kitchen.
“We’re done, but there’s some tidying to do in the living room, a spill. You, er, wouldn’t mind awfully staying until it’s done,” she said to me with bogus conciliation. “I’ll tell Esteban to come for you in twenty minutes.”
“Of course,” I said and added
“hacete cojer”
under my breath.
She and her minions filed out the back door and Paco and I went into the living room to look for the spill.
Dim lights, smoke, half a dozen men sharing a joint and listening to Pink Floyd on a gigantic silver stereo. The men were all in their thirties or early forties. They didn’t notice when we came in but I could see immediately why we were required. Someone had spilled red wine on a Persian rug. We went back into the kitchen and got a sponge and a bowl of hot water.
When we returned, the movie actor Brad Pitt was at the front door waving to the party guests.
“I can’t stay. I just popped in to say hi,” Pitt said.
“Oh, come on, man,” someone replied.
“No, no, I really can’t stay, I was up at Cruise’s and now we’re going to Vail. I just thought I’d say hi,” Pitt went on.
I stood there looking at him, covered in grime, dripping sweat, holding a sponge and a bowl of filthy water—the dissonance between this moment and the encounter of my fantasies was quite marked.
Of course, I had seen Brad Pitt many times on Chinese bootlegs.
Troy
was the last movie Ricky and I had watched together—that’s the one where Pitt plays Achilles, son of Zeus. Tonight he had a beard and was wearing an ugly wool hat, but he still looked like a god.
“What’s the matter?” Paco asked beside me.
“Brad Pitt,” I hissed.
“Who?”
“
Mierde
, haven’t you heard of anybody?” I muttered.
Pitt grumbled something, waved, and was gone. The rest of the men went back to their marijuana.
We started cleaning the stain but it was heavy going. The carpet was thick and it looked like a whole bottle had gotten spilled on it and soaked there for a while before anyone noticed.
When the music ended the men’s conversation drifted over.
“Where’s Doctor Marvin?”
“He’s gone.”
“Thank Christ. Shrink with a chip on his shoulder, last thing we need when Cruise comes in.”
“Cruise isn’t coming.”
“He’s coming.”
“Dude, it’s after midnight, Cruise isn’t coming now.”
“Fuck.”
“Hey, did I ever tell you that I was in
Mission Imp
—”
“Only a million fucking times.”
“Jesus, no need to jump down my throat.”
“Nice of Pitt to drop in.”
“Yeah, he’s like that. Probably the whole clan with him, out in a fucking minivan or something.”
“Spacey was here before you came.”
“Shit, was he? He’s the fucking bomb.”
“Jesus, update your slang, why don’t ya?”
“They were good together in that movie.”
“Yeah.”
The marijuana smoke came our way and I began to feel light-headed. It was strong stuff, much stronger than the black rope they sold on O’Reilly.
“Yeah, fuck Cruise.”
“Fucking Scientologists.”
“Hey, careful.”
“You never see that many Jewish Scientologists. Go to one seder and you’ll know why. It’s all about the dialectic, the interpretation; Jews ask too many questions.”
“Tambor.”
“Exception proves the rule.”
“Worse than the Scientologists are the fucking born-agains and the—”
“Oh, I saw this bumper sticker today, ‘Come the Rapture, Can I Have Your Car?’ ”
“Man, that’s funny, I got to get one of those.”
“No, dude, it’s only funny if you got a shitty car. You drive a fucking Porsche, that’s not funny.”
Paco looked at me. “We need more water,” he said. I didn’t answer. The pot was tripping me.
“María,” he said and snapped his fingers in front of my face, his gesture the reversal of me to him, yesterday.
“Sorry, I was listening to their conversation,” I told him.
“Dope bullshit,” Paco said with contempt.
Paco took my arm and helped me back to
“We’re done, but there’s some tidying to do in the living room, a spill. You, er, wouldn’t mind awfully staying until it’s done,” she said to me with bogus conciliation. “I’ll tell Esteban to come for you in twenty minutes.”
“Of course,” I said and added
“hacete cojer”
under my breath.
She and her minions filed out the back door and Paco and I went into the living room to look for the spill.
Dim lights, smoke, half a dozen men sharing a joint and listening to Pink Floyd on a gigantic silver stereo. The men were all in their thirties or early forties. They didn’t notice when we came in but I could see immediately why we were required. Someone had spilled red wine on a Persian rug. We went back into the kitchen and got a sponge and a bowl of hot water.
When we returned, the movie actor Brad Pitt was at the front door waving to the party guests.
“I can’t stay. I just popped in to say hi,” Pitt said.
“Oh, come on, man,” someone replied.
“No, no, I really can’t stay, I was up at Cruise’s and now we’re going to Vail. I just thought I’d say hi,” Pitt went on.
I stood there looking at him, covered in grime, dripping sweat, holding a sponge and a bowl of filthy water—the dissonance between this moment and the encounter of my fantasies was quite marked.
Of course, I had seen Brad Pitt many times on Chinese bootlegs.
Troy
was the last movie Ricky and I had watched together—that’s the one where Pitt plays Achilles, son of Zeus. Tonight he had a beard and was wearing an ugly wool hat, but he still looked like a god.
“What’s the matter?” Paco asked beside me.
“Brad Pitt,” I hissed.
“Who?”
“
Mierde
, haven’t you heard of anybody?” I muttered.
Pitt grumbled something, waved, and was gone. The rest of the men went back to their marijuana.
We started cleaning the stain but it was heavy going. The carpet was thick and it looked like a whole bottle had gotten spilled on it and soaked there for a while before anyone noticed.
When the music ended the men’s conversation drifted over.
“Where’s Doctor Marvin?”
“He’s gone.”
“Thank Christ. Shrink with a chip on his shoulder, last thing we need when Cruise comes in.”
“Cruise isn’t coming.”
“He’s coming.”
“Dude, it’s after midnight, Cruise isn’t coming now.”
“Fuck.”
“Hey, did I ever tell you that I was in
Mission Imp
—”
“Only a million fucking times.”
“Jesus, no need to jump down my throat.”
“Nice of Pitt to drop in.”
“Yeah, he’s like that. Probably the whole clan with him, out in a fucking minivan or something.”
“Spacey was here before you came.”
“Shit, was he? He’s the fucking bomb.”
“Jesus, update your slang, why don’t ya?”
“They were good together in that movie.”
“Yeah.”
The marijuana smoke came our way and I began to feel light-headed. It was strong stuff, much stronger than the black rope they sold on O’Reilly.
“Yeah, fuck Cruise.”
“Fucking Scientologists.”
“Hey, careful.”
“You never see that many Jewish Scientologists. Go to one seder and you’ll know why. It’s all about the dialectic, the interpretation; Jews ask too many questions.”
“Tambor.”
“Exception proves the rule.”
“Worse than the Scientologists are the fucking born-agains and the—”
“Oh, I saw this bumper sticker today, ‘Come the Rapture, Can I Have Your Car?’ ”
“Man, that’s funny, I got to get one of those.”
“No, dude, it’s only funny if you got a shitty car. You drive a fucking Porsche, that’s not funny.”
Paco looked at me. “We need more water,” he said. I didn’t answer. The pot was tripping me.
“María,” he said and snapped his fingers in front of my face, his gesture the reversal of me to him, yesterday.
“Sorry, I was listening to their conversation,” I told him.
“Dope bullshit,” Paco said with contempt.
Paco took my arm and helped me back to
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