boy.
“They said you was here.”
“Here I am.”
“Teach me,” said the boy. “My pa taught me some, but he’s dead. Teach me what you know.”
“First you’ve got to put a picture in your head. And not your ma.”
“Never knew her.”
“Good then. Get a picture. You got a picture?”
“Yes, sir, I do,” said the boy. “Now what?”
“Never mind now what,” said the Kid, tossed the boy some coins. “Go get me some sandwiches. Come back with my change and I’ll show you the rest.”
“Thanks, Mister!”
The Kid lay back on the bed, loosened his belt.
“So tired,” he whispered at the wall.
Maybe it was time to settle down, buy that land by the river bend, woo Wilhelmina, the schoolteacher.
How much whang could a man spank in this world?
Meanwhile, on the other side of town, in a room above a barbershop, the Kid’s only rival, an enormous man named Buttercup, stropped a borrowed razor. His mother would be coming soon to shave him down.
THE PHONE RANG, the showdown postponed.
“Wakey, wakey, eggs and bakey.”
“Who is this?”
“My daddy used to get me up on Saturday mornings like that. Or else he’d say, ‘Drop your cocks and pick up your socks!’ Cocks plural, mind you. Guess you can take the man out of the barracks … anyway, I preferred the former.”
“Fontana?”
“How are you, Miner? Long time no update.”
“You bastard,” I said. “Don’t Miner me. How could you print that trash with my name on it? If I knew anything about the legal system I’d sue your ass. I’d have your ass in some kind of judicial sling.”
“Calm down, Lewis. You need to get out more.”
“Or maybe buy a mule harness.”
Fontana let that one settle.
“Did you hear what I said?”
“I heard you,” said Fontana. “Don’t think I didn’t see you boys out there, either. Thing is, I don’t give a damn. You were the one in the bushes. I was the one having fun. Remember that. There’s nothing they can do to me now, anyway. I’m calling you for two reasons. One is to let you know that I’ve resigned as editor of Catamount Notes. ”
“You’re kidding me.”
“You can send your screeds to Stacy Ryson from now on.”
“Stacy Ryson?
“I think she’s going to throw it all up on the worldwide net or something.”
“Well, maybe I’ll have better luck with her. New times, new blood. Fresh voices from the edges of experience. Of course, she’s sort of rearguard in her way, but maybe—”
“Lewis.”
“What?”
“Do you have a job?”
“If you’d ever read my updates you’d know the answer to that question.”
“Fair enough. But really, man. This is an alumni bulletin we’re talking about.”
“I know what we’re talking about. It’s the principle, principal.”
“Fair enough.”
“Stop saying fair enough.”
“Stop writing updates. For your mental well-being.”
“I’ll consider it. What was the other reason you called?”
“I need to ask you something. Do you know Hollis Wofford?”
I told Fontana I didn’t know any Wofford, but Hollis was a name I’d heard. It was the same Hollis, Catamounts, Gary’s sponsor, the coke-dealer phrenologist and Friend of Bill who still maintained loose ties with Satan. Now that Fontana has resigned his editorship, I figure it’s your job, Stacy, to worry whether the truth I’m about to divulge—that it was Hollis who jumped Fontana the night he staggered into Brenda Bruno’s—belongs in Catamount Notes . The beatdown wasn’t a matter of cash or powder, either. It was a love deal gone sour. Triangular, or Mexican, with Jazz Loretta at the hinge.
“Christ, I love her,” said Fontana, and I was beginning to feel my old affinities for the man, his respect for the heart’s ordeal.
“I don’t blame you,” I said
“What the hell does that mean?”
“It means we’re talking about Loretta,” I said.
Dearests Jasmine, Brie, no offense, but Loretta was always the kindest and most radiant Jazz Lovely.
“They said you was here.”
“Here I am.”
“Teach me,” said the boy. “My pa taught me some, but he’s dead. Teach me what you know.”
“First you’ve got to put a picture in your head. And not your ma.”
“Never knew her.”
“Good then. Get a picture. You got a picture?”
“Yes, sir, I do,” said the boy. “Now what?”
“Never mind now what,” said the Kid, tossed the boy some coins. “Go get me some sandwiches. Come back with my change and I’ll show you the rest.”
“Thanks, Mister!”
The Kid lay back on the bed, loosened his belt.
“So tired,” he whispered at the wall.
Maybe it was time to settle down, buy that land by the river bend, woo Wilhelmina, the schoolteacher.
How much whang could a man spank in this world?
Meanwhile, on the other side of town, in a room above a barbershop, the Kid’s only rival, an enormous man named Buttercup, stropped a borrowed razor. His mother would be coming soon to shave him down.
THE PHONE RANG, the showdown postponed.
“Wakey, wakey, eggs and bakey.”
“Who is this?”
“My daddy used to get me up on Saturday mornings like that. Or else he’d say, ‘Drop your cocks and pick up your socks!’ Cocks plural, mind you. Guess you can take the man out of the barracks … anyway, I preferred the former.”
“Fontana?”
“How are you, Miner? Long time no update.”
“You bastard,” I said. “Don’t Miner me. How could you print that trash with my name on it? If I knew anything about the legal system I’d sue your ass. I’d have your ass in some kind of judicial sling.”
“Calm down, Lewis. You need to get out more.”
“Or maybe buy a mule harness.”
Fontana let that one settle.
“Did you hear what I said?”
“I heard you,” said Fontana. “Don’t think I didn’t see you boys out there, either. Thing is, I don’t give a damn. You were the one in the bushes. I was the one having fun. Remember that. There’s nothing they can do to me now, anyway. I’m calling you for two reasons. One is to let you know that I’ve resigned as editor of Catamount Notes. ”
“You’re kidding me.”
“You can send your screeds to Stacy Ryson from now on.”
“Stacy Ryson?
“I think she’s going to throw it all up on the worldwide net or something.”
“Well, maybe I’ll have better luck with her. New times, new blood. Fresh voices from the edges of experience. Of course, she’s sort of rearguard in her way, but maybe—”
“Lewis.”
“What?”
“Do you have a job?”
“If you’d ever read my updates you’d know the answer to that question.”
“Fair enough. But really, man. This is an alumni bulletin we’re talking about.”
“I know what we’re talking about. It’s the principle, principal.”
“Fair enough.”
“Stop saying fair enough.”
“Stop writing updates. For your mental well-being.”
“I’ll consider it. What was the other reason you called?”
“I need to ask you something. Do you know Hollis Wofford?”
I told Fontana I didn’t know any Wofford, but Hollis was a name I’d heard. It was the same Hollis, Catamounts, Gary’s sponsor, the coke-dealer phrenologist and Friend of Bill who still maintained loose ties with Satan. Now that Fontana has resigned his editorship, I figure it’s your job, Stacy, to worry whether the truth I’m about to divulge—that it was Hollis who jumped Fontana the night he staggered into Brenda Bruno’s—belongs in Catamount Notes . The beatdown wasn’t a matter of cash or powder, either. It was a love deal gone sour. Triangular, or Mexican, with Jazz Loretta at the hinge.
“Christ, I love her,” said Fontana, and I was beginning to feel my old affinities for the man, his respect for the heart’s ordeal.
“I don’t blame you,” I said
“What the hell does that mean?”
“It means we’re talking about Loretta,” I said.
Dearests Jasmine, Brie, no offense, but Loretta was always the kindest and most radiant Jazz Lovely.
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