Is it actually that everybody in indie record stores is high? wonders Marie. Or is it an attitude they cultivate? Dropped eyes, slow moves, effortless cruelty to the less-enlightened: no, it can’t just be drugs, she thinks while Costello and Bacharach clatter on the counter. Stoners tend to be nicer.
“Need to fix the vinyl,” says Curly in monotone, swiping a laser. “Rilo Kiley.”
“That’s the actual band, right?” asks Moe.
“Yeah,” says Shep, barely not yawning. “It shouldn’t have a comma in it. Just so you know.”
Score one for the long-hair, thinks Marie, trying hard to hide a smile.
Monday, December 29, 2003
Something’s up with Miguel today and he’s playing recklessly, boldly. Breathitt’s pleased, so he obliges, feinting and opening a trap between rook and knight. Miguel takes it.
Breathitt looks over half-moons at his ten-year-old opponent, who looks back through horn-rims. He starts to close the trap, and two moves later realizes Miguel was waiting for that. In four more, half of Breathitt’s army will be gone.
He crooks a finger on a crosspiece and topples it, feeling a grin split his face. He lets the piece rest there, long after they’ve stood up and shaken hands. The idylls of a king.
Tuesday, December 30, 2003
Troy’s already just waiting when he hears the Hairy Lady come around to the back of the truck, and with one strong backspring he’s up and out. His sneakers contact her jaw directly and she’s down like a stone, while he wiggles and twists and just manages to land on his feet. “KUNG FU!” he shouts, triumphant.
One sharp rock later he’s free of the trusses and pushing the truck into the river, Hairy Lady conked out in the bed. As he’d guessed, it floats gently away with the current. Troy nods, satisfied. “Now,” he says aloud, “time for Professor Cold!”
Wednesday, December 31, 2003
He’s exhausted, dripping sweat. They both must be.
“Listen to me, Liza,” he says with a slow, desperate urgency. “I can’t do it. It’s Sysiphan, it’s impossible, there’s no way for me to carry enough.”
“Then,” she grates, “fucking do something about it.”
He groans. “How am I supposed to plug it with a straw, anyway? Who does that?”
“It’s all we’ve got,” she says. “We have to. We have to fill the basin.”
“But there’s a hole in the bucket,” he says, “my dear Liza.”
“Then fix it, dear Henry.” There’s no relief in her voice. “Dear Henry. Fix it.”
Thursday, January 1, 2004
Her mouth’s not dry, somehow. The drought in her body is creeping up her throat and out; it’s as if her brainstem’s saying “well, we’re fucked, might as well enjoy it, have some spit.”
Or maybe it’s just the thirst toying with her, a cat with its food. Mariel pictures it as a giant black mouser, herself under one paw: it’d be labeled THIRST on one side, like some ancient political woodcut. “Oh my,” says the caption, “what a fine mefs we’re in.”
Why’d we ever do that, she wonders, make first Ss look like Fs? And why did we stop?
Revelation snaps his eyes open, shocks him solid. It clicks. The click is enormous, bigger than such a sound can be, huge and sure. It’s the slam-bang of a pistol’s slide action at three thousand frames a second.
The paper’s still in his hands. It doesn’t seem heavier, though it should. His eyes fasten on a meaningless typo: YOURE IMPORTANT TO US in fixed-width font.
My fault, thinks Corey.
All along. Such pride. I thought I was stopping it.
In the slow motion of his imaginary gunshot, the shells are hitting the floor. Their sound is resonant: the tinkle of brass.
There’s a pull on him, something that gently and insistently takes his shoulders and waist and moves him. It’s magnetic. Jesse surrenders.
Euphemia’s a collection of senses, something he could detach and hold out to watch. Sweet tea, strong as syrup, thick taffy taste that’s also her laugh. Ribbon and curls. The sun barring her skin: he thinks of rich soup on an afternoon table. She’s cayenned with freckles.
The gingham of her dress is softly rough, a jumble, a mess, a tarry. A wreck. Rucked. She makes his lips want to pour off words, and then she stops them up.
Wednesday, January 7, 2004
“The impact,” Tarek says patiently, “blows all foreign objects at least one hundred microns away.”
“I can’t believe you’re explaining this,” says Ellen.
“We agree that the germs want to get it,” he reasons. “But germs are small, right? So their legs must be even smaller.”
“You’re disgusting!”
“Tiny, tiny legs! To cross that space, they’re going to need five and a half thousand milliseconds.”
“You eat food off–”
“So if you pick it up before that time expires, you’re golden.” He leans back, triumphant.
Ellen drops her head into her hands.
Later, she strangles him with a phone cord.
Thursday, January 8, 2004
“Who was that one dude?” muses Rainer. “The British somebody? Prime Minister. Who said he had sex with all those women. All those illegitimate children or something. Did anybody ever, like, call him out on that?”
“Tony Blair?” says Ian blankly. “Uh, Margaret Thatcher?”
“No, William… Winston…”
“Winston Churchill? I think he had a mistress, but he wasn’t really–”
“No, that wasn’t it. The one guy who came before him!”
“You mean Nev–oh.” Ian pauses, then asks heavily, “You mean Wilt Chamberlain?”
“Yeah!” shouts Rainer. “Yeah! I told you, man, that British dude everybody says was such a pimp!”
Terry would really like to go to his room, but Aunt Val’s holding an icepack to his face. “I’ve always said!” Uncle Walter smacks a newspaper into one hand. “They underestimate your potential!”
Terry’s lied, said the coaches sent him home after a practice accident. He doesn’t want to say Sorry, Uncle, I got deadbeat Dad’s short thick body, sorry I actually ran into a doorknob. Sorry everyone calls me Squat (what’s a bear do in the woods?).
“What they call football!” raves Uncle Walter. “In my day they’d let you dust off, slap a steak on that shiner and roll!”