It’s a thing.”
“Goldfader,” roared the tannoy, scattering my thoughts. The caddycart was ready at the gate. In the west now the heavens looked especially hellish and distraught, with a throbbing, peeled-eyeball effect on the low horizon—bloodshot, conjunctivitic. Pink eye. The Thing Up There, I sometimes suspect, it might look like an eye, flecked with painful tears, staring, incensed.… Using my cane I walked cautiously around the back of Happy’s bungalow. Her twenty-year-old daughter Sunny was lying naked on a lounger, soaking up the haze. She made no move to cover herself as I limped poolside. Little Sunny here wants me to represent her someday, and I guess she was showing me the goods. Well it’s like they say: if you’ve got it, flaunt it.
“Hi, Lou,” she said sleepily. “Take a drink. Go ahead. It’s five o’clock.”
I looked at Sunny critically as I edged past her to the bar. The kid was a real centerfold, no question. Now don’t misunderstand me here. I say centerfold , but of course pornography hasn’t really kept pace with time. At first they tried filling the magazines and mature cable channels with new-look women, like Sunny, but it didn’t work out. Time has effectively killed pornography, except as an underground blood sport, or a punk thing. Time has killed much else. Here’s an interesting topic sentence. Now that masturbation is the only form of sex that doesn’t carry a government health warning, what do we think about when we’re doing it there, what is left for us to think about? Me, I’m not saying. Christ, are you? What images slide, what specters flit … what happens to these thoughts as they hover and mass, up there in the blasted, the totaled, up there in the fucked sky?
“Come on, Sunny. Where’s your robe.”
As I fixed myself a vodka-context and sucked warily on a pretzel , I noticed Sunny’s bald patch gently gleaming in the mist. I sighed.
“You like my dome?” she asked, without turning. “Relax, it’s artificial.” She sat up straight now and looked at me coyly. She smiled. Yeah, she’d had her teeth gimmicked too—by some cowboy snaggle-artist down in the Valley, no doubt. I poled myself poolside again and took a good slow scan. The flab and pallor were real all right, but the stretch marks seemed cosmetic: too symmetrical, too pronounced.
“Now, you listen to me, kid,” I began. “Here are the realities. To scudbathe, to flop out all day by the pool with a bottle or two, to take on a little weight around the middle there—that’s good for a girl. I mean you got to keep in shape. But this mutton routine, Sunny, it’s for the punks. No old job ever got on my books and no old job ever will. Here are the reasons. Number one—” And I gave young Sunny a long talking- to out there, a real piece of my mind. I had her in the boredom corner and I wasn’t letting her out. I went on and on at her—on and on and on and on. Me, I almost checked out myself, as boredom edged toward despair (the way boredom will), gazing into the voided pool, the reflected skyscape, and the busy static, in the sediment of sable rain.
“Yeah, well,” I said, winding up. “Anyway. What’s the thing? You look great.”
She laughed, coughed, and spat. “Forget it, Lou,” she said croakily. “I only do it for fun.”
“I’m glad to hear that, Sunny. Now where’s your mother.”
“Two days.”
“Uh?”
“In her room. In her room two days. She’s serious this time.”
“Oh, sure.”
I rebrimmed my drink and went inside. The only point of light in the hallway came from the mirror’s sleepless scan-lamp. I looked myself over as I limped by. The heavy boredom and light stress of the seven-hour drive had done me good. I was fine, fine. “Happy?” I said, and knocked.
“Is that you, Lou?” The voice was strong and clear—and it was quick, too. Direct, alert. “I’ll unlatch the door, but don’t come in right away.”
“Sure,” I said. I took a
“Goldfader,” roared the tannoy, scattering my thoughts. The caddycart was ready at the gate. In the west now the heavens looked especially hellish and distraught, with a throbbing, peeled-eyeball effect on the low horizon—bloodshot, conjunctivitic. Pink eye. The Thing Up There, I sometimes suspect, it might look like an eye, flecked with painful tears, staring, incensed.… Using my cane I walked cautiously around the back of Happy’s bungalow. Her twenty-year-old daughter Sunny was lying naked on a lounger, soaking up the haze. She made no move to cover herself as I limped poolside. Little Sunny here wants me to represent her someday, and I guess she was showing me the goods. Well it’s like they say: if you’ve got it, flaunt it.
“Hi, Lou,” she said sleepily. “Take a drink. Go ahead. It’s five o’clock.”
I looked at Sunny critically as I edged past her to the bar. The kid was a real centerfold, no question. Now don’t misunderstand me here. I say centerfold , but of course pornography hasn’t really kept pace with time. At first they tried filling the magazines and mature cable channels with new-look women, like Sunny, but it didn’t work out. Time has effectively killed pornography, except as an underground blood sport, or a punk thing. Time has killed much else. Here’s an interesting topic sentence. Now that masturbation is the only form of sex that doesn’t carry a government health warning, what do we think about when we’re doing it there, what is left for us to think about? Me, I’m not saying. Christ, are you? What images slide, what specters flit … what happens to these thoughts as they hover and mass, up there in the blasted, the totaled, up there in the fucked sky?
“Come on, Sunny. Where’s your robe.”
As I fixed myself a vodka-context and sucked warily on a pretzel , I noticed Sunny’s bald patch gently gleaming in the mist. I sighed.
“You like my dome?” she asked, without turning. “Relax, it’s artificial.” She sat up straight now and looked at me coyly. She smiled. Yeah, she’d had her teeth gimmicked too—by some cowboy snaggle-artist down in the Valley, no doubt. I poled myself poolside again and took a good slow scan. The flab and pallor were real all right, but the stretch marks seemed cosmetic: too symmetrical, too pronounced.
“Now, you listen to me, kid,” I began. “Here are the realities. To scudbathe, to flop out all day by the pool with a bottle or two, to take on a little weight around the middle there—that’s good for a girl. I mean you got to keep in shape. But this mutton routine, Sunny, it’s for the punks. No old job ever got on my books and no old job ever will. Here are the reasons. Number one—” And I gave young Sunny a long talking- to out there, a real piece of my mind. I had her in the boredom corner and I wasn’t letting her out. I went on and on at her—on and on and on and on. Me, I almost checked out myself, as boredom edged toward despair (the way boredom will), gazing into the voided pool, the reflected skyscape, and the busy static, in the sediment of sable rain.
“Yeah, well,” I said, winding up. “Anyway. What’s the thing? You look great.”
She laughed, coughed, and spat. “Forget it, Lou,” she said croakily. “I only do it for fun.”
“I’m glad to hear that, Sunny. Now where’s your mother.”
“Two days.”
“Uh?”
“In her room. In her room two days. She’s serious this time.”
“Oh, sure.”
I rebrimmed my drink and went inside. The only point of light in the hallway came from the mirror’s sleepless scan-lamp. I looked myself over as I limped by. The heavy boredom and light stress of the seven-hour drive had done me good. I was fine, fine. “Happy?” I said, and knocked.
“Is that you, Lou?” The voice was strong and clear—and it was quick, too. Direct, alert. “I’ll unlatch the door, but don’t come in right away.”
“Sure,” I said. I took a
Similar Books
