they were never in the same class at school or found themselves frat brothers or became World War buddies. Older than the motel, most of them. Tippecanoe and Up in Arms too.
Undo her shoe—the bow’s for show—undo the belt about her belly, kiss the mole above the eyebrow … how’s one? how’s two?
Men, muttered Eleanor. You still here? Girls go to reunions, not just guys go. He went to one once, Riff told her. Lost in reminder, Riff held
The Egyptian
in his hand. A small-town kid from lower Illinois—hey, nearby Cairo—so fresh even his balls were smooth, Riffaterre had attended SIU in Carbondale and studied business, economics, a bit of law, before ending up in accounting like a pinball come to rest by the binkedybank of chance in a little hole. He had had ambitions, ideals maybe, dreams. But after graduation he had drifted back into small-town life again and lost his love of study, his interest in the new and strange, anything lofty. He shortened his name, dumped earth, severed every connection with the French, ended up a gap. Gradually, as these things usually happen, he became a fixer, somebody the corner store could count on, slow as mold but sure as rust. He would carry all kinds of blank receipts in his valise, and make up expenses, their lying numbers, like words for a story. He didn’t just juggle figures, he rebalanced lives, created costs and catastrophes, invented divorces, begot additional children. Wal-. Waltari. Riff laughed to think his name might have been Waltari Riffaterre before he shortened it. Pretty swish.
He went to a class reunion one time. Hardly recognized anybody,or was recognized. The whole affair, would Miz Biz have said? was flat as a sat-on sombrero. Papered tables, paper napkins, paper name tags, smiling hello buttons, happy hello hats. He found he didn’t care who was wealthy, who was fat. But driving the short drive home (he’d never have gone if the reunion hadn’t been near as a neighbor), he realized how backslid he’d become, how his tastes had clouded like a sky, and how he’d been sharp-eyed once, quick to retort and genuinely wide of laugh, less suspicious, less cautious, more personally akimbo, not meanjeaned and tightass thin, not closed like the cabinet he was presently pawing books from so that now he could smell the dust, and here was
Ann Lee’s & Other Stories
. What the hell? That was no proper title, Ann Lee’s what? Elizabeth Bow- … the spine was smeared, the black had run. Bowen. Bet it wasn’t Ann Lee’s quim. See? Here he was—playing the coarse and stupid small-town stud, mouth made for a matchstick.
The glass doors were glinting from a bit of outside light. Low sun. On the vase of his poor rose … raised to falsify a rented room with its pretense of friendship. Is it supposed to lead us to lengthen our stay? although we’ve agreed to check out tomorrow or today; which would require Rose, though footsore and weary, to wipe away our street dust once again, cleanse the mirror of our worried face, erase the traces of our restless body in the bed, straighten loose papers, replace the dead bud with another dead bud, vacuum the rug, scour the tub, and routinely carry out the other duties of beauty, so we may rest afresh in our room, in our bed, and talk to our mother as if she weren’t down out of sight in the ground. Rose, dust these books, too, will you?
Riff had always had a deep suspicion of refinement. He was holding the dustiest volume of all, so visibly silted he dared not whoosh it off. He wouldn’t open it either.
Adam’s Breed
was on the cover. By Radclyffe Hall. But he did. Parted the pages in sudden despair. This dust goes back to ’26. That’s what he didn’twant to grow into, a Riffaterre, a lace-cuff guy named Radclyffe. Sadly slid the book back. Closed the cabinet carefully, a pall upon him. Held his hands in the air like a surgeon beseeching gloves as he went to wash. OK, mom, OK. Keep your seat.
Such a seat as’ll put
Undo her shoe—the bow’s for show—undo the belt about her belly, kiss the mole above the eyebrow … how’s one? how’s two?
Men, muttered Eleanor. You still here? Girls go to reunions, not just guys go. He went to one once, Riff told her. Lost in reminder, Riff held
The Egyptian
in his hand. A small-town kid from lower Illinois—hey, nearby Cairo—so fresh even his balls were smooth, Riffaterre had attended SIU in Carbondale and studied business, economics, a bit of law, before ending up in accounting like a pinball come to rest by the binkedybank of chance in a little hole. He had had ambitions, ideals maybe, dreams. But after graduation he had drifted back into small-town life again and lost his love of study, his interest in the new and strange, anything lofty. He shortened his name, dumped earth, severed every connection with the French, ended up a gap. Gradually, as these things usually happen, he became a fixer, somebody the corner store could count on, slow as mold but sure as rust. He would carry all kinds of blank receipts in his valise, and make up expenses, their lying numbers, like words for a story. He didn’t just juggle figures, he rebalanced lives, created costs and catastrophes, invented divorces, begot additional children. Wal-. Waltari. Riff laughed to think his name might have been Waltari Riffaterre before he shortened it. Pretty swish.
He went to a class reunion one time. Hardly recognized anybody,or was recognized. The whole affair, would Miz Biz have said? was flat as a sat-on sombrero. Papered tables, paper napkins, paper name tags, smiling hello buttons, happy hello hats. He found he didn’t care who was wealthy, who was fat. But driving the short drive home (he’d never have gone if the reunion hadn’t been near as a neighbor), he realized how backslid he’d become, how his tastes had clouded like a sky, and how he’d been sharp-eyed once, quick to retort and genuinely wide of laugh, less suspicious, less cautious, more personally akimbo, not meanjeaned and tightass thin, not closed like the cabinet he was presently pawing books from so that now he could smell the dust, and here was
Ann Lee’s & Other Stories
. What the hell? That was no proper title, Ann Lee’s what? Elizabeth Bow- … the spine was smeared, the black had run. Bowen. Bet it wasn’t Ann Lee’s quim. See? Here he was—playing the coarse and stupid small-town stud, mouth made for a matchstick.
The glass doors were glinting from a bit of outside light. Low sun. On the vase of his poor rose … raised to falsify a rented room with its pretense of friendship. Is it supposed to lead us to lengthen our stay? although we’ve agreed to check out tomorrow or today; which would require Rose, though footsore and weary, to wipe away our street dust once again, cleanse the mirror of our worried face, erase the traces of our restless body in the bed, straighten loose papers, replace the dead bud with another dead bud, vacuum the rug, scour the tub, and routinely carry out the other duties of beauty, so we may rest afresh in our room, in our bed, and talk to our mother as if she weren’t down out of sight in the ground. Rose, dust these books, too, will you?
Riff had always had a deep suspicion of refinement. He was holding the dustiest volume of all, so visibly silted he dared not whoosh it off. He wouldn’t open it either.
Adam’s Breed
was on the cover. By Radclyffe Hall. But he did. Parted the pages in sudden despair. This dust goes back to ’26. That’s what he didn’twant to grow into, a Riffaterre, a lace-cuff guy named Radclyffe. Sadly slid the book back. Closed the cabinet carefully, a pall upon him. Held his hands in the air like a surgeon beseeching gloves as he went to wash. OK, mom, OK. Keep your seat.
Such a seat as’ll put
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