Read Online Stop That Girl by Elizabeth Mckenzie - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Elizabeth Mckenzie
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earthworms beside them. The grass felt cool and spongy. From under a distant floodlight came the sound of a tennis ball receiving some good sharp whacks.
“You didn’t want to stay, did you?” I said.
“No way,” said Raoul. “It was like an orgy in there.”
“I know it.”
“I mean, I like those people, but I just wasn’t in the mood.”
“Me either,” I said.
“It’s hard to believe people even have orgies,” Raoul said. “I mean, real orgies.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I, personally, would feel too self-conscious.”
“Right. Like, I’m really going to relax and get into making love to someone with ten people watching,” Raoul said.
I pressed my lips together and nodded. Somewhere, deep down, I harbored a lot of feeling for Raoul. But I’d never shown it. I wasn’t sure he felt the same way. I was afraid that if I reached over and tried to kiss him, it would wreck everything.
Raoul had a little flask of Southern Comfort and he offered it. I took a swig. Then we lit our Marlboros, and I watched a small plane with a green light flying over the valley like a bug. The rest of the sky gray as a parking lot. “I really,
really
don’t want to go away,” I said.
“Nothing you can do about it?”
“I’ve argued but it’s no use.”
“Do you think the song “The Bear Went Over the Mountain” is anti-travel?” Raoul said, tapping a blade of grass against his front teeth.
“How?”
“Well, because all he could see was the other side of the mountain,” Raoul said.
“So it’s not worth it to go anywhere, is that what you think the song’s about?”
“I’m just
wondering
if that’s what it’s about,” he said.
“Maybe it’s anti-bear,” I said. “Since it’s the bear’s perceptions, the bear’s nearsightedness, the song celebrates.”
“Why would a song celebrate a bear’s nearsightedness?”
We’d planted ourselves about twenty feet from a pig enclosure, and suddenly, as if there had been a change in the direction of the wind, we could hear the animals snorting in their pens.
“Maybe because as nation builders destroying the wilderness, it was better to think it didn’t matter,” I suggested.
“I get it,” Raoul said. “When ravaging forests, no need to think of the bears, because when they go over the mountain, they appreciate nothing.”
“Exactly.” I laughed. I thought of telling this to Angus Frey.
“I’m hungry,” said Raoul.
We climbed on our bikes again and went whooping down the hill.
Out on the flat, shifting gears, we zipped down Winnetka, and the warm air tickled my neck and my hair waved behind me like a flag. We hugged the corner at Sherman Way, cycled into downtown Reseda, stopped and bought ice cream cones at Sav-On, and sat on the high square curb to eat them.
Reseda. A pornographic bookstore and a sewing and hobby center existed side by side, as did a church and a liquor store. In December someone hung tin dreidels on the wires and ratty candy canes on the streetlights. It was a town and it wasn’t. It had an honorary mayor instead of a real one. It was part of LA but it was called Reseda, just like there was Encino and Tarzana and Canoga Park. In a low and dismal appliance store across the street, a double row of televisions flashed a cheesy variety show with some warty old guy in a sequined cape singing his lungs out.
“Don’t you think it’s kind of disturbing, seeing a bunch of TVs on together like that?” I said.
“Yeah,” said Raoul. “As a matter of fact, I do.” He was licking his green pistachio ice cream into a square.
“I wonder why.”
“Maybe it makes you feel like an insect,” he proposed. “You know how flies have those compound eyes?”
“I do.”
“The philosopher-psychologist William James writes about how it feels really unpleasant to sit on a warm spot created by someone else. If he can write about that, we can write about this.”
“Good idea!”
We were on the staff of the school paper,
“You didn’t want to stay, did you?” I said.
“No way,” said Raoul. “It was like an orgy in there.”
“I know it.”
“I mean, I like those people, but I just wasn’t in the mood.”
“Me either,” I said.
“It’s hard to believe people even have orgies,” Raoul said. “I mean, real orgies.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I, personally, would feel too self-conscious.”
“Right. Like, I’m really going to relax and get into making love to someone with ten people watching,” Raoul said.
I pressed my lips together and nodded. Somewhere, deep down, I harbored a lot of feeling for Raoul. But I’d never shown it. I wasn’t sure he felt the same way. I was afraid that if I reached over and tried to kiss him, it would wreck everything.
Raoul had a little flask of Southern Comfort and he offered it. I took a swig. Then we lit our Marlboros, and I watched a small plane with a green light flying over the valley like a bug. The rest of the sky gray as a parking lot. “I really,
really
don’t want to go away,” I said.
“Nothing you can do about it?”
“I’ve argued but it’s no use.”
“Do you think the song “The Bear Went Over the Mountain” is anti-travel?” Raoul said, tapping a blade of grass against his front teeth.
“How?”
“Well, because all he could see was the other side of the mountain,” Raoul said.
“So it’s not worth it to go anywhere, is that what you think the song’s about?”
“I’m just
wondering
if that’s what it’s about,” he said.
“Maybe it’s anti-bear,” I said. “Since it’s the bear’s perceptions, the bear’s nearsightedness, the song celebrates.”
“Why would a song celebrate a bear’s nearsightedness?”
We’d planted ourselves about twenty feet from a pig enclosure, and suddenly, as if there had been a change in the direction of the wind, we could hear the animals snorting in their pens.
“Maybe because as nation builders destroying the wilderness, it was better to think it didn’t matter,” I suggested.
“I get it,” Raoul said. “When ravaging forests, no need to think of the bears, because when they go over the mountain, they appreciate nothing.”
“Exactly.” I laughed. I thought of telling this to Angus Frey.
“I’m hungry,” said Raoul.
We climbed on our bikes again and went whooping down the hill.
Out on the flat, shifting gears, we zipped down Winnetka, and the warm air tickled my neck and my hair waved behind me like a flag. We hugged the corner at Sherman Way, cycled into downtown Reseda, stopped and bought ice cream cones at Sav-On, and sat on the high square curb to eat them.
Reseda. A pornographic bookstore and a sewing and hobby center existed side by side, as did a church and a liquor store. In December someone hung tin dreidels on the wires and ratty candy canes on the streetlights. It was a town and it wasn’t. It had an honorary mayor instead of a real one. It was part of LA but it was called Reseda, just like there was Encino and Tarzana and Canoga Park. In a low and dismal appliance store across the street, a double row of televisions flashed a cheesy variety show with some warty old guy in a sequined cape singing his lungs out.
“Don’t you think it’s kind of disturbing, seeing a bunch of TVs on together like that?” I said.
“Yeah,” said Raoul. “As a matter of fact, I do.” He was licking his green pistachio ice cream into a square.
“I wonder why.”
“Maybe it makes you feel like an insect,” he proposed. “You know how flies have those compound eyes?”
“I do.”
“The philosopher-psychologist William James writes about how it feels really unpleasant to sit on a warm spot created by someone else. If he can write about that, we can write about this.”
“Good idea!”
We were on the staff of the school paper,
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