Read Online Seven Good Reasons Not to Be Good by John Gould - Free Book Online
Authors: John Gould
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and the phone quits ringing. He picks it up anyway, calls down to room service.
Yeah, big shot.
Twin. Double. Queen. King. Then what, Emperor, maybe? Matt’s never seen, let alone slept in, a bed this big before. On the floor he discovers a robe, a monogrammed gown of bleached terry which must have slithered off the shimmery bedspread during the night. He slips into it, dizzying briefly as he straightens, and plonks himself on the end of the bed. The bedspread feels like rough silk, a bit of nubble to it, fabric fine enough to be flawed. Extruded by worms raised on organic arugula, one imagines, spinning to piped-in Pachelbel. This place, it’s the un-Lair, the very opposite of home.
The TV’s got tai chi now. A young Chinese woman pushes through incense-tangled air, naming her moves as she executes them. Jade Lady Works Shuttles. Wave Hands Through Clouds. Mariko went through a tai chi phase a couple of years ago, did this same little dance out on the Lair’s back deck. Exquisite. Matt watches for a while, hunched there like an incubus worn out after a long night’s haunting. Then—what the heck—he hoists himself to his feet. Why not join in for once? As the image moves, Matt moves too. Maybe a little of it will leak in through his eyes, the tranquility, the grace. Who knows? Apparent Closure. Embrace Tiger, Return to Mountain. The television urges him to centre his being in his belly, so he does. Grasp Sparrow’s Tail. Step Back and Repulse Monkey. Why didn’t he join in when Mariko was doing this? He’d have been shitty at it, but so what? Maybe if he’d—
Cripes, that was quick. The knock is studied, astute. Matt tai chis his way over to the door, inventing new moves at will. Sad Lady Bids Farewell. Reach Out and Comfort Gnu …
The room service guy bears a tray laden with three large glasses of orange juice (Mariko’s forever on at him about vitamin C) and a couple of quartered slices of toast. With tip, this spartan breakfast costs Matt roughly what he and Mariko used to spend on their special-occasion blowouts at Bravissimo. Old Matt would have freaked out at the ludicrous figure. New Matt? New Matt can’t afford to. New Matt has to get miserly with his panic, hoard it for the days ahead.
What to do? He isn’t going anywhere near the sickie or the old man, not for now. He feels a touch steadier than he did last night, but his body still hasn’t got its thermostat set right. It continues to toggle, every few minutes, between sweats and chills.
WWZD? This is a question Matt will often pose himself when he’s feeling lost or bemused. What Would Zane Do? He’s considered having a bracelet made up, like the Jesus people. WWJD? It wouldn’t hurt to know that too, of course.
But Zane, what would he do? He’d call Zane, wouldn’t he? You can’t save somebody without at least speaking to them, can you? Fine, good. But what would Zane
say
to Zane?
It’s a poser. Matt’s been puzzling over it ever since his last call a few weeks back. His angle that time went something like this: What if Zane isn’t actually good at all? What if he’s just clever—clever enough to give his compulsion a purpose? You get a big ugly sweater from your mother-in-law for Christmas. It’s yellow, the yellow of a smoker’s fingers, and festooned with quasi-floral patterns in lime green and salmon. It’s stippled like a plucked chicken. You wear the hideous thing to your mother-in-law’s once and then you donate it to the Sally Ann. Sure, it’ll keep some poor soul warm on a winter’s night, but that isn’t going to get you into heaven, is it? You’re just
ditching
the damn thing.
So what if Zane’s just ditching his life? What if the whole Gandhi bit’s a ruse, a virtuous-looking way to let him live with his own death? How would you counteract that impulse?
You’d be reduced, Matt figured, to some sort of life’s-worth-living schtick, some
carpe diem
routine. Seize the damn day. This was the approach he
Yeah, big shot.
Twin. Double. Queen. King. Then what, Emperor, maybe? Matt’s never seen, let alone slept in, a bed this big before. On the floor he discovers a robe, a monogrammed gown of bleached terry which must have slithered off the shimmery bedspread during the night. He slips into it, dizzying briefly as he straightens, and plonks himself on the end of the bed. The bedspread feels like rough silk, a bit of nubble to it, fabric fine enough to be flawed. Extruded by worms raised on organic arugula, one imagines, spinning to piped-in Pachelbel. This place, it’s the un-Lair, the very opposite of home.
The TV’s got tai chi now. A young Chinese woman pushes through incense-tangled air, naming her moves as she executes them. Jade Lady Works Shuttles. Wave Hands Through Clouds. Mariko went through a tai chi phase a couple of years ago, did this same little dance out on the Lair’s back deck. Exquisite. Matt watches for a while, hunched there like an incubus worn out after a long night’s haunting. Then—what the heck—he hoists himself to his feet. Why not join in for once? As the image moves, Matt moves too. Maybe a little of it will leak in through his eyes, the tranquility, the grace. Who knows? Apparent Closure. Embrace Tiger, Return to Mountain. The television urges him to centre his being in his belly, so he does. Grasp Sparrow’s Tail. Step Back and Repulse Monkey. Why didn’t he join in when Mariko was doing this? He’d have been shitty at it, but so what? Maybe if he’d—
Cripes, that was quick. The knock is studied, astute. Matt tai chis his way over to the door, inventing new moves at will. Sad Lady Bids Farewell. Reach Out and Comfort Gnu …
The room service guy bears a tray laden with three large glasses of orange juice (Mariko’s forever on at him about vitamin C) and a couple of quartered slices of toast. With tip, this spartan breakfast costs Matt roughly what he and Mariko used to spend on their special-occasion blowouts at Bravissimo. Old Matt would have freaked out at the ludicrous figure. New Matt? New Matt can’t afford to. New Matt has to get miserly with his panic, hoard it for the days ahead.
What to do? He isn’t going anywhere near the sickie or the old man, not for now. He feels a touch steadier than he did last night, but his body still hasn’t got its thermostat set right. It continues to toggle, every few minutes, between sweats and chills.
WWZD? This is a question Matt will often pose himself when he’s feeling lost or bemused. What Would Zane Do? He’s considered having a bracelet made up, like the Jesus people. WWJD? It wouldn’t hurt to know that too, of course.
But Zane, what would he do? He’d call Zane, wouldn’t he? You can’t save somebody without at least speaking to them, can you? Fine, good. But what would Zane
say
to Zane?
It’s a poser. Matt’s been puzzling over it ever since his last call a few weeks back. His angle that time went something like this: What if Zane isn’t actually good at all? What if he’s just clever—clever enough to give his compulsion a purpose? You get a big ugly sweater from your mother-in-law for Christmas. It’s yellow, the yellow of a smoker’s fingers, and festooned with quasi-floral patterns in lime green and salmon. It’s stippled like a plucked chicken. You wear the hideous thing to your mother-in-law’s once and then you donate it to the Sally Ann. Sure, it’ll keep some poor soul warm on a winter’s night, but that isn’t going to get you into heaven, is it? You’re just
ditching
the damn thing.
So what if Zane’s just ditching his life? What if the whole Gandhi bit’s a ruse, a virtuous-looking way to let him live with his own death? How would you counteract that impulse?
You’d be reduced, Matt figured, to some sort of life’s-worth-living schtick, some
carpe diem
routine. Seize the damn day. This was the approach he
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