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
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
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
Baking powder, it turns out, is just baking soda, salt and cream of tartar. It’s so simple. Factual black type.
Lucas is going through a book with a curious aesthetic, one he’s seen before but never seen defined. The photographs are of excellent quality, but somehow sterile: they float shadowless on white fields, on the smell of acid-free matte paper. He remembers reading in similar books about ocean liners, leopards, uses of St. John’s Wort.
What a nice dream, to have everything in books: flat and clear; deliberately spaced; written well and concisely. To be able to learn anything there is.
Friday, December 26, 2003
The moon’s out and Lane looks at her, back to him, breathing quietly. She’s asleep, intensely delicate.
He puts out one hand to run it down the silk of her chemise. Immediately it snags. In the quiet, even that sound crackles.
Lane pulls it back. His hands don’t look rough–the calluses have gone. How does the silk still know? He imagines his palm in a microscope. It’d be a maze of thrusting wrinkles, and smaller, dead cells that dry and fractal out like branches. Like barbs.
Lane turns over, curls up. He’s suddenly, cripplingly sorry, for what he doesn’t know.
Thursday, December 25, 2003
“We’ll tow your swivel chair,” they threaten, and Jake can’t make himself write at the moment so he gives up and agrees.
The party’s at least got a dance floor, and it’s mercifully dark; Deek and Gigi follow him into the thick of it and then out, arms up in crowd-maneuver stance. Jake’s smiling now, sweating a little. He lets himself people-watch: it’s not a bad crowd, Allie looks hot tonight, there’s a
small laugh
her wrist
Things blur. He finds himself upstairs, somebody’s office, page after page of Amy on yellow legal in a hand that’s just beginning to tremble.
Wednesday, December 24, 2003
The glare blinds Feng for a moment, and he squints from under his coolie hat at the scaffolding, where just enough metal shows through to bounce sunlight across the paddy. It’s an awesome sight, even obscured as it is.
He hitches up his basket and walks on, around the rock pile and toward the town hall-granary complex. Inside, voices babble as they sort and distribute, mark and parse. Another of the carts rumbles by him, loudspeaker on full:
“HARVEST THE RICE,” it blares. “GATHER THE WATER. TRAIN THE SOLDIERS. BUILD THE ROBOT.”
Kind of unnecessary, thinks Feng, but hey, whatever works.
Tuesday, December 23, 2003
Eleven years and here she is on his porch. He remembers this: she’d never call, just show up and wait.
“Hi,” he says.
“Hi,” she says.
“I’m still not going to be what you want,” he says. It hurts, but feels right.
Smiling lopsided, she tucks hair over an ear. She looks older, but not much. “What I want right now is coffee.”
Lucien takes a long breath, unhooks his coat from the wall, and suddenly it’s that easy. He locks the door behind them and they walk, close but not touching, two battered hearts making an old and comfortable mistake.
Monday, December 22, 2003
Faille’s actually in the dark but she can see Baize just fine, laughing, shaking dice, making it work. She can’t find the other one, until she looks straight down. Shifting in her perch, Faille spots the red cocktail and grins–she must hate that.
“Check,” she mutters. “Baize and Taffeta in view.”
Her expression doesn’t change, but the mic picks up on subvocal. “What kind. Fucking codename. Is Taffeta.”
“Cheer up,” says Faille. “I can see down your dress.”
“I hope you fall.”
“You’d break it.”
What is it with spies and casinos, she wonders. Shouldn’t they feel more at home?
Friday, December 19, 2003
It was a donation. Murfrees wanted to do something once he got the glassblowing shop together, and how could Father Pascal say no? Anyway, they like it.
It’s almost cheating. He took a pinch of Pentecostal, mixed it into the Catholic, doubled it, doubled it again. Suddenly they were driving it themselves.
He knows it won’t last forever. In a generation, the drive will disappear. But Pascal’s got ahold of something hot, and he just has to hang on and pretend to steer.
Go time. The doors swing, and there they are: windows, bright hopeful congregation, JESUS in giant yellow neon.
Thursday, December 18, 2003