side sags because of a spring that snapped when the teenage Slattery held his younger brother face-down on the cushions and then jumped on his back, sending the boy to the hospital with a chipped vertebra. Jakob pities Eoin – the kid still seems shell-shocked, as if his childhood were a war he barely survived.
The television is flanked by twin speaker towers. Smaller speakers hang from the ceiling, providing surround sound, which Jakob imagines is wonderful for movies. For the weatherman, though, it’s agitating: the professionally cheerful voice comes at Jakob from every possible angle. ‘We might be looking at our first major winter storm for the New York metropolitan area, and I’ll tell you what, Carol, it could be a doozy. Expect anywhere from four to ten inches of snow—;’
‘Ten inches of snow!’ shouts Slattery. ‘We ought to drive upstate day after tomorrow, do some skiing. I just bought some Völkls – racing skis.’
‘I don’t know how to ski,’ says Jakob.
‘So what, neither do I. But ten inches of snow . . . Maybe not this weekend.’
The weatherman’s voice echoes in the underfurnished room.
Jakob shudders. ‘Do you think real human beings use the word doozy ?’
‘What?’
‘Have you taken any lessons yet?’ asks Jakob, pointing at the red guitar.
Slattery shakes his head. ‘You think I have time for guitar lessons? It’s pretty nice, though, isn’t it?’
‘It’s really nice,’ says Jakob.
‘Yeah. That’s a nice color red.’
‘Do you want another beer?’ asks Jakob, anxious to get away from the giant newscasters.
‘Yeah, thanks.’
The kitchen is suspiciously clean. Jakob examines the shimmering stainless steel sink, runs his finger along the countertop, finds no sticky spots, no crumbs. The enormous black stove, complete with six burners and an integrated griddle free of splatters and fingerprints, has apparently never been sullied by the tawdry chore of cooking. Bastard has a maid coming in, Jakob decides. The Sub-Zero refrigerator is well stocked, crammed with bottled olives, horseradish mustard, a round of smoked mozzarella wrapped in plastic, a roasted turkey drumstick in aluminum foil. This looks like my parents’ refrigerator, thinks Jakob, sadly.
‘There’s no beer in here!’ yells Jakob, louder than he meant. The echo of his own voice in the kitchen sounds bitter.
‘Hold on a second.’
Jakob returns to the living room, watches Slattery watching the national news. ‘There’s no beer in the refrigerator.’
‘Did you really look?’
‘No, I didn’t really look. Was I supposed to really look?’
‘Have you seen this?’ asks Slattery. ‘Here, sit down, watch this.’
Jakob sits reluctantly, trying not to stare directly at the screen.
‘This elephant in Bangkok got loose in the streets, last night or something. Look at this.’
Someone with a handheld video camera recorded the scene, a gray elephant stomping down the middle of a broad thoroughfare, followed by a cheering crowd of men, women, and children. Police officers try to hold the people back, setting up orange sawhorses and waving their billy clubs, but everyone ignores the officers in the happy pandemonium. Soldiers in military fatigues track the elephant through the scopes of their high-powered rifles.
‘I was watching this on CNN an hour ago,’ says Slattery. ‘They said old elephants lose their minds sometimes, just snap. Watch this.’
Black quills appear on the elephant’s weathered hide and Jakob listens to the reporter describing the tranquilizer darts, six in all, each loaded with enough sedative to knock out any reasonable elephant. The beast shudders for a moment, shaking its massive head, the great ears flopping back and forth. Then it turns in its tracks and charges toward the sidewalk. The crowd gathered there disperses in all directions, like billiard balls after a good break. The elephant lowers its head and smashes through the glass storefront of what
The television is flanked by twin speaker towers. Smaller speakers hang from the ceiling, providing surround sound, which Jakob imagines is wonderful for movies. For the weatherman, though, it’s agitating: the professionally cheerful voice comes at Jakob from every possible angle. ‘We might be looking at our first major winter storm for the New York metropolitan area, and I’ll tell you what, Carol, it could be a doozy. Expect anywhere from four to ten inches of snow—;’
‘Ten inches of snow!’ shouts Slattery. ‘We ought to drive upstate day after tomorrow, do some skiing. I just bought some Völkls – racing skis.’
‘I don’t know how to ski,’ says Jakob.
‘So what, neither do I. But ten inches of snow . . . Maybe not this weekend.’
The weatherman’s voice echoes in the underfurnished room.
Jakob shudders. ‘Do you think real human beings use the word doozy ?’
‘What?’
‘Have you taken any lessons yet?’ asks Jakob, pointing at the red guitar.
Slattery shakes his head. ‘You think I have time for guitar lessons? It’s pretty nice, though, isn’t it?’
‘It’s really nice,’ says Jakob.
‘Yeah. That’s a nice color red.’
‘Do you want another beer?’ asks Jakob, anxious to get away from the giant newscasters.
‘Yeah, thanks.’
The kitchen is suspiciously clean. Jakob examines the shimmering stainless steel sink, runs his finger along the countertop, finds no sticky spots, no crumbs. The enormous black stove, complete with six burners and an integrated griddle free of splatters and fingerprints, has apparently never been sullied by the tawdry chore of cooking. Bastard has a maid coming in, Jakob decides. The Sub-Zero refrigerator is well stocked, crammed with bottled olives, horseradish mustard, a round of smoked mozzarella wrapped in plastic, a roasted turkey drumstick in aluminum foil. This looks like my parents’ refrigerator, thinks Jakob, sadly.
‘There’s no beer in here!’ yells Jakob, louder than he meant. The echo of his own voice in the kitchen sounds bitter.
‘Hold on a second.’
Jakob returns to the living room, watches Slattery watching the national news. ‘There’s no beer in the refrigerator.’
‘Did you really look?’
‘No, I didn’t really look. Was I supposed to really look?’
‘Have you seen this?’ asks Slattery. ‘Here, sit down, watch this.’
Jakob sits reluctantly, trying not to stare directly at the screen.
‘This elephant in Bangkok got loose in the streets, last night or something. Look at this.’
Someone with a handheld video camera recorded the scene, a gray elephant stomping down the middle of a broad thoroughfare, followed by a cheering crowd of men, women, and children. Police officers try to hold the people back, setting up orange sawhorses and waving their billy clubs, but everyone ignores the officers in the happy pandemonium. Soldiers in military fatigues track the elephant through the scopes of their high-powered rifles.
‘I was watching this on CNN an hour ago,’ says Slattery. ‘They said old elephants lose their minds sometimes, just snap. Watch this.’
Black quills appear on the elephant’s weathered hide and Jakob listens to the reporter describing the tranquilizer darts, six in all, each loaded with enough sedative to knock out any reasonable elephant. The beast shudders for a moment, shaking its massive head, the great ears flopping back and forth. Then it turns in its tracks and charges toward the sidewalk. The crowd gathered there disperses in all directions, like billiard balls after a good break. The elephant lowers its head and smashes through the glass storefront of what
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