Read Online The True Detective by Theodore Weesner - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Theodore Weesner
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Leon says. “Any second now I’m going to get violent.”
“You go right ahead—you motherfucker. Don’t think you can intimidate me. You asshole! Don’t ever think that. You fucking hick. You fascist! I’ll fight you to the fucking death, you cock-sucker, you!”
When Leon has no response to this, Duncan, swigging beer himself, adds, “You can dish it out, but you can’t take it, can you? Truth gets to you, doesn’t it? I’m a little surprised. Since I movedin here, I see you collecting all those shit magazines, I thought it was kind of funny. Strange-funny, you know. I thought: I call him on it, he’s straight, he’ll laugh. He gets defensive? Ooh, something funny in there, man. You and Spot here, your faithful companion.”
“That is funny. Ha ha.”
“Too late, Leon.”
“Fuck you. I happen to know I’m normal. And fucking looking at Playboy and jacking off are normal, too. Okay?”
“You are so pathetic,” Duncan says.
Leon is drinking his beer. “No,” he says, indicating Vernon, who hasn’t moved in this time. “That is pathetic.”
“As soon as I can, I’ll move,” Vernon says.
“Please do,” Leon says.
“You’re not moving anywhere,” Duncan says “You move, I’ll move. Know something?” he adds, turning back to Leon. “I was warned about coming here to school. Go to a small private school, people told me. Know something else? This is the first—serious—question we’ve taken on since we’ve been here. The community college I transferred from—we sat around a fucking dirty cafeteria every night and had good arguments, good discussions. And we all thought—dumb-ass bozos that we were—we all thought that real student life existed elsewhere. We were wrong. All you do here is play. Me, too. It makes me want to cry. My God, to respect Playboy —which is nothing but a jack-off magazine that you are rube enough to buy. Know something else? It makes you a joke. It makes me want to walk in front of a fucking truck. There was a time, man, I was hungry to learn things, and you have the fucking gall, you do, you have the fucking gall to make fun of New Jersey.”
“You’re drunk,” Leon says.
“You’re fucking right I’m drunk,” Duncan says. “That doesn’t mean I’m wrong. It means I’m telling the truth—you fucking turd.”
Vernon thinks to leave, to go to his room, but he stands there, as do the others, as if caught.
Leon, a catch in his voice, seems about to cry. “I’ll tell you something,” he says. “I love this school. Say what you like. I love it.”
There is a pause. Duncan, face down, looks to actually be weeping, too, although tears of another kind. Vernon walks between them and across the kitchen to his room. The pause continues. Closing his door, standing inside in the late afternoon shadow, he senses the three of them on the other side.
There on his desk is his magazine in the manila folder, looking untouched. He returns the folder to his desk drawer.
Do I have to move? he wonders. Do I? Is that what happened?
Sitting on the side of his bed, he sees no answer to his question; nor does he have any idea what to do or what to think. What is it? he wonders. What is happening to him?
An outburst of laughter comes from the kitchen and startles him. All three, it seems, laughed at once.
There on the metal bar of his cot are socks he washed by hand and hung to dry a day or so ago. He takes them down, mates and rolls them into pairs. He has underwear in the bathroom on a small drying rack he bought—and is taunted over, as he is for the regular hand-laundering he does in the bathroom sink—but he has no intention of retrieving anything now. Only in his weeks with Anthony did his sink-laundering fall out of rhythm.
Socks rolled, he remains sitting on the edge of his bed. He has realized he is crying, but he doesn’t know if it is one thing or another. He seems to know only of the aloneness around him.
Moments later there is a light tapping
“You go right ahead—you motherfucker. Don’t think you can intimidate me. You asshole! Don’t ever think that. You fucking hick. You fascist! I’ll fight you to the fucking death, you cock-sucker, you!”
When Leon has no response to this, Duncan, swigging beer himself, adds, “You can dish it out, but you can’t take it, can you? Truth gets to you, doesn’t it? I’m a little surprised. Since I movedin here, I see you collecting all those shit magazines, I thought it was kind of funny. Strange-funny, you know. I thought: I call him on it, he’s straight, he’ll laugh. He gets defensive? Ooh, something funny in there, man. You and Spot here, your faithful companion.”
“That is funny. Ha ha.”
“Too late, Leon.”
“Fuck you. I happen to know I’m normal. And fucking looking at Playboy and jacking off are normal, too. Okay?”
“You are so pathetic,” Duncan says.
Leon is drinking his beer. “No,” he says, indicating Vernon, who hasn’t moved in this time. “That is pathetic.”
“As soon as I can, I’ll move,” Vernon says.
“Please do,” Leon says.
“You’re not moving anywhere,” Duncan says “You move, I’ll move. Know something?” he adds, turning back to Leon. “I was warned about coming here to school. Go to a small private school, people told me. Know something else? This is the first—serious—question we’ve taken on since we’ve been here. The community college I transferred from—we sat around a fucking dirty cafeteria every night and had good arguments, good discussions. And we all thought—dumb-ass bozos that we were—we all thought that real student life existed elsewhere. We were wrong. All you do here is play. Me, too. It makes me want to cry. My God, to respect Playboy —which is nothing but a jack-off magazine that you are rube enough to buy. Know something else? It makes you a joke. It makes me want to walk in front of a fucking truck. There was a time, man, I was hungry to learn things, and you have the fucking gall, you do, you have the fucking gall to make fun of New Jersey.”
“You’re drunk,” Leon says.
“You’re fucking right I’m drunk,” Duncan says. “That doesn’t mean I’m wrong. It means I’m telling the truth—you fucking turd.”
Vernon thinks to leave, to go to his room, but he stands there, as do the others, as if caught.
Leon, a catch in his voice, seems about to cry. “I’ll tell you something,” he says. “I love this school. Say what you like. I love it.”
There is a pause. Duncan, face down, looks to actually be weeping, too, although tears of another kind. Vernon walks between them and across the kitchen to his room. The pause continues. Closing his door, standing inside in the late afternoon shadow, he senses the three of them on the other side.
There on his desk is his magazine in the manila folder, looking untouched. He returns the folder to his desk drawer.
Do I have to move? he wonders. Do I? Is that what happened?
Sitting on the side of his bed, he sees no answer to his question; nor does he have any idea what to do or what to think. What is it? he wonders. What is happening to him?
An outburst of laughter comes from the kitchen and startles him. All three, it seems, laughed at once.
There on the metal bar of his cot are socks he washed by hand and hung to dry a day or so ago. He takes them down, mates and rolls them into pairs. He has underwear in the bathroom on a small drying rack he bought—and is taunted over, as he is for the regular hand-laundering he does in the bathroom sink—but he has no intention of retrieving anything now. Only in his weeks with Anthony did his sink-laundering fall out of rhythm.
Socks rolled, he remains sitting on the edge of his bed. He has realized he is crying, but he doesn’t know if it is one thing or another. He seems to know only of the aloneness around him.
Moments later there is a light tapping
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