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

looks much older, slaps them around. It does no good. Their coach, a Croatian, walks the sideline in a windbreaker. Gary gets out his atlas, looks up Cameroon. Symbols for goods and resources, coffee, oil, lumber.
    The Cameroon captain goes up for a header. The ball slants in for a goal.
    â€œThe glass slipper continues to fit!” the color man says.
    But wouldn’t the glass shatter with the girl’s first step?
    Gary goes to the kitchen for another O’Doul’s. When the O’Doul’s runs out, he’ll get some real beer, but right now there’s a principle at stake.
    Gary’s mother calls Gary.
    â€œAre you coming to my thing on Saturday, Saturday afternoon? It’s for Mrs. Lily’s daughter, Lorraine. She just got her masters in social work. It’s a little gathering. You two will have a lot to talk about with your job and all. Oh, and her mother says Lorraine’s a big fan of your music.”
    â€œI don’t make music anymore,” says Gary.
    â€œYou know what I mean. How are you, honey? You sound a little blue. Are you blue? Did you find any summer work?”
    â€œMaybe. It might start Saturday.”
    â€œReally? Saturday? Doing what?”
    â€œA city job, with kids.”
    â€œGreat, Gary. That’s great. But please try to get out of it for Saturday. I’ll give you the day’s pay. I really want you to come to my party. I really want you to say hi to Lorraine.”
    â€œI’ll try,” says Gary.
    â€œTry and make it more than try,” says his mother.
    Â 
    Gary had a feeling his best friend was going to blow his head off, but what are you going to do? The guy had always said that suicide was the plan. He said it the way some people mention the possibility of law school, vague and determined at the same time. Those people usually did go to law school. They saw themselves as lawyers all along. This guy just happened to see himself as dead.
    Divinity school, though, that surprised him. It wasn’t that the drummer seemed godless, just kind of vapid, dumb. Gary got offers from other bands, but only the minor, imitative ones. It would have been like playing in his own tribute group.
    Gary figures he’ll be fine when he gets over the idea of devotion. There was that morning in Rotterdam a man and a woman got down on their knees in the street. They took him up to their room, gave him dope to smoke, played his music for him as though this time he would hear it anew. The man pulled tablature of Gary’s songs from a cold oven, his file drawer.
    â€œYour band is one of those bands,” the man said, “in a few years, forget it. Legends. People will see, separate the wheat from the chafe.”
    â€œWhat about now?” said Gary. “And you mean chaff.”
    â€œNow is different story,” the man said. “There is still a lot of chafe.”
    Besides, he’s sick of rock. He likes kids. He’s shooting a lot of cocaine, sure, but that’s just because he’s off for the summer. This bust, though, it bothers him. Community service? What community? The cop and the cart guy? The man with no teeth? This city is just a lot of brickwork and stonework and people bearing down on nothing at all.
    He remembers the last time he saw Lorraine Lily, a few winters ago. A tag-along, sweet, with tits. Maybe he could knock off the death trip, get clean, get clear, with Lorraine. Benefit from her training.
    â€œLast licks,” he says out loud, pulls the plunger back, eases the needle home.
    Neuron, axon, penalty kick.
    Now the Africans are leaping into each others’ arms, sobbing, falling to the field, grabbing the turf.
    â€œThis carriage isn’t going to turn into a pumpkin anytime soon, I’ll tell you that,” the color man says. “In years to come we’re going to look back on this. This moment will become legend.”
    â€œWhat I hope,” says another announcer, “is that