stripped, showered, brushed his teeth, and combed his hair. He tried six shirts and three pairs of jeans before he hit a combination that suited him. He looked at his watch.
Ten thirty. Two and one half hours to go.
He tried to paint but he could not focus. He shut off the lights and picked up Cat. He sat in the window and watched people come and go from the Hollywood. At midnight he put the ice and a bottle of champagne in the bucket. He returned to the window. At twelve twenty he opened the picnic basket and laid out the cheese, meat, and bread. He returned to the window. At twelve forty he put the plate of cantaloupe and grapes on the table cloth and lit the candles.
He returned to the window.
At one, Pris left the Hollywood with a long haired, leather wearing, anorexic rock star. She wore black tights, a black halter, and her biker’s jacket. Her hair was tied in long yellow braids. She sat on the rock star’s motorcycle and put her arms around his waist. They rode west down Sunset towards Beverly Hills. Duncan’s heart flew east to the Chicago stockyards where it was ground into dog meat. When it was clear neither Pris nor his heart would return he put Cat down and blew out the candles.
Later that night, Duncan brought a bottle downstairs to where the bum slept fitfully in his rags, snoring and dreaming of gin. He was maybe fifty, with light green eyes flecked with gold. His hair was mostly gray with random strands of brown. Wrinkles like small scars edged his eyes and the corners of his mouth. He had ample wear on the rest of his chassis and a stench that could drive lice to suicide. Duncan nudged him with his foot until he woke and cocked a wrinkled red eye.
“Yes, Mr. Getty,” he said, “what can you do for me?”
Duncan gave him the champagne. “Thought you might like this.”
He looked at the bottle. “French too. What’s the occasion?”
“Just a broken promise.”
“Could be worse. Could be a broken heart.”
“Same thing.”
“Some might disagree.”
“That cost twenty-five dollars.” Duncan chose not to argue his love life with a wino. “Maybe you can trade it at a liquor store for something stronger.”
“No, they’d think I stole it. They’d take it from me and I’d end up with nothing.” He popped the cork and took a long drink. He wiped his lips with a dirty sleeve and smiled. “Besides. I used to like champagne.”
Something in his tone moved Duncan. “Do you want to get out of the cold for a while? You can use my shower and I’ll find you some clothes.”
“Sure,” the bum said, “why not?”
Duncan led him upstairs. “The bathroom’s in there.”
“Thanks, Mr. Getty.”
“My name’s not Getty. It’s Duncan.”
“Sure it is.” He shook Duncan’s hand. “I’m Edward.”
Edward retreated to the bathroom and turned on the water. Duncan went to the kitchen and washed his hand. The water stopped in the bathroom and splashing began. Edward sang in a sweet, strong tenor as he bathed. It sounded like Italian opera, though Duncan could not have identified it as such if it were Caruso himself singing in the tub.
I used to like champagne .
What would Duncan say he once liked when entropy finally caught up with his quivering molecules? Would his regrets merit remembering and his joys be impossible to forget? Would he recall Tiffy behind the barn and the fullness of his chest and shorts when she lay back in the hay and raised her skirt to reveal the interior of her tan, naked thighs? Would he remember Fiona’s smile and his hand in hers as they crossed busy Cheyenne streets? Would he remember his father beside a river or anywhere else other than in his dreams? And would he remember a girl with dandelion hair and eyes blue and stormy as any ocean?
“About them clothes?”
Edward stood in the bathroom door, naked but for a towel circling his waist. His skin was scrubbed pink and the air was sweeter than when he first graced Duncan’s studio. Duncan
Ten thirty. Two and one half hours to go.
He tried to paint but he could not focus. He shut off the lights and picked up Cat. He sat in the window and watched people come and go from the Hollywood. At midnight he put the ice and a bottle of champagne in the bucket. He returned to the window. At twelve twenty he opened the picnic basket and laid out the cheese, meat, and bread. He returned to the window. At twelve forty he put the plate of cantaloupe and grapes on the table cloth and lit the candles.
He returned to the window.
At one, Pris left the Hollywood with a long haired, leather wearing, anorexic rock star. She wore black tights, a black halter, and her biker’s jacket. Her hair was tied in long yellow braids. She sat on the rock star’s motorcycle and put her arms around his waist. They rode west down Sunset towards Beverly Hills. Duncan’s heart flew east to the Chicago stockyards where it was ground into dog meat. When it was clear neither Pris nor his heart would return he put Cat down and blew out the candles.
Later that night, Duncan brought a bottle downstairs to where the bum slept fitfully in his rags, snoring and dreaming of gin. He was maybe fifty, with light green eyes flecked with gold. His hair was mostly gray with random strands of brown. Wrinkles like small scars edged his eyes and the corners of his mouth. He had ample wear on the rest of his chassis and a stench that could drive lice to suicide. Duncan nudged him with his foot until he woke and cocked a wrinkled red eye.
“Yes, Mr. Getty,” he said, “what can you do for me?”
Duncan gave him the champagne. “Thought you might like this.”
He looked at the bottle. “French too. What’s the occasion?”
“Just a broken promise.”
“Could be worse. Could be a broken heart.”
“Same thing.”
“Some might disagree.”
“That cost twenty-five dollars.” Duncan chose not to argue his love life with a wino. “Maybe you can trade it at a liquor store for something stronger.”
“No, they’d think I stole it. They’d take it from me and I’d end up with nothing.” He popped the cork and took a long drink. He wiped his lips with a dirty sleeve and smiled. “Besides. I used to like champagne.”
Something in his tone moved Duncan. “Do you want to get out of the cold for a while? You can use my shower and I’ll find you some clothes.”
“Sure,” the bum said, “why not?”
Duncan led him upstairs. “The bathroom’s in there.”
“Thanks, Mr. Getty.”
“My name’s not Getty. It’s Duncan.”
“Sure it is.” He shook Duncan’s hand. “I’m Edward.”
Edward retreated to the bathroom and turned on the water. Duncan went to the kitchen and washed his hand. The water stopped in the bathroom and splashing began. Edward sang in a sweet, strong tenor as he bathed. It sounded like Italian opera, though Duncan could not have identified it as such if it were Caruso himself singing in the tub.
I used to like champagne .
What would Duncan say he once liked when entropy finally caught up with his quivering molecules? Would his regrets merit remembering and his joys be impossible to forget? Would he recall Tiffy behind the barn and the fullness of his chest and shorts when she lay back in the hay and raised her skirt to reveal the interior of her tan, naked thighs? Would he remember Fiona’s smile and his hand in hers as they crossed busy Cheyenne streets? Would he remember his father beside a river or anywhere else other than in his dreams? And would he remember a girl with dandelion hair and eyes blue and stormy as any ocean?
“About them clothes?”
Edward stood in the bathroom door, naked but for a towel circling his waist. His skin was scrubbed pink and the air was sweeter than when he first graced Duncan’s studio. Duncan
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