Perry’s standing on the little concrete stoop, holding out a sock with HANES on the toe. “I found one of your socks,” he says. “I thought you might want it.”
“I don’t think that’s mine,” says Manning.
“Sure it is,” says Perry. “Almost all of my socks are Fruit of the Loom. This one is Hanes. See? Anyway, I can’t find a match for it.”
“You probably lost it.” Manning rubs his arms. It’s getting colder.
“You should move back in,” says Perry. He’s still holding the sock.
“No, Perry,” says Manning, but he doesn’t shut the door this time.
Thursday, September 30, 2004
“No use!” he repeats, hustling to keep up with Jake. “They read the Bible? Because God ain’t a snitch, okay, God already sees. Sees everything! They say God is love. Not sex. Ain’t nobody ever give me any love, you understand? I’ve had sex, that ain’t love, brother. And you see them with kids–you think that’s love? Huh? That’s repentance! Dependence! That’s just it!”
Jake smiles a little and tries not to make eye contact. The man’s missing teeth and he’s smoking, predictably, but what’s unnerving is his khakis: clean and neatly pressed, with the look of an expensive brand.
Tuesday, September 28, 2004
Ingrid (as she’s been doing (to the initial anger, then frustration, then chagrin (when they had to call in the police and fire department (all of whom are now trapped (by the press of people (especially the news channels, who have set up a fortress (like some kind of government cover-up (except the government can’t get in) where your ID is your press pass) around the restaurant), and by the assault of cameras) in the epicenter) to try and move her, and both failed) of the poor waiter who started it) impossibly, unbudgeable by any earthly force, for two days) sits.
Monday, September 27, 2004
They both take their contacts out first.
There are a few near misses, and some nervousness. “Feels like prom night,” says Robin, and “Feels like eighth grade,” April shoots back, and they laugh and try again.
They pull back their lids as far as possible, holding the lashes. They look as far as they can the other way–she left, he right. They lean in. Wetly, they touch.
April lets out a low, stuttering moan; Robin’s pulse hiccups. He’s painfully hard. He remembers being six, hiding under the covers, pressing fists to closed eyes until his vision filled with neon patterns.
Friday, September 24, 2004
“The pirates are closing, Jacques,” says Bertrand. “But I’ll be damned if we’re going down on my watch, understand?”
“Not to worry,” Jacques says proudly. “This dirigible is armed well!”
“I know,” says Bertrand. “Now, where did you move the ammo?”
“I was cooking an omelette and it was in the way. I sent Jean-Pierre down to store it in the cellar.”
“Jacques,” says Bertrand, “this is a dirigible. Dirigibles don’t have cellars, Jacques.”
“Oh?”
“We do have a bombing hatch, Jacques.”
Jacques considers this.
“Bertrand,” he says eventually, “we don’t have any ammo.”
“I gathered as much, Jacques,” says Bertrand.
Thursday, September 23, 2004
“I don’t like it when nobody scores.” Carter flips a bloody mignon from plate to grill. “What was the series combined score, like twelve and seven?”
“Thirteen and seven,” Josef says. “All of games. Was great pitching!”
“But what’s a game without homers?” asks Carter, and a lion knocks the plate down to scarf the remaining steaks. Then it looks up, politely and clearly expecting more.
“You. Uh. Want to call the zoo or something, Josef?” Carter breathes. “Or 911, anybody, really.”
“Rupus Miltai!” gasps Josef, which Carter thinks is a weird-sounding curse even for Lithuanian (it means, literally, “coarse flour”).
Wednesday, September 22, 2004
There’s been no preschool in this room for years, and the toys are gone–only the child-size Fisher-Price playset remains. She pushes him down onto its slide, the most convenient place. It’s barely longer than his torso.
Berry touches her face and feels hot sad tears before she pushes his hand away and opens his shirt. He feels them drop onto his chest anyway. Then they’re moving together, in something needful and painful, as old as human grief.
What about slides, he wonders, is so fascinating to children? To anyone? Maybe the idea of acceleration, of a world gone friction-free.
Tuesday, September 21, 2004
“What happened?” presses Myra, very much the Concerned Reporter.
“We made the deal.” Clem sighs heavily. “Them Hollywood types said they wanted ’em for sets, but they didn’t need the whole houses. Just the… fa-sods.” He spits. “We figured it’d be good for the community, y’know? Make us a tourist attraction. Nah. We got some money out of it, but that was gone pretty soon. Tourists never showed.”
Myra scribbles frantically. The wind whistles down the little town’s denuded main drag, punctuated by the sound of the odd two-story fall, as someone tries to lean against a wall that isn’t there.
Monday, September 20, 2004
They go in around 2 am, when the lone security guard naps–just bend aside a sheet of plywood covering some broken glass and slip through. Showtime Cinema was a cavern even before it closed; now it’s a dark and dangerous playground.
It’s Jamon who finds the box of old film cans, and Lucia who wires a car battery to a projector in Theater B (Lucia can do this stuff). The movies are incomplete, so they end up pasting together silent fifteen-minute chunks, narrating them together, in a kind of secret Mystery Dada Theater: Professional Beach Blanket Little Lady, Part Deux.
Friday, September 17, 2004