Something new.
The first part has its appeal.
The rest of it? Ask me, there's probably nothing out there worth seeing. Nothing better
than a dying girl with no hair.
The bridge slips away and we're on Leif Erikson Drive. The ocean on our right. I look at
it. I've never seen it from this close.
Lydia stares.
--I flew over it. I flew over the whole damn thing. Twice. Imagine. And I'll never do it
again.
She leans her forehead against her window.
--Fucking Vyrus.
I glance at her.
--Still talking to Sela?
The muscles in the back of her neck jump.
--Sometimes. She's Coalition now, but she's still a friend.
I look at the road, arcing onto Shore Parkway, away from the water.
--She's fucking the girl.
She turns from the window.
--I know.
I fish a smoke from my pocket.
She looks at the map in her lap, points.
--Cropsey Ave.
I take the exit. Neither of us talks. We hit a red at Neptune and watch the people
draining away from the boardwalk where the rides are dark and the arcades are shutting
down and the drunks are puking on the sidewalk outside Nathan's.
She points again and I take a right on Surf.
She starts folding the map.
--Love doesn't have a reason.
I ignore that nonsense.
She doesn't.
--Sela and the girl feel something. You can't do anything about that. And it's none of your
business anyway.
I roll down toward Seagate and pull to a stop and park on Mermaid Ave., around the corner
from 37th and the ragged-ass end of the Riegelmann Boardwalk.
--Yeah, funny you should say that about it being none of my business.
I take out the big .44 and flip the cylinder and make sure I filled it with big
hollow-point bullets. I did.
--Because I've been thinking just those words for the last half a fucking hour.
Lydia points at the gun.
--Planning to use that, Joe?
I drop the revolver in my pocket and take out the hogleg and break it open.
--No plans, just hopes.
She opens her door and swings down.
--Do me a favor, keep it in your pants.
We walk down the sidewalk, windblown sand crunching under our feet. We make for the lights
flickering on the far side of the boardwalk.
She inhales sea air.
--Smells good.
I inhale smoke.
--Sure does.
We walk out on the boardwalk.
Lydia stops.
--She could change everything.
I stop.
She's looking out at the water, a big moon rippling on the waves.
--The girl, Joe. Sela says. Joe. She could change everything.
I drop my smoke and grind it under my heel.
--Don't talk crazy, Lydia. You're smarter than that.
And I walk away from her and look down at the canvas tent, painted black and speckled with
red gloss, that juts from beneath the edge of the boardwalk, pennants flapping from the
center pole, torches burning at the entrance, a big banner cracking in the wind as a tall
guy in a top hat and a tailcoat spiels in front of it.
--FREAKS! That's rightytighty, ladeez and gentilemans! Real! Live! Freaks! Not the cut-rate
varietals one finds down the shore! But the Real McCoy! Bearded ladies and tattooed men
and wild Borneo savages are best left to the amateurs! Within the folds of this modest
tent we will reveal to you actual FREAKS of nature! Creatures that spurn the light of day!
Fearful, unnatural sports of fate that were never meant to be! Step up and step in, ladeez
and gentilemans! A show unlike any other! A spectacle! A horror show! A festival of
disgust and blood! Step! Right! Up!
Lydia comes alongside me.
I look at her.
--Can we leave now, or do we have to sit through this shit?
Apparently we have to sit through this shit.
--Ladeez and gentilemans!
I spill the last unpopped kernels from the red and white striped popcorn box into my mouth
and crunch them.
--Know what would make this better?
--Never before on any stage at any time have you witnessed an appetite like the appetite
ofÉThe Glasseater!
Lydia is staring through the torch-lit gloom to the tiny stage where the MC gives the
tails of his
The first part has its appeal.
The rest of it? Ask me, there's probably nothing out there worth seeing. Nothing better
than a dying girl with no hair.
The bridge slips away and we're on Leif Erikson Drive. The ocean on our right. I look at
it. I've never seen it from this close.
Lydia stares.
--I flew over it. I flew over the whole damn thing. Twice. Imagine. And I'll never do it
again.
She leans her forehead against her window.
--Fucking Vyrus.
I glance at her.
--Still talking to Sela?
The muscles in the back of her neck jump.
--Sometimes. She's Coalition now, but she's still a friend.
I look at the road, arcing onto Shore Parkway, away from the water.
--She's fucking the girl.
She turns from the window.
--I know.
I fish a smoke from my pocket.
She looks at the map in her lap, points.
--Cropsey Ave.
I take the exit. Neither of us talks. We hit a red at Neptune and watch the people
draining away from the boardwalk where the rides are dark and the arcades are shutting
down and the drunks are puking on the sidewalk outside Nathan's.
She points again and I take a right on Surf.
She starts folding the map.
--Love doesn't have a reason.
I ignore that nonsense.
She doesn't.
--Sela and the girl feel something. You can't do anything about that. And it's none of your
business anyway.
I roll down toward Seagate and pull to a stop and park on Mermaid Ave., around the corner
from 37th and the ragged-ass end of the Riegelmann Boardwalk.
--Yeah, funny you should say that about it being none of my business.
I take out the big .44 and flip the cylinder and make sure I filled it with big
hollow-point bullets. I did.
--Because I've been thinking just those words for the last half a fucking hour.
Lydia points at the gun.
--Planning to use that, Joe?
I drop the revolver in my pocket and take out the hogleg and break it open.
--No plans, just hopes.
She opens her door and swings down.
--Do me a favor, keep it in your pants.
We walk down the sidewalk, windblown sand crunching under our feet. We make for the lights
flickering on the far side of the boardwalk.
She inhales sea air.
--Smells good.
I inhale smoke.
--Sure does.
We walk out on the boardwalk.
Lydia stops.
--She could change everything.
I stop.
She's looking out at the water, a big moon rippling on the waves.
--The girl, Joe. Sela says. Joe. She could change everything.
I drop my smoke and grind it under my heel.
--Don't talk crazy, Lydia. You're smarter than that.
And I walk away from her and look down at the canvas tent, painted black and speckled with
red gloss, that juts from beneath the edge of the boardwalk, pennants flapping from the
center pole, torches burning at the entrance, a big banner cracking in the wind as a tall
guy in a top hat and a tailcoat spiels in front of it.
--FREAKS! That's rightytighty, ladeez and gentilemans! Real! Live! Freaks! Not the cut-rate
varietals one finds down the shore! But the Real McCoy! Bearded ladies and tattooed men
and wild Borneo savages are best left to the amateurs! Within the folds of this modest
tent we will reveal to you actual FREAKS of nature! Creatures that spurn the light of day!
Fearful, unnatural sports of fate that were never meant to be! Step up and step in, ladeez
and gentilemans! A show unlike any other! A spectacle! A horror show! A festival of
disgust and blood! Step! Right! Up!
Lydia comes alongside me.
I look at her.
--Can we leave now, or do we have to sit through this shit?
Apparently we have to sit through this shit.
--Ladeez and gentilemans!
I spill the last unpopped kernels from the red and white striped popcorn box into my mouth
and crunch them.
--Know what would make this better?
--Never before on any stage at any time have you witnessed an appetite like the appetite
ofÉThe Glasseater!
Lydia is staring through the torch-lit gloom to the tiny stage where the MC gives the
tails of his
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