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Authors: Tom Robbins
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stool. As he struggled to right himself, brushing spilled beer from the palm fronds on his aloha shirt, Boomer exclaimed, “If God didn’t prefer for us to drink at night, he wouldn’t have made neon! Am I right or wrong? And that is not a rhetorical question.”
They exchanged grazing blows, grappled, clinched, and fell to the floor, Boomer on the bottom. Boomer had just linked his fingers around the man’s arboreal throat—which had yet to produce a peep—and was commencing to squeeze when Ellen Cherry marched in, swatted them both with her loaded laundry bag, and pulled them apart. The third man slipped off his stool as if inclined to interfere, but a newly washed pink lace brassiere tumbled, A cup over A cup, from the laundry bag and landed at his shoes. He backed away from it like a vampire from a garlic bulb.
Ellen Cherry retrieved her undergarment, assisted the combatants to their feet, and pushed Boomer toward the exit. “Gentlemen, I apologize,” she said. “My husband is a complete idiot.” They nodded. “But you’ve got to admit, he’s a hill of fun.”
As the couple was backing out the door, the big man at last broke his silence. In a hoarse whisper, he croaked, “I kicked your ass.”
Boomer whirled, shaking an angry fist at his opponent. “You never kicked nothin’, Dumbo! You use steroids! You’ve been disqualified!”
With a yank that could have ripped the beak off a toucan, Ellen Cherry snatched him into the street. A full foot of snow remained in the village gutters. When they saw the blaze in Ellen Cherry’s face, each little compressed crystal in the drift whimpered with anxiety. “Where, oh where, will we be come August?” they cried in unison.
Ellen Cherry had a question of her own. “Goddamn it, Boomer!” she swore. “Are you going to be pulling these stunts in New York City?”
Inside the tavern, normalcy returned. On television, a jilted lover was sobbing; on the jukebox, a jilted lover was crooning; on a beer glass, a flyspeck was disintegrating; on the ceiling, a Marlboro cumulus was gathering; on wire racks, beef jerky was moldering, and on bar stools, the two patrons were frescoing their tonsils with the Bavarian brush. They drank as one.
“You know,” said the smaller man, rimming his Coors can with an index finger, “that asshole was right.”
“Whaddya mean?”
“Brew treats you different in the day than it does at night.”
“Maybe some people.”
“Makes you sleepy. Makes you see stuff.”
Habitually, the big man’s laugh so resembled choking that he couldn’t watch “Hee Haw” in public without some stranger trying the Heimlich maneuver on him. When his derisive chortle had finally humped its way through the mucilaginous layers that webbed his throat, he added, “See stuff,” as if repeating his friend’s remark was enough to refute it.
“My sister called me this morning. Now, I’ve knowed her to put down near as many brewskies as me and you. And you’d need a damn Breathalyzer machine to know she hadn’t been sipping Bosco. I’m talking night drinking. Well, this morning, about noon, she called from way over near Pocatello, where they been living. She’d had a couple already. And she seen stuff.”
“Stuff?”
“You know. Things.”
“There’s things all around us, Mike. Every damn place you look, there’s things. Things on that fool’s shirt whose ass I kicked. Whud your sis see—things from outer space?”
“They was regular things, ordinary little usual things. You’re missing the damn point. It was morning, and she’d had, the most, four beers, and she was driving along and thought she saw this stuff walking the side of the road. That’s all.”
The big man shook his big head slowly from side to side. He was quiet for so long one might have imagined that Anne Sullivan, indeed, would have been required to restore his powers of speech. Eventually, he gave his whiskers a sort of snappy tug and asked,
They exchanged grazing blows, grappled, clinched, and fell to the floor, Boomer on the bottom. Boomer had just linked his fingers around the man’s arboreal throat—which had yet to produce a peep—and was commencing to squeeze when Ellen Cherry marched in, swatted them both with her loaded laundry bag, and pulled them apart. The third man slipped off his stool as if inclined to interfere, but a newly washed pink lace brassiere tumbled, A cup over A cup, from the laundry bag and landed at his shoes. He backed away from it like a vampire from a garlic bulb.
Ellen Cherry retrieved her undergarment, assisted the combatants to their feet, and pushed Boomer toward the exit. “Gentlemen, I apologize,” she said. “My husband is a complete idiot.” They nodded. “But you’ve got to admit, he’s a hill of fun.”
As the couple was backing out the door, the big man at last broke his silence. In a hoarse whisper, he croaked, “I kicked your ass.”
Boomer whirled, shaking an angry fist at his opponent. “You never kicked nothin’, Dumbo! You use steroids! You’ve been disqualified!”
With a yank that could have ripped the beak off a toucan, Ellen Cherry snatched him into the street. A full foot of snow remained in the village gutters. When they saw the blaze in Ellen Cherry’s face, each little compressed crystal in the drift whimpered with anxiety. “Where, oh where, will we be come August?” they cried in unison.
Ellen Cherry had a question of her own. “Goddamn it, Boomer!” she swore. “Are you going to be pulling these stunts in New York City?”
Inside the tavern, normalcy returned. On television, a jilted lover was sobbing; on the jukebox, a jilted lover was crooning; on a beer glass, a flyspeck was disintegrating; on the ceiling, a Marlboro cumulus was gathering; on wire racks, beef jerky was moldering, and on bar stools, the two patrons were frescoing their tonsils with the Bavarian brush. They drank as one.
“You know,” said the smaller man, rimming his Coors can with an index finger, “that asshole was right.”
“Whaddya mean?”
“Brew treats you different in the day than it does at night.”
“Maybe some people.”
“Makes you sleepy. Makes you see stuff.”
Habitually, the big man’s laugh so resembled choking that he couldn’t watch “Hee Haw” in public without some stranger trying the Heimlich maneuver on him. When his derisive chortle had finally humped its way through the mucilaginous layers that webbed his throat, he added, “See stuff,” as if repeating his friend’s remark was enough to refute it.
“My sister called me this morning. Now, I’ve knowed her to put down near as many brewskies as me and you. And you’d need a damn Breathalyzer machine to know she hadn’t been sipping Bosco. I’m talking night drinking. Well, this morning, about noon, she called from way over near Pocatello, where they been living. She’d had a couple already. And she seen stuff.”
“Stuff?”
“You know. Things.”
“There’s things all around us, Mike. Every damn place you look, there’s things. Things on that fool’s shirt whose ass I kicked. Whud your sis see—things from outer space?”
“They was regular things, ordinary little usual things. You’re missing the damn point. It was morning, and she’d had, the most, four beers, and she was driving along and thought she saw this stuff walking the side of the road. That’s all.”
The big man shook his big head slowly from side to side. He was quiet for so long one might have imagined that Anne Sullivan, indeed, would have been required to restore his powers of speech. Eventually, he gave his whiskers a sort of snappy tug and asked,
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