Read Online Please Don't Go by Eric Dimbleby - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Eric Dimbleby
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myself.
***
Jackie leaned in over Zephyr’s shoulder, being ever so nosy as she was prone to be. “How’s it coming? What’s the verdict?” she asked.
“ Just fine. I’m not sure I like his content, but his style is just fine by me,” Zephyr noted, rubbing his chin. He placed a thin white receipt from the drugstore (he had purchased a package of cough drops and box of condoms) into the groove of the book, slamming the titanic tome shut with a dusty thud. “You’ll have to read it when I’m done. Of course, you’ll probably kill it off in one sitting,” he said. Jackie had a tendency to simply devour books, stories, and magazines in record times. Zephyr often questioned her as to whether she actually retained content from her readings. Surely, there was no way to grasp all of the material when your eyes could barely keep up with your mind. Though she was not what one would call a speed-reader, she had a focused dedication to the words on the page, scanning through with her illuminated eyes the way Zephyr imagined a Fritz Lang robot would.
“ That thing? I’ll read the whole volume, cover to cover, in one weekend. You watch me, buddy,” she goaded him. Though it sounded like an inflated dash of ego, it was most likely a very true prophecy. Jackie wrapped her fingers over each of Zephyr’s tightened shoulders, running them into the groove of his clavicles. “You seem tense. You still thinking about that stuff at Rattup’s house again?”
“ Yeah,” he replied, running his own hand along the book’s cover. “I am, as a matter of fact.”
“ Let me take your mind off all that,” she whispered into his ear, biting at his lobe in a playful manner. Zephyr gave himself an unsanctioned blessing from God with regards to his earlier purchases from the drugstore.
He popped a cough drop into his mouth.
7.
Richter, the high and lauded mastermind of all things grocery himself, had uncharacteristically delivered the new special order from Mr. Charles Rattup. “Same deal as last time. He requested you specifically, though,” he informed Zephyr, handing the slip of paper over with a careless glance. There was some consolation to Zephyr in the fact that Richter had not given the task to any of his slimy yes-men, particularly Karen, who was fortunately not listed on the day’s posted schedule. “Take off before shift change if you want, I’ll punch you out at the usual time,” Richter added, knowing full well that the task would take longer than remained on Zephyr’s allotted shift.
“ I’ll take care of it,” Zephyr replied, hesitant yet hopeful in his task. Since their first meeting, Zephyr had tossed around the idea of revisiting that shadowy and peculiar place again. On one hand, the man was a legend, from a certain point of view. Though he was not a “legend” in the generally accepted literary community, he was something of a big deal to Zephyr, in that he aspired to gain some notoriety and an eventual writing career, much like Rattup had. Of course, there was always that pesky other hand . On the other hand, what had transpired at Rattup’s house during the first delivery was something that Zephyr hoped to soon forget, to essentially banish from his sensitive mind. The shattering pitcher. The icy cold extermination of the roaring fire. Rattup turning as white as a freshly washed sheet, ushering Zephyr from his front door with a stiff boot, like the end of a Three Stooges sketch after the boys were found out to be frauds (“Why, you’re not professional chefs at all!”). It was all too unreasonable for such a reasonable world. It sent forth great rumbling quakes in Zephyr’s sanctity.
Scanning over the list of goods, which were almost identical to the previous haul of booty, Zephyr called after the fleeting Richter with a question, “Hey, what do you know about this Rattup guy?” He raised an eyebrow, quite consciously, and awaited his boss’ response with
***
Jackie leaned in over Zephyr’s shoulder, being ever so nosy as she was prone to be. “How’s it coming? What’s the verdict?” she asked.
“ Just fine. I’m not sure I like his content, but his style is just fine by me,” Zephyr noted, rubbing his chin. He placed a thin white receipt from the drugstore (he had purchased a package of cough drops and box of condoms) into the groove of the book, slamming the titanic tome shut with a dusty thud. “You’ll have to read it when I’m done. Of course, you’ll probably kill it off in one sitting,” he said. Jackie had a tendency to simply devour books, stories, and magazines in record times. Zephyr often questioned her as to whether she actually retained content from her readings. Surely, there was no way to grasp all of the material when your eyes could barely keep up with your mind. Though she was not what one would call a speed-reader, she had a focused dedication to the words on the page, scanning through with her illuminated eyes the way Zephyr imagined a Fritz Lang robot would.
“ That thing? I’ll read the whole volume, cover to cover, in one weekend. You watch me, buddy,” she goaded him. Though it sounded like an inflated dash of ego, it was most likely a very true prophecy. Jackie wrapped her fingers over each of Zephyr’s tightened shoulders, running them into the groove of his clavicles. “You seem tense. You still thinking about that stuff at Rattup’s house again?”
“ Yeah,” he replied, running his own hand along the book’s cover. “I am, as a matter of fact.”
“ Let me take your mind off all that,” she whispered into his ear, biting at his lobe in a playful manner. Zephyr gave himself an unsanctioned blessing from God with regards to his earlier purchases from the drugstore.
He popped a cough drop into his mouth.
7.
Richter, the high and lauded mastermind of all things grocery himself, had uncharacteristically delivered the new special order from Mr. Charles Rattup. “Same deal as last time. He requested you specifically, though,” he informed Zephyr, handing the slip of paper over with a careless glance. There was some consolation to Zephyr in the fact that Richter had not given the task to any of his slimy yes-men, particularly Karen, who was fortunately not listed on the day’s posted schedule. “Take off before shift change if you want, I’ll punch you out at the usual time,” Richter added, knowing full well that the task would take longer than remained on Zephyr’s allotted shift.
“ I’ll take care of it,” Zephyr replied, hesitant yet hopeful in his task. Since their first meeting, Zephyr had tossed around the idea of revisiting that shadowy and peculiar place again. On one hand, the man was a legend, from a certain point of view. Though he was not a “legend” in the generally accepted literary community, he was something of a big deal to Zephyr, in that he aspired to gain some notoriety and an eventual writing career, much like Rattup had. Of course, there was always that pesky other hand . On the other hand, what had transpired at Rattup’s house during the first delivery was something that Zephyr hoped to soon forget, to essentially banish from his sensitive mind. The shattering pitcher. The icy cold extermination of the roaring fire. Rattup turning as white as a freshly washed sheet, ushering Zephyr from his front door with a stiff boot, like the end of a Three Stooges sketch after the boys were found out to be frauds (“Why, you’re not professional chefs at all!”). It was all too unreasonable for such a reasonable world. It sent forth great rumbling quakes in Zephyr’s sanctity.
Scanning over the list of goods, which were almost identical to the previous haul of booty, Zephyr called after the fleeting Richter with a question, “Hey, what do you know about this Rattup guy?” He raised an eyebrow, quite consciously, and awaited his boss’ response with
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