She’s wearing Frosty the Snowman earrings. “So you’re Mr. Judy,” she says. “You’re in publishing, right?”
“Is that how Judy puts it? I’m a proofreader.”
“Proofreader,” her husband says. “What the hell’s that?”
“A job. A bullshit job. Lots of people have them.”
“I’ll drink to that.”
“So you’d rather be doing something else,” the wife says to me.
“Not really.”
She eyes me over the rim of her wineglass. I can tell she’s not going to back down. It’s these kinds of conversations that will kill me.
“What are you two doing for the holidays?” she asks.
“We’re not real big on the whole holiday thing.”
“What does that mean?”
I answer with a shrug.
“When you have kids it’ll be different,” she says. “They really make this time of year special.”
Judy finally motions for me to join her. I excuse myself and follow her out to the patio of the restaurant.
“Float me a smoke,” she says.
Two men, coworkers of hers, approach us with their arms around each other. They are singing “Silent Night” and try to get Judy to join in, but she pats them on their backs and steers them inside.
“Wash your hands,” I say. “This place is a hotbed of Yuletide cheer.”
“Best behavior. You promised,” she says.
People are dancing in the restaurant. The windows are beginning to fog. There’s a small black spot on my white shirt. I can’t figure out where it came from.
Judy takes her cell phone from her purse and dials our answering machine. After listening for a minute, she looks confused, then presses the code to replay the messages and holds the phone out to me.
“Your brother called,” she says.
“I don’t have a brother.”
“Merry Christmas.”
S PENCER WRIGHT, THIS is your life. No, really, hey, my name is Karl Wright, and I’m your brother, half-brother, Whatever. It’s a hell of a story, but I tracked our old man down and he gave me your name and they had computers at the library. He said he thought you were living in L.A., so it was pretty easy. Do you know about me? He married my momma after he married yours. Anyway, I’m gonna tell you right off the bat, I’ve been away for a time, and where I was locked down they had a shrink who said a lot of my anger and stuff comes from not having family ties and missing out on that, so I’m doing something about it, or trying to anyway.
I said back off, nigger!
Sorry about that. I bet this tape’s gonna run out, so let me get to it. I’m in town, I’ve got a room down here at the Hotel Cecil, and I’d love to hook up with you for a few minutes, lunch, Whatever you can spare. Seeing your face and hearing your voice is all that’s important. Leave a message at the desk for Karl Wright. If I don’t hear from you, don’t worry, I’ll get the hint. Love you, bro. Already. Merry Christmas and Happy New Year.
T HE DESK CLERK sits behind bulletproof glass. All transactions are conducted via a sliding drawer, and one must be buzzed in through a security gate to get upstairs. The sign warning against drugs, prostitution, and firearms makes me smile. Have you never dreamed of such lodgings?
The clerk is Indian. Turban, the whole bit.
“I’m here to see Karl Wright,” I say.
He checks the register and then the cubbyholes where the keys are stored.
“Wright is out,” he says.
“He told me to meet him here.”
The clerk grabs a key and taps it three or four times against the thick Plexiglas separating us. “He is out, out, out. This is his key.”
“What’s that music you’re listening to?”
It’s a woman wailing over some kind of half-assed bagpipes and penny whistles dipped in mud.
“Indian music. From my country.”
“What’s she saying?”
The clerk shrugs. “She loves him. He has robbed her heart.”
I step back into the lobby. A few men are hunched on the spavined couches, rapt before a silent television chained to a shelf up near the ceiling. I take a seat and
“Is that how Judy puts it? I’m a proofreader.”
“Proofreader,” her husband says. “What the hell’s that?”
“A job. A bullshit job. Lots of people have them.”
“I’ll drink to that.”
“So you’d rather be doing something else,” the wife says to me.
“Not really.”
She eyes me over the rim of her wineglass. I can tell she’s not going to back down. It’s these kinds of conversations that will kill me.
“What are you two doing for the holidays?” she asks.
“We’re not real big on the whole holiday thing.”
“What does that mean?”
I answer with a shrug.
“When you have kids it’ll be different,” she says. “They really make this time of year special.”
Judy finally motions for me to join her. I excuse myself and follow her out to the patio of the restaurant.
“Float me a smoke,” she says.
Two men, coworkers of hers, approach us with their arms around each other. They are singing “Silent Night” and try to get Judy to join in, but she pats them on their backs and steers them inside.
“Wash your hands,” I say. “This place is a hotbed of Yuletide cheer.”
“Best behavior. You promised,” she says.
People are dancing in the restaurant. The windows are beginning to fog. There’s a small black spot on my white shirt. I can’t figure out where it came from.
Judy takes her cell phone from her purse and dials our answering machine. After listening for a minute, she looks confused, then presses the code to replay the messages and holds the phone out to me.
“Your brother called,” she says.
“I don’t have a brother.”
“Merry Christmas.”
S PENCER WRIGHT, THIS is your life. No, really, hey, my name is Karl Wright, and I’m your brother, half-brother, Whatever. It’s a hell of a story, but I tracked our old man down and he gave me your name and they had computers at the library. He said he thought you were living in L.A., so it was pretty easy. Do you know about me? He married my momma after he married yours. Anyway, I’m gonna tell you right off the bat, I’ve been away for a time, and where I was locked down they had a shrink who said a lot of my anger and stuff comes from not having family ties and missing out on that, so I’m doing something about it, or trying to anyway.
I said back off, nigger!
Sorry about that. I bet this tape’s gonna run out, so let me get to it. I’m in town, I’ve got a room down here at the Hotel Cecil, and I’d love to hook up with you for a few minutes, lunch, Whatever you can spare. Seeing your face and hearing your voice is all that’s important. Leave a message at the desk for Karl Wright. If I don’t hear from you, don’t worry, I’ll get the hint. Love you, bro. Already. Merry Christmas and Happy New Year.
T HE DESK CLERK sits behind bulletproof glass. All transactions are conducted via a sliding drawer, and one must be buzzed in through a security gate to get upstairs. The sign warning against drugs, prostitution, and firearms makes me smile. Have you never dreamed of such lodgings?
The clerk is Indian. Turban, the whole bit.
“I’m here to see Karl Wright,” I say.
He checks the register and then the cubbyholes where the keys are stored.
“Wright is out,” he says.
“He told me to meet him here.”
The clerk grabs a key and taps it three or four times against the thick Plexiglas separating us. “He is out, out, out. This is his key.”
“What’s that music you’re listening to?”
It’s a woman wailing over some kind of half-assed bagpipes and penny whistles dipped in mud.
“Indian music. From my country.”
“What’s she saying?”
The clerk shrugs. “She loves him. He has robbed her heart.”
I step back into the lobby. A few men are hunched on the spavined couches, rapt before a silent television chained to a shelf up near the ceiling. I take a seat and
Similar Books
