the minute he laid eyes on her. He said the reason she spelt her name like that was because she’d had her old name changed to give her what she called balanced energy.
“I think it worked,” he said. “She can walk a high wire, no problem. My problem is that my energy is about as haywire as a fence after a bull’s ploughed through it. I only met her about six months ago and three months ago I asked her to marry me, which spooked her some, I guess, because the next thing I know she’s talking about going to India with this friend of hers.” He stared up at the sky for a minute. The sun was down and the mountains had pink-tinged shadows.
“Well, the thought of not seeing her for six months made
65
me a little nuts, I guess, so I casually invited myself along on the trip and they were too polite to tell me to go to hell.”
He picked up a flat stone and threw it across the water; it skipped about twelve times. “I’m not the brightest guy in the world,” he said. “I should’ve read between the lines. But we all have our blind spots, don’t we?” He looked at me.
“Yeah,” I said. “We do. I’ve got lots of them.”
He asked what kind, and I said, oh, the usual ones, when it comes to women, and then we decided it might be smart to head it back to the bus, we didn’t know which campground we were staying at.
It was a nice campground, lots of trees, right by the river. But Innsbruck is high in the mountains. That night it got cold enough to freeze the nipples off a grease monkey.
Rockstar didn’t have much of a sleeping bag and he kept getting up all through the night and dancing around to keep warm. Once he stepped on my face. I told him to watch it, asshole. Not thinking straight at all.
Rockstar took out that steel-tipped pen of Jenkins’s and stuck it under my throat and said, “What’s that you say, Muck-hole?”
I said, “Nothing, Rockstar. Just giving you an eight out of ten on your jive rhythm, that’s all.”
Rockstar gave my throat a little nick, enough to draw blood, and let out a little hyena chortle.
I didn’t get a whole lot of sleep that night.
I spent most of it talking to Dave. Asking him about Rockstar. He told me Rockstar had a very unbalanced personality.
And can you blame him, he said, with a last name like Sodomlak?
I said no, maybe not.
And can you blame him, said Dave, given that his mother used to iron his shirts with him inside them?
I said well, yeah, that could knock a brain for a loop.
And can you blame him, he said, given that his mother chopped off one of his testicles when he was seven years old after she caught him playing with himself?
I said you’re kidding.
He said nope, scout’s honour.
I said so that’s why he wanted to talk to Suzie about her
66
work as a sex surrogate.
Well, Dave said, he wanted to talk to her about it. But he never got around to doing it. All he did was ask her for a kiss and she told him she’d think about it.
And so I asked Dave, not for the first time, what went down between Suzie and me, that first night of the trip.
But Dave likes to play games with me. He gave me the same answer he gave me before when I asked. He promised me I’d find out eventually, and then he hung up.
I love to pick at scabs, and the next morning I had a nice little scab on my neck to pick at, on the way to Venice.
I remember Venice real well. Venice was where I met Kelly Winter.
Tim deLuca’s daybook entry
October 16 th
I look behind me, as we head toward the Italian Alps, and see white wine bottles on the tables, the bottles that Patrick bought to aid his digestion. I see people playing cards. I look out the window and see more of those marble crosses, marking the places where people have died on their way to see lovers and wives.
The acrid scent of vomit still hangs in the air about one’s head and idle smoke rings still swirl and dance down the aisle and the weight of yesterday morning’s beer pancakes still sits like tire
“I think it worked,” he said. “She can walk a high wire, no problem. My problem is that my energy is about as haywire as a fence after a bull’s ploughed through it. I only met her about six months ago and three months ago I asked her to marry me, which spooked her some, I guess, because the next thing I know she’s talking about going to India with this friend of hers.” He stared up at the sky for a minute. The sun was down and the mountains had pink-tinged shadows.
“Well, the thought of not seeing her for six months made
65
me a little nuts, I guess, so I casually invited myself along on the trip and they were too polite to tell me to go to hell.”
He picked up a flat stone and threw it across the water; it skipped about twelve times. “I’m not the brightest guy in the world,” he said. “I should’ve read between the lines. But we all have our blind spots, don’t we?” He looked at me.
“Yeah,” I said. “We do. I’ve got lots of them.”
He asked what kind, and I said, oh, the usual ones, when it comes to women, and then we decided it might be smart to head it back to the bus, we didn’t know which campground we were staying at.
It was a nice campground, lots of trees, right by the river. But Innsbruck is high in the mountains. That night it got cold enough to freeze the nipples off a grease monkey.
Rockstar didn’t have much of a sleeping bag and he kept getting up all through the night and dancing around to keep warm. Once he stepped on my face. I told him to watch it, asshole. Not thinking straight at all.
Rockstar took out that steel-tipped pen of Jenkins’s and stuck it under my throat and said, “What’s that you say, Muck-hole?”
I said, “Nothing, Rockstar. Just giving you an eight out of ten on your jive rhythm, that’s all.”
Rockstar gave my throat a little nick, enough to draw blood, and let out a little hyena chortle.
I didn’t get a whole lot of sleep that night.
I spent most of it talking to Dave. Asking him about Rockstar. He told me Rockstar had a very unbalanced personality.
And can you blame him, he said, with a last name like Sodomlak?
I said no, maybe not.
And can you blame him, said Dave, given that his mother used to iron his shirts with him inside them?
I said well, yeah, that could knock a brain for a loop.
And can you blame him, he said, given that his mother chopped off one of his testicles when he was seven years old after she caught him playing with himself?
I said you’re kidding.
He said nope, scout’s honour.
I said so that’s why he wanted to talk to Suzie about her
66
work as a sex surrogate.
Well, Dave said, he wanted to talk to her about it. But he never got around to doing it. All he did was ask her for a kiss and she told him she’d think about it.
And so I asked Dave, not for the first time, what went down between Suzie and me, that first night of the trip.
But Dave likes to play games with me. He gave me the same answer he gave me before when I asked. He promised me I’d find out eventually, and then he hung up.
I love to pick at scabs, and the next morning I had a nice little scab on my neck to pick at, on the way to Venice.
I remember Venice real well. Venice was where I met Kelly Winter.
Tim deLuca’s daybook entry
October 16 th
I look behind me, as we head toward the Italian Alps, and see white wine bottles on the tables, the bottles that Patrick bought to aid his digestion. I see people playing cards. I look out the window and see more of those marble crosses, marking the places where people have died on their way to see lovers and wives.
The acrid scent of vomit still hangs in the air about one’s head and idle smoke rings still swirl and dance down the aisle and the weight of yesterday morning’s beer pancakes still sits like tire
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