Read Online Venus Drive by Sam Lipsyte - Free Book Online Page A

gives. He talks to the children of his mother’s friends, younger people, yoga, the big new job, no stains on their teeth. He doesn’t really work with kids, either. He works near them, odd jobs, errands, the elevator, recess guard. The kids wave, say his name. Kids are precious, priceless.
    Gary has a price.
    He just lowers it a lot.
    The thing is, all Gary did was try to stick up for the cart guy. Sweet guy, cart outside the synagogue, always the freshest stuff: squash, cucumbers, fruit. The older cop was hassling him, the rookie hanging back.
    â€œOfficer,” said Gary to the rookie, “what’s this about? A permit?”
    â€œFuck off.”
    Gary was uptown to meet someone, a buyer. A tiny deal, a taste, a favor, bagel money while school was out. The buyer was nowhere.
    â€œI pay your salary, officer,” said Gary.
    â€œI doubt it, pal.”
    The older cop banged the cart guy down on a tomato crate. The cart guy was talking in a bootstrap tongue.
    â€œHey, Turkey, you from Turkey?” said the older cop. Gary eyed the gun on his hip.
    Maybe it was a test from God, see if Gary would stick up for the cart guy.
    Maybe it was that Gary once played a little football, American. Tactics, crackback, spear.
    He put his hand on the shoulder of the older cop.
    â€œLay off of him,” said Gary.
    Clothesline, clip.
    Gary was on his belly, cuffed. The rookie was in his pockets. “Well, well, what have we got here, Mr. Solid-Fucking-Tax-Paying-Salary-Payer Prick?”
    Â 
    Lock-up was winos unzipping, pissing on the walls. A boy Gary knew from a bulletproof bodega crawled under a bench and slept. There were dozens of them there in one cell. Hands cuffed at their bellies, they filed out for bologna on bread. He befriended a French kid, a student, busted in some club, a ketamine sweep. The French kid was here on a grant to study business. Catch you with K in Tokyo, the French kid said, and they do a number on you with a sword. Or maybe it was Malaysia. Either way, it was no time to be a student.
    One guy, he went for a fit, a seizure, right there on the cell floor. The rest of them stood around, hands clasped together like a prayer meet. Smart guy, thought Gary. Get yourself a bed, warm food. The guards figured him for a fake, though. They were not dumb men, not for here. They kicked the faker in the buttocks, the back. The French kid nudged Gary, said something in French.
    They got juice, more sandwiches. Gary gave the French kid a look. He was sorry about the cheese, American cheese, jail cheese, the whole thing.
    â€œHow did I ever get here?” said Gary.
    â€œA big van,” someone called out.
    They led him through some corridors, took him before the judge. It felt like early evening but there was little in the way of evidence. There was a box painted on the courtroom tiles. “Defendant Stand Here” was painted in the box. A short man, maybe hoping to pass his dark sneakers off as shoes, pinched Gary’s arm.
    â€œJust tell me, did you do it?”
    â€œDo what?”
    â€œThat’s what I thought.”
    The defender faced the judge, said something in English. Felonies, misdemeanors, mitigations. The prosecutor, handsome in a good tan suit, spoke the same words in a different order. Gary tried to follow the exchange but he was beat. He could smell the stink coming up from his boots.
    The judge rubbed his gavel.
    The bailiff buried his key in Gary’s cuffs.
    A woman at a window handed Gary a carbon receipt. It listed what the cops had taken from him at the station house, laces, a lighter, some lip balm, a pen. He waited for her to slide his things across the counter in a big envelope. Probably manila. He had a constitutional right to his lip balm back. He waited a while.
    â€œGet out of here,” she said.
    Â 
    Fucking Cameroon. Why can’t they concentrate? They pound the ball upfield, get an open net, shoot wide into the stands. Their captain