Monday, November 26, 2012
It wasn’t too much to ask
It wasn’t too much to ask, was it?
According to Glamour, Ladies’ Home Journal, and Good Housekeeping—all of which the library received—it was. In those magazines, it seemed that every article stated that it was completely up to the woman to keep the excitement alive in a relationship. But wasn’t a relationship supposed to be just that? A relationship? Both partners doing everything they could to keep the other satisfied?
See, that was the problem with many of the married couples she knew. In any marriage, there was a fine balance between doing what you wanted and doing what your partner wanted, and as long as both the husband and the wife were doing what the other wanted, there was never any problem. The problems arose when people started doing what they wanted without regard to the other. A husband suddenly decides he needs more sex and looks for it outside of the marriage; a wife decides she needs more affection, which eventually leads to her doing exactly the same thing. A good marriage, like any partnership, meant subordinating one’s own needs to that of the other’s, in the expectation that the other will do the same. And as long as both partners keep up their end of the bargain, all is well in the world.
But if you didn’t feel any passion for your husband, could you really expect that? She wasn’t sure. Doris, of course, had a ready answer. “Trust me, honey, that passes after the first couple of years,” she would say, despite the fact that, to Lexie’s mind, anyway, her grandparents had the kind of relationship that anyone would envy. Her grandfather was one of those naturally romantic men. Until the very end, he would open the car door for Doris and hold her hand when they walked through town. He had been both committed and faithful to her. He clearly adored her and would often comment on how lucky he was to have met a woman like her. After he passed on, part of Doris had begun to die as well. First the heart attack, now worsening arthritis; it was as if they’d always been meant to be together. When coupled with Doris’s advice, what did that mean? Did that mean Doris had simply been lucky in meeting a man like him? Or had she seen something in her husband beforehand, something that confirmed he was the right one for her?
More important, why on earth was Lexie even thinking about marriage again?
Probably because she was here at Doris’s house, the house she’d grown up in after her parents had died. Cooking with her in the kitchen was comforting in its familiarity, and she remembered growing up thinking that she would one day live in a house like this. Weathered planking; a tin roof that echoed the sound of rain, making it seem that it was raining nowhere else in the world; old-fashioned windows with frames that had been painted so many times that they were almost impossible to open. And she did live in a house like that. Well, sort of, anyway. At first glance, it would seem that Doris’s home and hers were similar—they were built in the same era—but she’d never been able to replicate the aromas. The Sunday afternoon stews, the sun-dried scent of sheets on the bed, the slightly stuffy smell of the ancient rocker where her grandfather had relaxed for years. Smells like those reflected a way of life worn smooth with comfort over the years, and whenever she pushed through the door here, she was flooded with vivid childhood memories.
她会听我念给她听的每一本书
她会听我念给她听的每一本书，每一首诗。一天我读了一首自己写的给她听。我凑得很近。我对着枕头轻轻耳语：
我想成为
海里的浪，风中的云，
但我还只是小小的我。
有一天我要
跳出自己的身躯
我要摇晃天空
像一百把小提琴。
很好。非常好。她用有气无力的声音说。记住你要写下去，埃斯佩朗莎。你一定要写下去。那会让你自由，我说好的，只是那时我还不懂她的意思。
那天我们玩了同样的游戏。我们不知道她要死了。我们装作头往后仰，四肢软弱无力，像死人的一样垂挂着。我们学她的样子笑。学她的样子说话，那种盲人说话的时候不转动头部的样子。我们模仿她必须被人托起头颈才能喝水的样子。她从一个绿色的锡杯里把水慢慢地吮出来喝掉。水是热的，味道像金属。露西笑起来，拉切尔也笑了。我们轮流扮演她。我们像鹦鹉学舌一样，用微弱的声音呼喊托奇过来洗碗。那很容易做到。
可我们不懂。她等待死亡很长时间了。我们忘了。也许她很愧疚。也许她很窘迫：死亡花了这么多年时间。孩子们想要做成孩子，而不是在那里洗碗涮碟，给爸爸熨衬衫。丈夫也想再要一个妻子。
于是她死了。听我念诗的婶婶。
于是我们开始做起了那些梦。
Chapter 37 Elenita, cards, plam, water
She makes the sign of the cross over the water three times and then begins to cut the cards.
They're not like ordinary playing cards, these cards. They're strange, with blond men on horses and crazy baseball bats with thorns. Golden goblets, sad-looking women dressed in old-fashioned dresses, and roses that cry.
There is a good Bugs Bunny cartoon on T.V. I know, I saw it before and recognize the music and wish I could go sit on the plastic couch with Ernie and the baby, but now my fortune begins. My whole life on that kitchen table : past, present, future. Then she takes my hand and looks into my plam. Closes it. Closes her eyes too.
Do you feel it, feel it cold?
Yes , I lie, but only a little.
她用手在水面上画了三次十字，开始抽牌。
这可不是平常玩的牌。这些牌，它们有点奇怪，上面有骑在马上的金发白肤的男人，吓人滴长了刺的棒球棒、金色圣杯、穿着旧式服装的悲伤的女人，还有哭泣玫瑰。
我知道电视上在演一部好玩的《兔八哥》卡通片。我以前看过，听出了它的音乐，我希望可以走过去和埃尼、包包一起坐在塑料沙发上，可我的命运开始显现了。我的一生都在这厨桌子上：过去、现在和将来。接着她拿起我的手看手掌。合上它。同时合上的还有她的眼睛。
你感觉到了吗？感觉到冷了吗？
是的，我撒谎说，有一点冷。
Chapter 39 The Earl of Tennessee
Earl lives next door in Edna`s basement,behind the flower boxes Edna paints green each year,behind the dusty geraniums.We used to sit on the flower boxes until the day Tito saw a cockroach with a spot of green paint on its head.Now we sit on the steps that swing around the basement apatrment where Earl lives.
Earl works nights.His blinds are always closed during the day. Sometimes he comes out and tells us to keep quiet.The little wooden door that has wedged shut the dark for so long opens with a sigh and lets out a breath of mold and dampness,like books that have been left out in the rain.This is the only time we see Earl except for when he comes and goes to work. He has weo little black dogs that go everywhere with him. They don`t walk like ordinary dogs,but leap and somersault like an apostrophe and comma.
埃尔住在隔壁埃德娜家的地下室里，在埃德娜每年都要漆成绿色的花箱后面，在那些灰蒙蒙的天竺葵后面。我们以前常坐在花箱上，直到有一天，提陀看到一只脑袋上有一点绿漆的蟑螂。现在我们坐在拐向埃尔住的地下室的楼梯步上。
埃尔上夜班。他的百叶窗在白天总是合上的。有时他会出来叫我们保持安静。已经开裂的小木门把黑暗关在里面那么久，现在它打开了，呀的一声叹息，吐出一口潮湿的霉气，就像放在外面淋过雨的书，这是惟一一次我们不是在他回来和去上班的时候看到他。他有两条与他形影不离的小黑犬。它们不是像平常的狗那么走路，而是一蹦一跳，翻着筋斗前进，像一个撇号和一个逗号。。
Chapter 40 Sire
I don't remember when I first noticed him looking at me—Sire. But I knew he was looking. Every time. All the time I walked past his house. Him and his friends sitting on their bikes in front of the house, pitching pennies. They didn't scare me. They did, but I wouldn't let them know. I don't cross the street like other girls. Straight ahead, straight eyes. I walked past. I knew he was looking. I had to prove to me I wasn't scared of nobody's eyes, not even his. I had to look back hard, just once, like he was glass. And I did. I did once. But I looked too long when he rode his bike past me. I looked because I wanted to be brave, straight into he dusty cat fur of his eyes and the bike stopped and he bumped into a parked car, bumped, and I walked fast. It made your blood freeze to have somebody look at you like that. Somebody looked at me. Somebody looked. But his kind, his ways. He is a punk, Papa says, and Mama says not to talk to him.
我想成为
海里的浪，风中的云，
但我还只是小小的我。
有一天我要
跳出自己的身躯
我要摇晃天空
像一百把小提琴。
很好。非常好。她用有气无力的声音说。记住你要写下去，埃斯佩朗莎。你一定要写下去。那会让你自由，我说好的，只是那时我还不懂她的意思。
那天我们玩了同样的游戏。我们不知道她要死了。我们装作头往后仰，四肢软弱无力，像死人的一样垂挂着。我们学她的样子笑。学她的样子说话，那种盲人说话的时候不转动头部的样子。我们模仿她必须被人托起头颈才能喝水的样子。她从一个绿色的锡杯里把水慢慢地吮出来喝掉。水是热的，味道像金属。露西笑起来，拉切尔也笑了。我们轮流扮演她。我们像鹦鹉学舌一样，用微弱的声音呼喊托奇过来洗碗。那很容易做到。
可我们不懂。她等待死亡很长时间了。我们忘了。也许她很愧疚。也许她很窘迫：死亡花了这么多年时间。孩子们想要做成孩子，而不是在那里洗碗涮碟，给爸爸熨衬衫。丈夫也想再要一个妻子。
于是她死了。听我念诗的婶婶。
于是我们开始做起了那些梦。
Chapter 37 Elenita, cards, plam, water
She makes the sign of the cross over the water three times and then begins to cut the cards.
They're not like ordinary playing cards, these cards. They're strange, with blond men on horses and crazy baseball bats with thorns. Golden goblets, sad-looking women dressed in old-fashioned dresses, and roses that cry.
There is a good Bugs Bunny cartoon on T.V. I know, I saw it before and recognize the music and wish I could go sit on the plastic couch with Ernie and the baby, but now my fortune begins. My whole life on that kitchen table : past, present, future. Then she takes my hand and looks into my plam. Closes it. Closes her eyes too.
Do you feel it, feel it cold?
Yes , I lie, but only a little.
她用手在水面上画了三次十字，开始抽牌。
这可不是平常玩的牌。这些牌，它们有点奇怪，上面有骑在马上的金发白肤的男人，吓人滴长了刺的棒球棒、金色圣杯、穿着旧式服装的悲伤的女人，还有哭泣玫瑰。
我知道电视上在演一部好玩的《兔八哥》卡通片。我以前看过，听出了它的音乐，我希望可以走过去和埃尼、包包一起坐在塑料沙发上，可我的命运开始显现了。我的一生都在这厨桌子上：过去、现在和将来。接着她拿起我的手看手掌。合上它。同时合上的还有她的眼睛。
你感觉到了吗？感觉到冷了吗？
是的，我撒谎说，有一点冷。
Chapter 39 The Earl of Tennessee
Earl lives next door in Edna`s basement,behind the flower boxes Edna paints green each year,behind the dusty geraniums.We used to sit on the flower boxes until the day Tito saw a cockroach with a spot of green paint on its head.Now we sit on the steps that swing around the basement apatrment where Earl lives.
Earl works nights.His blinds are always closed during the day. Sometimes he comes out and tells us to keep quiet.The little wooden door that has wedged shut the dark for so long opens with a sigh and lets out a breath of mold and dampness,like books that have been left out in the rain.This is the only time we see Earl except for when he comes and goes to work. He has weo little black dogs that go everywhere with him. They don`t walk like ordinary dogs,but leap and somersault like an apostrophe and comma.
埃尔住在隔壁埃德娜家的地下室里，在埃德娜每年都要漆成绿色的花箱后面，在那些灰蒙蒙的天竺葵后面。我们以前常坐在花箱上，直到有一天，提陀看到一只脑袋上有一点绿漆的蟑螂。现在我们坐在拐向埃尔住的地下室的楼梯步上。
埃尔上夜班。他的百叶窗在白天总是合上的。有时他会出来叫我们保持安静。已经开裂的小木门把黑暗关在里面那么久，现在它打开了，呀的一声叹息，吐出一口潮湿的霉气，就像放在外面淋过雨的书，这是惟一一次我们不是在他回来和去上班的时候看到他。他有两条与他形影不离的小黑犬。它们不是像平常的狗那么走路，而是一蹦一跳，翻着筋斗前进，像一个撇号和一个逗号。。
Chapter 40 Sire
I don't remember when I first noticed him looking at me—Sire. But I knew he was looking. Every time. All the time I walked past his house. Him and his friends sitting on their bikes in front of the house, pitching pennies. They didn't scare me. They did, but I wouldn't let them know. I don't cross the street like other girls. Straight ahead, straight eyes. I walked past. I knew he was looking. I had to prove to me I wasn't scared of nobody's eyes, not even his. I had to look back hard, just once, like he was glass. And I did. I did once. But I looked too long when he rode his bike past me. I looked because I wanted to be brave, straight into he dusty cat fur of his eyes and the bike stopped and he bumped into a parked car, bumped, and I walked fast. It made your blood freeze to have somebody look at you like that. Somebody looked at me. Somebody looked. But his kind, his ways. He is a punk, Papa says, and Mama says not to talk to him.
That was two months ago
"That was two months ago," says I, reaching up for the banjo.
The Ransom of Red Chief
IT LOOKED like a good thing: but wait till I tell you. We were down South, in Alabama -- Bill Driscoll and myself -- when this kidnapping idea struck us. It was, as Bill afterward expressed it, "during a moment of temporary mental apparition"; but we didn't find that out till later.
There was a town down there, as flat as a flannel-cake, and called Summit, of course. It contained inhabitants Of as undeleterious and self-satisfied a class of peasantry as ever clustered around a Maypole.
Bill and me had a joint capital of about six hundred dollars, and we needed just two thousand dollars more to pull off a fraudulent town-lot scheme in Western Illinois with. We talked it over on the front steps of the hotel. Philoprogenitiveness, says we, is strong in semi-rural communities; therefore and for other reasons, a kidnapping project ought to do better there than in the radius of newspapers that send reporters out in plain clothes to stir up talk about such things. We knew that Summit couldn't get after us with anything stronger than constables and maybe some lackadaisical bloodhounds and a diatribe or two in the Weekly Farmers' Budget. So, it looked good.
We selected for our victim the only child of a prominent citizen named Ebenezer Dorset. The father was respectable and tight, a mortgage fancier and a stern, upright collection-plate passer and forecloser. The kid was a boy of ten, with bas-relief freckles, and hair the colour of the cover of the magazine you buy at the news-stand when you want to catch a train. Bill and me figured that Ebenezer would melt down for a ransom of two thousand dollars to a cent. But wait till I tell you.
About two miles from Summit was a little mountain, covered with a dense cedar brake. On the rear elevation of this mountain was a cave. There we stored provisions. One evening after sundown, we drove in a buggy past old Dorset's house. The kid was in the street, throwing rocks at a kitten on the opposite fence.
"Hey, little boy!" says Bill, "would you like to have a bag of candy and a nice ride?"
The boy catches Bill neatly in the eye with a piece of brick.
"That will cost the old man an extra five hundred dollars," says Bill, climbing over the wheel.
That boy put up a fight like a welter-weight cinnamon bear; but, at last, we got him down in the bottom of the buggy and drove away. We took him up to the cave and I hitched the horse in the cedar brake. After dark I drove the buggy to the little village, three miles away, where we had hired it, and walked back to the mountain.
Bill was pasting court-plaster over the scratches and bruises on his features. There was a burning behind the big rock at the entrance of the cave, and the boy was watching a pot of boiling coffee, with two buzzard tailfeathers stuck in his red hair. He points a stick at me when I come up, and says:
"Ha! cursed paleface, do you dare to enter the camp of Red Chief, the terror of the plains?
"He's all right now," says Bill, rolling up his trousers and examining some bruises on his shins. "We're playing Indian. We're making Buffalo Bill's show look like magic-lantern views of Palestine in the town hall. I'm Old Hank, the Trapper, Red Chief's captive, and I'm to be scalped at daybreak. By Geronimo! that kid can kick hard."
The Ransom of Red Chief
IT LOOKED like a good thing: but wait till I tell you. We were down South, in Alabama -- Bill Driscoll and myself -- when this kidnapping idea struck us. It was, as Bill afterward expressed it, "during a moment of temporary mental apparition"; but we didn't find that out till later.
There was a town down there, as flat as a flannel-cake, and called Summit, of course. It contained inhabitants Of as undeleterious and self-satisfied a class of peasantry as ever clustered around a Maypole.
Bill and me had a joint capital of about six hundred dollars, and we needed just two thousand dollars more to pull off a fraudulent town-lot scheme in Western Illinois with. We talked it over on the front steps of the hotel. Philoprogenitiveness, says we, is strong in semi-rural communities; therefore and for other reasons, a kidnapping project ought to do better there than in the radius of newspapers that send reporters out in plain clothes to stir up talk about such things. We knew that Summit couldn't get after us with anything stronger than constables and maybe some lackadaisical bloodhounds and a diatribe or two in the Weekly Farmers' Budget. So, it looked good.
We selected for our victim the only child of a prominent citizen named Ebenezer Dorset. The father was respectable and tight, a mortgage fancier and a stern, upright collection-plate passer and forecloser. The kid was a boy of ten, with bas-relief freckles, and hair the colour of the cover of the magazine you buy at the news-stand when you want to catch a train. Bill and me figured that Ebenezer would melt down for a ransom of two thousand dollars to a cent. But wait till I tell you.
About two miles from Summit was a little mountain, covered with a dense cedar brake. On the rear elevation of this mountain was a cave. There we stored provisions. One evening after sundown, we drove in a buggy past old Dorset's house. The kid was in the street, throwing rocks at a kitten on the opposite fence.
"Hey, little boy!" says Bill, "would you like to have a bag of candy and a nice ride?"
The boy catches Bill neatly in the eye with a piece of brick.
"That will cost the old man an extra five hundred dollars," says Bill, climbing over the wheel.
That boy put up a fight like a welter-weight cinnamon bear; but, at last, we got him down in the bottom of the buggy and drove away. We took him up to the cave and I hitched the horse in the cedar brake. After dark I drove the buggy to the little village, three miles away, where we had hired it, and walked back to the mountain.
Bill was pasting court-plaster over the scratches and bruises on his features. There was a burning behind the big rock at the entrance of the cave, and the boy was watching a pot of boiling coffee, with two buzzard tailfeathers stuck in his red hair. He points a stick at me when I come up, and says:
"Ha! cursed paleface, do you dare to enter the camp of Red Chief, the terror of the plains?
"He's all right now," says Bill, rolling up his trousers and examining some bruises on his shins. "We're playing Indian. We're making Buffalo Bill's show look like magic-lantern views of Palestine in the town hall. I'm Old Hank, the Trapper, Red Chief's captive, and I'm to be scalped at daybreak. By Geronimo! that kid can kick hard."
Sunday, November 25, 2012
When I heard of Callus's arrest I was sorry that I had just quarrelled with him
When I heard of Callus's arrest I was sorry that I had just quarrelled with him. It was only a literary quarrel. He had written a silly book called: A Comparison between my Father, Asinius Pollio and his Friend Marcus Tiberius Cicero, as Orators. If the ground of the comparison had been moral character or political ability or even learning, Pollio would have easily come off the best. But Gallus was trying to make out that his father was the more polished orator. That was absurd, and I wrote a little book to say so; which, coming shortly after my criticism of Pollio's own remarks about Cicero, greatly annoyed Callus. I would willingly have recalled my book from publication if by doing so I could have lightened Callus's miserable prison life in the least degree. It was foolish of me, I suppose, to think in this way.
SeJanus was at last able to report to Tiberius that the power of the Leek Green Party was broken and that he need have no further anxieties. Tiberius rewarded him by saying that he had decided to marry him to his granddaughter Helen (whose marriage with Nero he had dissolved) and hinting at even greater favours. It was at this point that my mother who, you must remember, was Livilla's mother too, interposed. Since Castor's death Livilla had been living with her, and was now careless enough to let her find out about a secret correspondence which she was carrying on with Sefanus,jeremy scott adidas wings. My mother had always been very economical, and in her old age her chief delight was saving candle-ends and melting them down into candles again, and selling the kitchen refuse to pig-keepers, and mixing charcoal-dust with some liquid or other and kneading it into cake which, when dried, burned almost as well as charcoal, Livilla, on the other hand, was very extravagant and my mother was always scolding her for it. One day my mother happened to pass Livilla's room and saw a slave coming out of it with a basket of wastepaper. "Where are you going, boy,SHIPPING INFO.?" she asked.
"To the furnace. Mistress; the Lady Livilla's orders." My mother said: "It's most wasteful to stoke the furnace with perfectly good pieces of paper; do you know what paper costs? Why, three times as much as parchment, even,jeremy scott wings. Some of these pieces seem hardly written on at all."
"The Lady Livilla ordered most particularly…"
"The Lady Livilla must have been very preoccupied when she ordered you to destroy valuable paper. Give me the basket. The clean parts will be useful for household lists, and all sorts of things. Waste not, want not."
So she took the papers to her room and was 'about to clip the good pieces off one of them when it struck her that she might as well try to remove the ink from the whole thing. Until now she had honourably refrained from reading the writing; but when she began rubbing away at it, it' was impossible to avoid doing so. She suddenly realized that these were rough drafts, or unsatisfactory beginnings, of a letter to Sejanus; and once she began reading she could not stop, and before she had done she knew the whole story,ladies rolex datejusts. Livilla was clearly angry and jealous that Sejanus had consented to marry someone else-her own daughter tool But she was trying to conceal her feelings-each draft of the letter was toned down a little more. She wrote that he must act quickly before Tiberius suspected that he really had no intention of marrying Helen: and if he was not yet ready to assassinate Tiberius and usurp the monarchy had she not better poison Helen herself?
SeJanus was at last able to report to Tiberius that the power of the Leek Green Party was broken and that he need have no further anxieties. Tiberius rewarded him by saying that he had decided to marry him to his granddaughter Helen (whose marriage with Nero he had dissolved) and hinting at even greater favours. It was at this point that my mother who, you must remember, was Livilla's mother too, interposed. Since Castor's death Livilla had been living with her, and was now careless enough to let her find out about a secret correspondence which she was carrying on with Sefanus,jeremy scott adidas wings. My mother had always been very economical, and in her old age her chief delight was saving candle-ends and melting them down into candles again, and selling the kitchen refuse to pig-keepers, and mixing charcoal-dust with some liquid or other and kneading it into cake which, when dried, burned almost as well as charcoal, Livilla, on the other hand, was very extravagant and my mother was always scolding her for it. One day my mother happened to pass Livilla's room and saw a slave coming out of it with a basket of wastepaper. "Where are you going, boy,SHIPPING INFO.?" she asked.
"To the furnace. Mistress; the Lady Livilla's orders." My mother said: "It's most wasteful to stoke the furnace with perfectly good pieces of paper; do you know what paper costs? Why, three times as much as parchment, even,jeremy scott wings. Some of these pieces seem hardly written on at all."
"The Lady Livilla ordered most particularly…"
"The Lady Livilla must have been very preoccupied when she ordered you to destroy valuable paper. Give me the basket. The clean parts will be useful for household lists, and all sorts of things. Waste not, want not."
So she took the papers to her room and was 'about to clip the good pieces off one of them when it struck her that she might as well try to remove the ink from the whole thing. Until now she had honourably refrained from reading the writing; but when she began rubbing away at it, it' was impossible to avoid doing so. She suddenly realized that these were rough drafts, or unsatisfactory beginnings, of a letter to Sejanus; and once she began reading she could not stop, and before she had done she knew the whole story,ladies rolex datejusts. Livilla was clearly angry and jealous that Sejanus had consented to marry someone else-her own daughter tool But she was trying to conceal her feelings-each draft of the letter was toned down a little more. She wrote that he must act quickly before Tiberius suspected that he really had no intention of marrying Helen: and if he was not yet ready to assassinate Tiberius and usurp the monarchy had she not better poison Helen herself?
Zoyd wouldn't look him in the face
Zoyd wouldn't look him in the face. The son of a bitch wanted an answer out loud. "OK."
"Believe me," Brock with the salesman's instinct for congratulating the customer on his purchase, "she'd have done the same to you."
"Helps a lot, thanks."
"So . . . I'll just get the paperwork started on this. But we'll have to do something about your tone of voice." Brock went to the door and hollered, "Ron?" Bootsteps approached, and Ron, a large athletic U.S. Marshal,rolex gmt, unlocked. "Ron, are you cleared for nonjudicial motivation?"
"Sure am,mens rolex datejust, Mr. Vond."
"Hit him," Brock ordered on his way out the door.
"Yes, sir. How many —"
"Oh, once will be plenty," a fading steel echo.
Ron wasted no time, chasing Zoyd to the corner of the cell and hitting him with a blinding solar-plexus punch that sent him down into paralysis and pain,Rolex Submariner Replica, and unable to breathe. Ron stood awhile, as if evaluating the job — Zoyd could presently make out in a blur his motionless boots and, still too desolate even to cry out, waited for a kick. But Ron turned and left, locking up, and shortly after that the lights went off. And Zoyd curled in anguish and looked for his breath, and didn't drift under till just before the count at 5:30 A.M.
Hector showed up right after breakfast, beaming at him over a mustache the maintenance of whose microstructure back then was costing him twenty minutes a day of precious time. "Political office decides they don't need you after all. But even if we call you the mule,fake uggs boots, you're still lookín at a zip six indeterminate for that half a metric ton in your house, and somebody figured I could be of help. ... You look like shit, by the way."
"Get yourself bounced by Wyatt Earp out there, see how you feel." Zoyd exhaled loudly through his nose, red-eyed, accusative. "Really a fuckin' late hit, man ... all these years I thought you respected me enough not to force me to snitch. Now, what's so fuckin' important, to make you do this?"
A strange trick of the light, no doubt, or else Zoyd was inopportunely hallucinating, but the highlights on each of Hector's eyeballs had vanished, the shine faded to matte surfaces that were now absorbing all light that fell on them. "You know what, I got to start thinkín about lunch. Do we have to keep playín fuck-fuck with this? órale, get you the right judge, dig it! a nice minimum joint, a farm, you can grow vegetables? flowers, you people like flowers, right? All's I need, really Zoyd, is to know the story on this gentleman, a mutual contact I am sure, name of ... Shorty?"
"Christ, Hector," croaking, shaking his head, "only Shorty I ever knew lives out in Hemet now and since his Vietnam days is takin' zero chances, won't even fly on the airplane no more, not too promising for you, outside of a little Darvon he cops off his ol' lady, he ain't even good for a Class III beef far 's I know."
"That's him!" cried Hector, "that's the fucker all right, down in EPT they know him as Shorty the Bad, and it took supersnitch potential like yours to just break this case wi-i-i-ide open! Muy de aquellos, wait'll I tell my boss — you got a future in this business, ése!"
"Believe me," Brock with the salesman's instinct for congratulating the customer on his purchase, "she'd have done the same to you."
"Helps a lot, thanks."
"So . . . I'll just get the paperwork started on this. But we'll have to do something about your tone of voice." Brock went to the door and hollered, "Ron?" Bootsteps approached, and Ron, a large athletic U.S. Marshal,rolex gmt, unlocked. "Ron, are you cleared for nonjudicial motivation?"
"Sure am,mens rolex datejust, Mr. Vond."
"Hit him," Brock ordered on his way out the door.
"Yes, sir. How many —"
"Oh, once will be plenty," a fading steel echo.
Ron wasted no time, chasing Zoyd to the corner of the cell and hitting him with a blinding solar-plexus punch that sent him down into paralysis and pain,Rolex Submariner Replica, and unable to breathe. Ron stood awhile, as if evaluating the job — Zoyd could presently make out in a blur his motionless boots and, still too desolate even to cry out, waited for a kick. But Ron turned and left, locking up, and shortly after that the lights went off. And Zoyd curled in anguish and looked for his breath, and didn't drift under till just before the count at 5:30 A.M.
Hector showed up right after breakfast, beaming at him over a mustache the maintenance of whose microstructure back then was costing him twenty minutes a day of precious time. "Political office decides they don't need you after all. But even if we call you the mule,fake uggs boots, you're still lookín at a zip six indeterminate for that half a metric ton in your house, and somebody figured I could be of help. ... You look like shit, by the way."
"Get yourself bounced by Wyatt Earp out there, see how you feel." Zoyd exhaled loudly through his nose, red-eyed, accusative. "Really a fuckin' late hit, man ... all these years I thought you respected me enough not to force me to snitch. Now, what's so fuckin' important, to make you do this?"
A strange trick of the light, no doubt, or else Zoyd was inopportunely hallucinating, but the highlights on each of Hector's eyeballs had vanished, the shine faded to matte surfaces that were now absorbing all light that fell on them. "You know what, I got to start thinkín about lunch. Do we have to keep playín fuck-fuck with this? órale, get you the right judge, dig it! a nice minimum joint, a farm, you can grow vegetables? flowers, you people like flowers, right? All's I need, really Zoyd, is to know the story on this gentleman, a mutual contact I am sure, name of ... Shorty?"
"Christ, Hector," croaking, shaking his head, "only Shorty I ever knew lives out in Hemet now and since his Vietnam days is takin' zero chances, won't even fly on the airplane no more, not too promising for you, outside of a little Darvon he cops off his ol' lady, he ain't even good for a Class III beef far 's I know."
"That's him!" cried Hector, "that's the fucker all right, down in EPT they know him as Shorty the Bad, and it took supersnitch potential like yours to just break this case wi-i-i-ide open! Muy de aquellos, wait'll I tell my boss — you got a future in this business, ése!"
Friday, November 23, 2012
Who cares
"Who cares?" Fallopian shrugged. "We don't try to make scripture out of it. Naturally that's cost us a lot of support in the Bible Belt, where we might've been expected to go over real good. The old Confederacy.
"But that was the very first military confrontation between Russia and America. Attack, retaliation, both projectiles deep-sixed forever and the Pacific rolls on. But the ripples from those two splashes spread, and grew, and today engulf us all.
"Peter Pinguid was really our first casualty. Not the fanatic our more left-leaning friends over in the Birch Society chose to martyrize."
"Was the Commodore killed, then?" asked Oedipa.
Much worse, to Fallopian's mind. After the con-frontation, appalled at what had to be some military alliance between abolitionist Russia (Nicholas having freed the serfs in 1861) and a Union that paid lip-service to abolition while it kept its own industrial laborers in a kind of wage-slavery, Peter Pinguid stayed in his cabin for weeks, brooding.
"But that sounds," objected Metzger, "like he was against industrial capitalism. Wouldn't that disqualify him as any kind of anti-Communist figure?"
"You think like a Bircher," Fallopian said. "Good guys and bad guys. You never get to any of the under-lying truth. Sure he was against industrial capitalism. So are we. Didn't it lead, inevitably, to Marxism? Un-derneath, both are part of the same creeping horror." "Industrial anything," hazarded Metzger.
"There you go," nodded Fallopian.
"What happened to Peter Pinguid?" Oedipa wanted to know.
"He finally resigned his commission. Violated his upbringing and code of honor. Lincoln and the Czar had forced him to. That's what I meant when I said casualty. He and most of the crew settled near L.A.; and for the rest of his life he did little more than acquire " wealth."
"How poignant," Oedipa said. "What doing?"
"Speculating in California real estate," said Fallo-pian. Oedipa, halfway into swallowing part of her drink, sprayed it out again in a glittering cone for ten feet easy, and collapsed in giggles.
"Wha," said Fallopian. "During the drought that year you could've bought lots in the heart of downtown L. A. for .63 apiece."
A great shout went up near the doorway, bodies flowed toward a fattish pale young man who'd appeared carrying a leather mailsack over his shoulder.
"Mail call," people were yelling. Sure enough, it was, just like in the army. The fat kid, looking harassed, climbed up on the bar and started calling names and throwing envelopes into the crowd. Fallopian excused himself and joined the others.
Metzger had taken out a pair of glasses and was squinting through them at the kid on the bar. "He's wearing a Yoyodyne badge. What do you make of that?"
"Some inter-office mail run," Oedipa said.
"This time of night?"
"Maybe a late shift?" But Metzger only frowned. "Be back," Oedipa shrugged, heading for the ladies' room.
On the latrine wall, among lipsticked obscenities, she noticed the following message, neatly indited in engineering lettering:
"Interested in sophisticated fun? You, hubby, girl friends. The more the merrier. Get in touch with Kirby, through WASTE only, Box 7391, L. A." WASTE? Oedipa wondered. Beneath the notice,
"But that was the very first military confrontation between Russia and America. Attack, retaliation, both projectiles deep-sixed forever and the Pacific rolls on. But the ripples from those two splashes spread, and grew, and today engulf us all.
"Peter Pinguid was really our first casualty. Not the fanatic our more left-leaning friends over in the Birch Society chose to martyrize."
"Was the Commodore killed, then?" asked Oedipa.
Much worse, to Fallopian's mind. After the con-frontation, appalled at what had to be some military alliance between abolitionist Russia (Nicholas having freed the serfs in 1861) and a Union that paid lip-service to abolition while it kept its own industrial laborers in a kind of wage-slavery, Peter Pinguid stayed in his cabin for weeks, brooding.
"But that sounds," objected Metzger, "like he was against industrial capitalism. Wouldn't that disqualify him as any kind of anti-Communist figure?"
"You think like a Bircher," Fallopian said. "Good guys and bad guys. You never get to any of the under-lying truth. Sure he was against industrial capitalism. So are we. Didn't it lead, inevitably, to Marxism? Un-derneath, both are part of the same creeping horror." "Industrial anything," hazarded Metzger.
"There you go," nodded Fallopian.
"What happened to Peter Pinguid?" Oedipa wanted to know.
"He finally resigned his commission. Violated his upbringing and code of honor. Lincoln and the Czar had forced him to. That's what I meant when I said casualty. He and most of the crew settled near L.A.; and for the rest of his life he did little more than acquire " wealth."
"How poignant," Oedipa said. "What doing?"
"Speculating in California real estate," said Fallo-pian. Oedipa, halfway into swallowing part of her drink, sprayed it out again in a glittering cone for ten feet easy, and collapsed in giggles.
"Wha," said Fallopian. "During the drought that year you could've bought lots in the heart of downtown L. A. for .63 apiece."
A great shout went up near the doorway, bodies flowed toward a fattish pale young man who'd appeared carrying a leather mailsack over his shoulder.
"Mail call," people were yelling. Sure enough, it was, just like in the army. The fat kid, looking harassed, climbed up on the bar and started calling names and throwing envelopes into the crowd. Fallopian excused himself and joined the others.
Metzger had taken out a pair of glasses and was squinting through them at the kid on the bar. "He's wearing a Yoyodyne badge. What do you make of that?"
"Some inter-office mail run," Oedipa said.
"This time of night?"
"Maybe a late shift?" But Metzger only frowned. "Be back," Oedipa shrugged, heading for the ladies' room.
On the latrine wall, among lipsticked obscenities, she noticed the following message, neatly indited in engineering lettering:
"Interested in sophisticated fun? You, hubby, girl friends. The more the merrier. Get in touch with Kirby, through WASTE only, Box 7391, L. A." WASTE? Oedipa wondered. Beneath the notice,
The Senator sighs
The Senator sighs, nods as I grip the handle. “Oh. You too, huh.” He leans back against the desk, looking defeated.
I start to open the door but it’s the same lost look on the Senator’s face as the one Stuart had when he showed up on my parents’ porch. I feel like I have no choice but to ask, “Me too what . . . sir?”
The Senator looks over at the picture of Missus Whitworth, huge and cold, mounted on his office wall like a warning. “I see it, is all. In your eyes.” He chuckles bitterly. “And here I was hoping you might be the one who halfway liked the old man. I mean, if you ever joined this old family.”
I look at him now, tingling from his words . . . joined this old family.
“I don’t . . . dislike you, sir,” I say, shifting in my flats.
“I don’t mean to bury you in our troubles, but things have been pretty hard here, Eugenia. We were worried sick after all that mess last year. With the other one.” He shakes his head, looks down at the glass in his hand. “Stuart, he just up and left his apartment in Jackson, moved everything out to the camp house in Vicksburg.”
“I know he was very . . . upset,” I say, when truthfully, I know almost nothing at all.
“Dead’s more like it. Hell, I’d drive out to see him and he’d just be sitting there in front of the window, cracking pecans. Wasn’t even eating em, just pulling off the shell, tossing em in the trash. Wouldn’t talk to me or his mama for . . . for months.”
He crumples in on himself, this gigantic bull of a man, and I want to escape and reassure him at the same time, he looks so pathetic, but then he looks up at me with his bloodshot eyes, says, “Seems like ten minutes ago I was showing him how to load his first rifle, wring his first dove-bird. But ever since the thing with that girl, he’s . . . different. He won’t tell me anything. I just want to know, is my son alright?”
“I . . . I think he is. But honestly, I don’t . . . really know.” I look away. Inside, I’m starting to realize that I don’t know Stuart. If this damaged him so much, and he can’t even speak to me about it, then what am I to him? Just a diversion? Something sitting beside him to keep him from thinking about what’s really tearing him up inside?
I look at the Senator, try to think of something comforting, something my mother would say. But it’s just a dead silence.
“Francine would have my hide if she knew I was asking you this.”
“It’s alright, sir,” I say. “I don’t mind that you did.”
He looks exhausted by it all, tries to smile. “Thank you, darlin’. Go on and see my son. I’ll see y’all out there in a while.”
I ESCAPE TO THE back PORCH and stand next to Stuart. Lightning bursts in the sky, giving us a flash of the eerily brilliant gardens, then the darkness sucks it all back in. The gazebo, skeleton-like, looms at the end of the garden path. I feel nauseous from the glass of sherry I drank after supper.
The Senator comes out, looking curiously more sober, in a fresh shirt, plaid and pressed, exactly the same as the last one. Mother and Missus Whitworth stroll a few steps, pointing at some rare rose winding its neck up onto the porch. Stuart puts his hand on my shoulder. He is somehow better, but I am growing worse.
I start to open the door but it’s the same lost look on the Senator’s face as the one Stuart had when he showed up on my parents’ porch. I feel like I have no choice but to ask, “Me too what . . . sir?”
The Senator looks over at the picture of Missus Whitworth, huge and cold, mounted on his office wall like a warning. “I see it, is all. In your eyes.” He chuckles bitterly. “And here I was hoping you might be the one who halfway liked the old man. I mean, if you ever joined this old family.”
I look at him now, tingling from his words . . . joined this old family.
“I don’t . . . dislike you, sir,” I say, shifting in my flats.
“I don’t mean to bury you in our troubles, but things have been pretty hard here, Eugenia. We were worried sick after all that mess last year. With the other one.” He shakes his head, looks down at the glass in his hand. “Stuart, he just up and left his apartment in Jackson, moved everything out to the camp house in Vicksburg.”
“I know he was very . . . upset,” I say, when truthfully, I know almost nothing at all.
“Dead’s more like it. Hell, I’d drive out to see him and he’d just be sitting there in front of the window, cracking pecans. Wasn’t even eating em, just pulling off the shell, tossing em in the trash. Wouldn’t talk to me or his mama for . . . for months.”
He crumples in on himself, this gigantic bull of a man, and I want to escape and reassure him at the same time, he looks so pathetic, but then he looks up at me with his bloodshot eyes, says, “Seems like ten minutes ago I was showing him how to load his first rifle, wring his first dove-bird. But ever since the thing with that girl, he’s . . . different. He won’t tell me anything. I just want to know, is my son alright?”
“I . . . I think he is. But honestly, I don’t . . . really know.” I look away. Inside, I’m starting to realize that I don’t know Stuart. If this damaged him so much, and he can’t even speak to me about it, then what am I to him? Just a diversion? Something sitting beside him to keep him from thinking about what’s really tearing him up inside?
I look at the Senator, try to think of something comforting, something my mother would say. But it’s just a dead silence.
“Francine would have my hide if she knew I was asking you this.”
“It’s alright, sir,” I say. “I don’t mind that you did.”
He looks exhausted by it all, tries to smile. “Thank you, darlin’. Go on and see my son. I’ll see y’all out there in a while.”
I ESCAPE TO THE back PORCH and stand next to Stuart. Lightning bursts in the sky, giving us a flash of the eerily brilliant gardens, then the darkness sucks it all back in. The gazebo, skeleton-like, looms at the end of the garden path. I feel nauseous from the glass of sherry I drank after supper.
The Senator comes out, looking curiously more sober, in a fresh shirt, plaid and pressed, exactly the same as the last one. Mother and Missus Whitworth stroll a few steps, pointing at some rare rose winding its neck up onto the porch. Stuart puts his hand on my shoulder. He is somehow better, but I am growing worse.
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