Read Online Wit's End by Karen Joy Fowler - Free Book Online Page B

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    They tried three parking lots before they found a place down by the river, and then had to walk several blocks through the downtown. They passed the Santa Cruz clown—a man in pink clown shoes, pink clown pants, and twirling a pink umbrella. His cheeks were painted with pink circles and he had an extremely unsettling smile on his face. No one but Rima appeared to notice him, though he would have been very eye-catching in Cleveland.
    Everyone else was dressed as if it were cold out. Scorch and Martin found themselves in absolute, delightful agreement that it was crazy fucking cold. Scorch gave Martin her hand so he could see how cold that was, and Martin put her hand on his chest inside his jacket—it was so cold, he said, he was afraid fingers would be lost if drastic measures weren’t taken—and then, partly because Cody was looking off to the side and saying nothing, Rima told them both to go to Ohio for a winter and cowboy up.
    The bar was upstairs in a building with no sign on the street to suggest it. They passed through a lobby of faded gaud with gold-flecked red wallpaper, a dusty chandelier, and a wall of headshots—a bouquet of Miss Santa Cruzes from the 1930s, the 1940s, the Marilyn Monroe 1950s. Rima followed Scorch’s shoes—metallic gold sneakers with green laces—up the stairs and into the heat of the crowded bar.
    Scorch and Cody were greeted by name. They produced no IDs, and none was asked for, while Rima’s and Martin’s were examined with care. Before she was allowed inside, Rima was tested on her birth year, which fortunately she did know, and then they all got to stamp their own hands with a stamp of their own choosing, though the selection was limited to moody pigs. Scorch’s pig was wistful, Rima’s was angry. Martin’s was lovelorn. Cody’s was the same as Martin’s, only on his hand it looked conspiratorial.
    Over Rima’s protests, Scorch insisted on paying the cover for everyone. The room was noisy enough to make talking difficult, and it smelled of hops, pot, and sweat. One seat at the bar was vacant. This was given to Rima while Cody went to see if there were any empty seats farther in. Having failed, he returned and bought Rima a glass of red wine, a Tanqueray Collins for Scorch, and something on tap for himself and Martin. He stood, leaning against the bar on one side of Rima. Martin and Scorch were on the other, Martin so close to Rima that her head was touching the green corduroy sleeve of his jacket.
    There was live music—a band called Control Your Dog with a throaty female vocalist and a powerful bass—so the rest of the evening took place in shouts between songs. “If I’ve got it coming, give it to me,” the vocalist sang. “Don’t take me something something down to something you.”
    Final chord, sustained finish, and then Martin leaned across Rima to Cody. “You in the doghouse, man?”
    â€œHe knows what he did,” Scorch said. There was loud laughter in another part of the bar. “You can all go fuck yourselves,” someone was saying at a table to Rima’s left, while the man on the other side of Cody said something about love, which he thought was either unconditional or wasn’t, Rima couldn’t hear enough to know. Later in the evening she would realize with surprise that he’d been talking about God.
    â€œJust tell her you’re sorry,” Martin said. “You’re better off being wrong than being right.”
    â€œLike an apology just fixes everything. Like it’s some fucking delete button,” and Scorch was still talking, but Rima couldn’t hear any more of that either, Control Your Dog was revving up for another song. “Dorsal pie down on a quiet street,” the vocalist sang, or maybe Rima had misheard the words.

(2)
    Several songs and a drink later:
    Martin was talking into Scorch’s ear. Cody had joined the