Home Land: A Novel by Sam Lipsyte

looked sharp in his leathers, read from his story collection Vegas, Baby , brought the house down with his prizewinner, “Good Hands,” the tale of a pregnant teen who dreams of softball greatness even as her world falls apart and she’s forced to shoot her emotionally abusive father, then wheel him around in a wheelchair for the rest of his life, or at least for the rest of the story.
    When the reading was over Bob stood at the bar. We all lined up to buy him beer.
    “Mr. Price,” I said.
    “Bob,” said Bob.
    “My name is Lewis Miner. I wrote you a letter a while back.”
    “Oh, yeah. You’re the guy with the snake.”
    “No, that wasn’t me.”
    “That was a really cool letter. It meant a lot to me. Sorry I didn’t write back.”
    “You must be busy.”
    “I wouldn’t say that.”
    “Anyway, I just wanted to say you were great tonight. I’m glad
you read ‘Good Hands.’ I always thought that story was one of your—”
    “You got any cash?”
    I’d been working for my father at the Moonbeam that week. I flashed Bob my take-home wad.
    “Beautiful,” said Bob. “You’re with me, buddy.”
    We took a cab across the river to a place Bob knew, this Dominican dive that served domestic beer, international cocaine. Bob led the way, nodded us past the door goons. He took my money, scooted into line at the DJ booth. I stood off near a dingy red curtain, watched Bob chat with a stringy-haired Eurasian-looking guy behind him. Bob pointed me out for the fellow. They both laughed.
    The curtain slid open behind me. A woman stepped out. She had some kind of gypsy look going with her loose skirts, her beret. Past her was a dim alcove, like a voting booth without the levers. The snorting chamber. This wasn’t Sodom, after all. You couldn’t just huff rails at the bar. The woman had a nice smile but all I could see were the coke stars in her eyes. The pain of her pathetic life took several hundred million years to reach me. I had my own terrible light to emit.
    “I look at you,” said the woman, “and I see a jealous man. A strict man.”
    “Not me. You’ve got the wrong guy.”
    I began to imagine how I’d call Gwendolyn in Hollywood, tell her I’d fallen in love. Maybe Gwendolyn would see the error of her ways, catch the red-eye home. She’d find me in bed with this woman. We’d all get high, have a three-way. No needles, though. That would be the rule.
    “Yes,” said the woman, “you are a jealous man. It’s easy to tell these things. You are also a handsome man, but you know that already. What are you looking over there for?”
    Bob Price was near the DJ booth, about to procure the bounty of the marginal economy. I figured I’d get my drugs and send Bob
packing, go back to Beret’s place. Fuck three-ways. Fuck my take-home wad. We could have a good life together, me and Beret. Hard, but good. Our children would have rich cultural legacies.
    “I’m just looking over at my buddy,” I said.
    “You mean acquaintance. I can tell these things.”
    “No, he’s my buddy.”
    “You lie to yourself,” said the woman. “Sad for such a handsome man.”
    “Look where we are,” I said. “Aren’t we all lying to ourselves?”
    The woman took my hand, kissed it.
    “I never lie,” she said. “What is your name?”
    “Lewis.”
    “Luis. My brother is named Luis.”
    “They also call me Teabag.”
    “Why do they call you that?”
    “Long story.”
    “Do you like to be called Teabag?”
    “Usually not.”
    “Why don’t you tell them to stop?”
    “It’s too late.”
    “Yes,” said Beret. “It’s much too late. Your so-called buddy is calling you.”
    Bob saluted from the corner of the room. He stood there with the stringy-haired guy. The soil samples had been collected. It was time to board the surface module, head for the home globe. I kissed the woman’s hand, made for the door. A big kid with dazzling neck gold scoped the corner through the door slit, shoved us streetward. The