nod, light a cigarette.
"You know, I hate to see you doin' that, Luther. It's committing slow suicide."
"Easiest kind for everyone involved."
"Don't even go there, you fuck," Ice Box says. "I ain't talking with you about philosophies of life and death and so forth and so on. Why spoil a great day? C'mon, have a look at my new toy. Just picked it up this morning."
"And it got so soiled on the drive home you felt the need to wash it?"
"Gotta keep this clear-coat paint spotless, my man. I want it shining, really shining when I bring those twins home from the hospital."
"Got any names yet?"
"Two words for you. Just two words...."
"Hey Luther," Mary Jo calls from inside. "How does 'Chloroform' and 'Cholera' grab you?"
She's laughing. "You told her about all that?" I say, grabbing a fold of IB's T.
"Sure," he says. "Why not?"
"I was only being a smart-ass with that stuff, MJ," I call. "I never meant any of it."
"Really?" She's still laughing. "Too bad. I sort of liked the ideas you were coming up with."
"Check this action, Five-O," IB says, pointing the key ring at the minivan and pressing a tiny red button. The whole side slides back slick and silently until both front and rear seats are exposed. In the back I see two top-of-the-line infant car seats already snugged in tight. "Cool, yeah? You come strolling up, your arms are full of kids or groceries or whatnot, you touch your button, and just glide right into that very roomy and comfortable interior."
I laugh, pat him on the back. "Jammin'," I say. "Well, except maybe for the color choice."
"Do I ever criticize that junker making the whole street look like a slum?" IB says.
"Some, yeah."
MJ comes butt first through the screen door once more, carrying a light aluminum-and-webbing lawn chair. She sets up the chair facing us, and we start talking about the twins and how her family's going to go nuts and what IB's folks are going to do and on into imagined futures for lives that haven't even started yet. She looks so peaceful, even if she has to keep shifting her weight to stay comfortable.
I feel my head going jagged. IB's my age, Mary Jo's twenty-eight, married four years, nice house, nice life, lots of close relatives who stay in close touch, their own kids on the way, plans for more—all connected somehow with a world I can't grasp. I can see they're very happy in their state of being, see a deeper contentedness that counters all the small, shitty irritations of living day to day. 'Cause they aren't living day to day, I decide. It's a path they're on, which, barring bad luck or disaster, will take them all the way out to the end.
So what's missing in me? Why does my life start fresh every morning when I wake up, and die when I fall asleep at night?
I hang out happily with Ice Box and Mary Jo until just before dinnertime, sticking to what they got like a fucking leech.
I answer my apartment door that night wearing only my yakuta. It's a lovely thing, falls all the way to my feet. From any little distance the superfine cotton appears to be blue-and-white checked, but when you look closer you see each bit of blue and each bit of white is actually a crane with wings spread, interlocking. Gunny got it for me in Japan. I've worn it maybe three times in my life.
Helen's there, smiling a big one, string bag with a change of clothing slung over one shoulder, baggy gangbanger shorts riding low on her hips so I can see her navel. She looks me up and down with approval, but before she can say anything I've got her in my arms and my lips locked on hers. She's cool about it, she wants to slide with me, I can tell by the way her body melts into mine.
So we slide, right there on the dining table. And later, in bed.
I jerk awake about four, dream-image in my brain—but so hi-rez it seems realer than real—of the last time I saw Vassily. Blood red's the dominant color, corpses torn and leaking the smell. Got to get smooth again. I slip under the covers and begin blowing
"You know, I hate to see you doin' that, Luther. It's committing slow suicide."
"Easiest kind for everyone involved."
"Don't even go there, you fuck," Ice Box says. "I ain't talking with you about philosophies of life and death and so forth and so on. Why spoil a great day? C'mon, have a look at my new toy. Just picked it up this morning."
"And it got so soiled on the drive home you felt the need to wash it?"
"Gotta keep this clear-coat paint spotless, my man. I want it shining, really shining when I bring those twins home from the hospital."
"Got any names yet?"
"Two words for you. Just two words...."
"Hey Luther," Mary Jo calls from inside. "How does 'Chloroform' and 'Cholera' grab you?"
She's laughing. "You told her about all that?" I say, grabbing a fold of IB's T.
"Sure," he says. "Why not?"
"I was only being a smart-ass with that stuff, MJ," I call. "I never meant any of it."
"Really?" She's still laughing. "Too bad. I sort of liked the ideas you were coming up with."
"Check this action, Five-O," IB says, pointing the key ring at the minivan and pressing a tiny red button. The whole side slides back slick and silently until both front and rear seats are exposed. In the back I see two top-of-the-line infant car seats already snugged in tight. "Cool, yeah? You come strolling up, your arms are full of kids or groceries or whatnot, you touch your button, and just glide right into that very roomy and comfortable interior."
I laugh, pat him on the back. "Jammin'," I say. "Well, except maybe for the color choice."
"Do I ever criticize that junker making the whole street look like a slum?" IB says.
"Some, yeah."
MJ comes butt first through the screen door once more, carrying a light aluminum-and-webbing lawn chair. She sets up the chair facing us, and we start talking about the twins and how her family's going to go nuts and what IB's folks are going to do and on into imagined futures for lives that haven't even started yet. She looks so peaceful, even if she has to keep shifting her weight to stay comfortable.
I feel my head going jagged. IB's my age, Mary Jo's twenty-eight, married four years, nice house, nice life, lots of close relatives who stay in close touch, their own kids on the way, plans for more—all connected somehow with a world I can't grasp. I can see they're very happy in their state of being, see a deeper contentedness that counters all the small, shitty irritations of living day to day. 'Cause they aren't living day to day, I decide. It's a path they're on, which, barring bad luck or disaster, will take them all the way out to the end.
So what's missing in me? Why does my life start fresh every morning when I wake up, and die when I fall asleep at night?
I hang out happily with Ice Box and Mary Jo until just before dinnertime, sticking to what they got like a fucking leech.
I answer my apartment door that night wearing only my yakuta. It's a lovely thing, falls all the way to my feet. From any little distance the superfine cotton appears to be blue-and-white checked, but when you look closer you see each bit of blue and each bit of white is actually a crane with wings spread, interlocking. Gunny got it for me in Japan. I've worn it maybe three times in my life.
Helen's there, smiling a big one, string bag with a change of clothing slung over one shoulder, baggy gangbanger shorts riding low on her hips so I can see her navel. She looks me up and down with approval, but before she can say anything I've got her in my arms and my lips locked on hers. She's cool about it, she wants to slide with me, I can tell by the way her body melts into mine.
So we slide, right there on the dining table. And later, in bed.
I jerk awake about four, dream-image in my brain—but so hi-rez it seems realer than real—of the last time I saw Vassily. Blood red's the dominant color, corpses torn and leaking the smell. Got to get smooth again. I slip under the covers and begin blowing
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