time,” Kenneth Sexstone repeated, unimpressed by the father’s claims of business. He took a tape, put it on to his huge machine. “Desmond. Hit the lights.”
I was off and moving before I’d fully realized what it was Mr. Sexstone wanted me to do. It certainly didn’t take the two of us long to establish our relationship. I banged at the wall switch, plunged the four of us into blackness.
“Listen,” whispered Kenneth.
A sound issued forth, the strangest sound I’ve ever heard, a howling from the dark side of the moon.
“Sperms,” whispered Kenneth Sexstone.
Amidst inexplicable beepings, aquatic and metallic echoes, came another ululation, as sad as a sunken ship.
“Humpbacks,” whispered Sexstone.
“Jeez, I really got to go.” I knew that even in the darkness the father was glancing at his wristwatch.
“It sounds kind of like a constipated elephant,” remarked Daniel.
Another sound, this one so low it rumbled in my loins and bristled my pubic hairs and will-nots.
“What
is
this?” I asked.
“Whale music,” said Kenneth Sexstone.
Shall we play the game for Kenny? The game of best placement in the space-time continuum, seeing as none of us belongs here? Okay, okay, but here’s the kicker: what we need for Kenneth is a whole other planet! One with, oh, chrome pleasure-bots. A planet where food doesn’t exist, everyone survives on a regimen of megavitamins and liquid californium. A planet where popular entertainment involves sticking electrodes into the fat of the brain. Yes, Kenneth should live in such a place. For one thing, he’d like it. For another, it would get him far away from me!
The dolphins leap into the sun. We listen to them, Mooky, Claire and I. We are happy, the three of us. “Does anyone feel,” I ask, “like a refreshing dip in the pool?”
“Let’s do,” says Mooky. “Leave us transmogrify and dolphinize.”
“Doff clothing!” I command. Then it’s out into the backyard, into the pool.
My mother sits in a chaise-longe with a lemon gin in her hand, transfixed by the spectacle of her bloated son, a huge Negroid and a gamine from the planet Toronto cavorting nakedly in the light-sprinkled water.
“Hi, Mommy,” I say. “Do you care to join us for a refreshing dip in the pool?”
“I think not.” My mother is dressed in a very businesslike outfit, because she is under the impression that she comes to my house to do business. Vultures and coyotes
do business
when they sit by a lion-kill and drool. The thing of it is, I make money, even my oldest tunes make money. In fact, “Torque Torque” is on the hit parade once more, a smash for Lou Gruber, rocketing up the charts everywhere from New York to Papua New Guinea. I can’t keep track of all the money I make, I am distracted much of the time, and my mother weekly swoops down to check under rugs and so forth. So, she is dressed in a business suit, but she makes some concession to the heat, she pays some homage to the sun, one of her lesser deities. She has hiked up the skirt. She has undone buttons on her blouse.
Mooky climbs out of the pool. “Desmerelda, I got to split. I got a session across town.”
“Mr. Mooks, it’s been a pleasure.”
Mooky laughs. “Shit. Dolphins.” He walks back into the music room, where he left his clothes. My mother watches him go. “Who’s that, Desmond?”
“Mooky Saunders, the best dolphin-man in the world.”
“Oh, yes. And who is this little piece of trash?”
Mom is in one of her moods, not that she ever isn’t.
“Aw shit,” mutters the alien Claire, climbing from the pool. “Just when I was beginning to enjoy myself.”
“Don’t let me stop you,” says my mother Claire. “No doubt my son finds you in some way amusing. I like for my son to be amused.”
“Mommy, she’s on a mission from Toronto. I’m sure she’s been given instructions not to interfere with the life forms here, and I think we should respond with similar courtesy.”
“Oh,
I was off and moving before I’d fully realized what it was Mr. Sexstone wanted me to do. It certainly didn’t take the two of us long to establish our relationship. I banged at the wall switch, plunged the four of us into blackness.
“Listen,” whispered Kenneth.
A sound issued forth, the strangest sound I’ve ever heard, a howling from the dark side of the moon.
“Sperms,” whispered Kenneth Sexstone.
Amidst inexplicable beepings, aquatic and metallic echoes, came another ululation, as sad as a sunken ship.
“Humpbacks,” whispered Sexstone.
“Jeez, I really got to go.” I knew that even in the darkness the father was glancing at his wristwatch.
“It sounds kind of like a constipated elephant,” remarked Daniel.
Another sound, this one so low it rumbled in my loins and bristled my pubic hairs and will-nots.
“What
is
this?” I asked.
“Whale music,” said Kenneth Sexstone.
Shall we play the game for Kenny? The game of best placement in the space-time continuum, seeing as none of us belongs here? Okay, okay, but here’s the kicker: what we need for Kenneth is a whole other planet! One with, oh, chrome pleasure-bots. A planet where food doesn’t exist, everyone survives on a regimen of megavitamins and liquid californium. A planet where popular entertainment involves sticking electrodes into the fat of the brain. Yes, Kenneth should live in such a place. For one thing, he’d like it. For another, it would get him far away from me!
The dolphins leap into the sun. We listen to them, Mooky, Claire and I. We are happy, the three of us. “Does anyone feel,” I ask, “like a refreshing dip in the pool?”
“Let’s do,” says Mooky. “Leave us transmogrify and dolphinize.”
“Doff clothing!” I command. Then it’s out into the backyard, into the pool.
My mother sits in a chaise-longe with a lemon gin in her hand, transfixed by the spectacle of her bloated son, a huge Negroid and a gamine from the planet Toronto cavorting nakedly in the light-sprinkled water.
“Hi, Mommy,” I say. “Do you care to join us for a refreshing dip in the pool?”
“I think not.” My mother is dressed in a very businesslike outfit, because she is under the impression that she comes to my house to do business. Vultures and coyotes
do business
when they sit by a lion-kill and drool. The thing of it is, I make money, even my oldest tunes make money. In fact, “Torque Torque” is on the hit parade once more, a smash for Lou Gruber, rocketing up the charts everywhere from New York to Papua New Guinea. I can’t keep track of all the money I make, I am distracted much of the time, and my mother weekly swoops down to check under rugs and so forth. So, she is dressed in a business suit, but she makes some concession to the heat, she pays some homage to the sun, one of her lesser deities. She has hiked up the skirt. She has undone buttons on her blouse.
Mooky climbs out of the pool. “Desmerelda, I got to split. I got a session across town.”
“Mr. Mooks, it’s been a pleasure.”
Mooky laughs. “Shit. Dolphins.” He walks back into the music room, where he left his clothes. My mother watches him go. “Who’s that, Desmond?”
“Mooky Saunders, the best dolphin-man in the world.”
“Oh, yes. And who is this little piece of trash?”
Mom is in one of her moods, not that she ever isn’t.
“Aw shit,” mutters the alien Claire, climbing from the pool. “Just when I was beginning to enjoy myself.”
“Don’t let me stop you,” says my mother Claire. “No doubt my son finds you in some way amusing. I like for my son to be amused.”
“Mommy, she’s on a mission from Toronto. I’m sure she’s been given instructions not to interfere with the life forms here, and I think we should respond with similar courtesy.”
“Oh,
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