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Book: Pit Bull Peter Geller 03 - Pit and the Pendulum by John Gregory Betancourt
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Authors: John Gregory Betancourt
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study the gum, scuff marks, and unidentifiable stains on the floor, trying not to look out the window at passing brick factories and endless lines of row-houses. Details tended to overwhelm me these days; that was partly what led to my nervous breakdown and retirement from a twenty-hours-a-day job at a Wall Street investment firm four years before. Now I kept to myself, tried not to leave my apartment when I didn’t have to, and drank to blunt the pain and keep the edge off my always-racing mind.
Already it was starting. Everything I knew about David Chatham Hunt came bubbling up through my subconscious, whether relevant or not. The two classes we’d both taken together (Comp 104 and Introduction to Analytical Writing). His family crest, which he’d once shown me (a griffin on a shield, surrounded by Masonic-looking symbols). I could even name all seventeen girls he’d dated (and the two he’d bedded) while living at the frat house.
What could David Hunt possibly want with me ? He came from a rich old family; his life should have been golden. Mellow, easy-going, never-a-worry-in-the-world Davy Hunt’s greatest decision these days should have been which swimsuit model to date or which of his many Saabs and Porsches to drive.
The train tracks went underground, and the car got noisy and claustrophobic and dark. A dozen people joined me in the car. Almost there, almost there. I tried not to look at anyone else. I didn’t want to figure out life stories from their clothes, tattoos, body-piercings, and jewelry.
* * * *
I knew the Mackin Chase Hotel quite well, of course; it’s a Philadelphia landmark, a towering glass-and-steel building near the intersection of 20 th and Vine, five minutes’ walk from the train station. Elevators ran up the outside of the building, and the roof had a helicopter pad. Several times I had wondered what the view would be like from up there. Several times I’d wondered what it would be like to jump.
I was ten minutes early for our appointment, but I strolled into the hotel lobby anyway. There, a modernistic fountain made of bent pieces of copper-colored sheet-metal splashed and burbled amidst carefully groomed ferns and bamboo. Pale yellow carp swam lazily through a series of interlocking shallow pools. Around me, orchestral music played an incongruously up-tempo version of the Beatles’ “Yesterday.” How appropriate.
Davy Hunt, dressed all in black from his handmade Italian leather shoes to his mock turtleneck sweater and stylish leisure jacket, folded up the newspaper he’d been pretending to read and rose from a marble bench by the fountain. He forced a sickly grin as I hobbled toward him. His blond hair had grown longer and he now wore it combed to one side, trying to hide a receding hairline. When I got close, I saw the fine web of wrinkles around his eyes. But if he looked his age, I knew I must look thirty years older than mine. Huffing a bit, I leaned on my cane and tried to look strong and brave. Or at least mentally competent.
“Pit — Peter, I mean. How are you doing?”
He stuck out his hand; I shook it automatically. His grip was a little too hard, and I rapidly extricated myself.
“I’m fine,” I lied.
“You look … well.” He swallowed hard, clearly shocked and appalled. Of course he remembered the old Peter Geller, the brilliant geek from college, who knew everything and never missed any detail, no matter how small. But those days were long gone.
“I know how I look, Davy-boy,” I said with a rueful grin. “And well it isn’t.”
“God, Pit!” he blurted out. “What happened?”
I shrugged. “Nervous breakdown. Spent six months in the psych ward. Got out, got hit by a taxi that ran a red light. I’m an alcoholic now — as well as a crip,” I added with wry humor. “How about you?”
He sank down on the bench and buried his face in his hands. For some reason, he seemed to be hyperventilating. His breath came in short gasps.
“God. I’m
Already it was starting. Everything I knew about David Chatham Hunt came bubbling up through my subconscious, whether relevant or not. The two classes we’d both taken together (Comp 104 and Introduction to Analytical Writing). His family crest, which he’d once shown me (a griffin on a shield, surrounded by Masonic-looking symbols). I could even name all seventeen girls he’d dated (and the two he’d bedded) while living at the frat house.
What could David Hunt possibly want with me ? He came from a rich old family; his life should have been golden. Mellow, easy-going, never-a-worry-in-the-world Davy Hunt’s greatest decision these days should have been which swimsuit model to date or which of his many Saabs and Porsches to drive.
The train tracks went underground, and the car got noisy and claustrophobic and dark. A dozen people joined me in the car. Almost there, almost there. I tried not to look at anyone else. I didn’t want to figure out life stories from their clothes, tattoos, body-piercings, and jewelry.
* * * *
I knew the Mackin Chase Hotel quite well, of course; it’s a Philadelphia landmark, a towering glass-and-steel building near the intersection of 20 th and Vine, five minutes’ walk from the train station. Elevators ran up the outside of the building, and the roof had a helicopter pad. Several times I had wondered what the view would be like from up there. Several times I’d wondered what it would be like to jump.
I was ten minutes early for our appointment, but I strolled into the hotel lobby anyway. There, a modernistic fountain made of bent pieces of copper-colored sheet-metal splashed and burbled amidst carefully groomed ferns and bamboo. Pale yellow carp swam lazily through a series of interlocking shallow pools. Around me, orchestral music played an incongruously up-tempo version of the Beatles’ “Yesterday.” How appropriate.
Davy Hunt, dressed all in black from his handmade Italian leather shoes to his mock turtleneck sweater and stylish leisure jacket, folded up the newspaper he’d been pretending to read and rose from a marble bench by the fountain. He forced a sickly grin as I hobbled toward him. His blond hair had grown longer and he now wore it combed to one side, trying to hide a receding hairline. When I got close, I saw the fine web of wrinkles around his eyes. But if he looked his age, I knew I must look thirty years older than mine. Huffing a bit, I leaned on my cane and tried to look strong and brave. Or at least mentally competent.
“Pit — Peter, I mean. How are you doing?”
He stuck out his hand; I shook it automatically. His grip was a little too hard, and I rapidly extricated myself.
“I’m fine,” I lied.
“You look … well.” He swallowed hard, clearly shocked and appalled. Of course he remembered the old Peter Geller, the brilliant geek from college, who knew everything and never missed any detail, no matter how small. But those days were long gone.
“I know how I look, Davy-boy,” I said with a rueful grin. “And well it isn’t.”
“God, Pit!” he blurted out. “What happened?”
I shrugged. “Nervous breakdown. Spent six months in the psych ward. Got out, got hit by a taxi that ran a red light. I’m an alcoholic now — as well as a crip,” I added with wry humor. “How about you?”
He sank down on the bench and buried his face in his hands. For some reason, he seemed to be hyperventilating. His breath came in short gasps.
“God. I’m
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