going to happen to us: Stagger back home, compete for couches. Sleep on the floor for two or three hours. Wake to the same hard morning. The world starting up again. My brain and your brain and your brain. Same hangover beating in every head. Know you will throw-up hours before you actually do.
Talk about nothing. Talk only for the voices, the sounds they make. The way they hold the table together. A good topic is all you need. Best nickname in the history of the Pistons.
Has to be The Worm.
Well, that sucks. He probably got it right there.
Might have to stop before we start.
You canât beat that. A professional athlete who called himself The Worm. Weâre talking the early Rodman here. Before the Bulls and the piercings and the multi-coloured hair. Before Madonna. Just a skinny freak of nature going up for the ball, boxing out guys six inches taller than he was. He gave up at least forty pounds every single night and still nobody could stop him. Defensive Player of the Year a million times. Crazy.
They had Spider Salley back there, too. All arms and legs. Coming off the bench. The front court was full of bug names.
James Buddha Edwards?
Nobody, nobody, worked the Fu Manchu better than that guy. It looked normal on him.
And you think Rodman was skinny, what about Tay Tay?
I like the way George Blaha says his name: âTayshaun scoops it and he scores it.â
Even Blaha kind of works when you think about it.
Yeah. Blaha is a possibility. You just leave it out there by itself: The Bla and then the Ha.
Thatâs not a nickname, though, right? Blaha is his real name.
Fuck you.
Big Ben is too obvious. Swinging his sledgehammer with his homegame Afro teased all the way out.
âLetâs go to work.â That was perfect.
Or Zeke. Remember when Isiah did those public service announcements for Detroit Edison. I guess they were trying cut down on accidental childhood electrocutions.
â Hey kids,
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