Elf started today.”
“Local?”
“Domestic midget search.” Leetower slides up on the intact side of Duncan’s hood. “No budget for anything else.”
“Fucking Anne. She never learns.”
“What’s the deal with casting in the Ukraine?” Kooch asks.
“Chernobyl meltdown in eighty-six.”
“Anne knows that place is a gold mine of birth defects.” Leetower sighs. “The next generation out of the gate got the full biological effect—like napalm babies.”
“The Vietnamese that cleans our office is a napalm baby,” Kooch tells them.
“I thought she was Filipina.”
“Nah, I was shitting you.” He smiles. “She’s Vietnamese. I told her Pops was an American GI so she’d show me her tits.”
Leetower knocks on the hood. “The mystery of the stain, solved.”
“Hold on. I’m not alone in the Asian fetish.” Kooch turns to Duncan. “I just noticed that picture of your wife.”
“What picture?”
“On your desk. Where you had her all dressed up like a chink?”
Duncan feels the skin tighten over his cheeks. “We’ve really got to work on your inside voice, Kooch.”
“No, I want to thank you.” He’s pulling a folded piece of paper out of his pocket. “You inspired me, Chief. My dad’s retirement party’s next week, bunch of vets are getting together.”
Leetower shakes his head. “Not another subscription to
Interracial Spanking?”
Kooch ignores him. “The guys want me to do a speech. But I’m aiming to go with a narrative.”
“That’s real ambitious for an illiterate fuck.”
“Okay. This is about his first tour in ’68, right after Tet.” Kooch clears his throat.
When he first went to Nam, Stanford—
that’s his name
—Stan said to himself, “This is gonna be a piece of piss.” The hard line of his jaw was enough to make the slants cross the street when they saw him coming. He had a quick fuse and a proclivity for small women; a sweet tooth easily indulged in that Southeast Asian armpit. The females, when willing, were all paperclip frames hung with floral print silks and gloves. Unwilling, their voices were shrill, nearly optic. Once, a village of farm women surrounded him and a couple boys, trying to stall their inspection for hidden munitions. Like being swarmed by a flock of sparrows; he had to waste a few to get his point across, shake them off his pant leg.
Kooch folds the page back up. “It’s not done yet.”
“Your mother’s dead, right?” Leetower slides off the hood.
Duncan stares at Kooch. His mouth is dry. There are several seconds that his mind slides off its central axis, free of inertia, untouched by traction. There in the parking garage, Duncan is as primed for the arrival of enlightenment as one can ever be prepared for an event precipitated by nothing.
“You’re a son of a bitch,” he says to Kooch. “But I think I love you.”
The corkboard in the lobby, community administered and partially ravaged, stands defenseless long enough for Lily to remove a sign-up sheet posted by concerned Osterhagenians. The party assembling on Wednesday will search around Bard College for the Sovereign of the Deep Wood. Today is Wednesday. Lily folds the sheet carefully and walks toward the stacks. She tries telling herself that besides the handful that gathered last week, the boar is of limited interest to anyone. She’s done a little research, knows that in ecological terms, feral swine are an invasive species, environmental hazards. Even the forests of folklore were studdedwith pigs who terrorized pilgrims and charged cattle. But despite what she’s read, it’s evident that people love the thing; the beast’s ugly snout is posted on every bulletin board in the library.
Lily finds herself scanning the stacks for Lloyd. While she knows encouraging a friendship with a pervert is not the brightest idea, she can’t help but be drawn by his mastery of logic. Putting aside the content, she’s left admiring his ability to reason through his
“Local?”
“Domestic midget search.” Leetower slides up on the intact side of Duncan’s hood. “No budget for anything else.”
“Fucking Anne. She never learns.”
“What’s the deal with casting in the Ukraine?” Kooch asks.
“Chernobyl meltdown in eighty-six.”
“Anne knows that place is a gold mine of birth defects.” Leetower sighs. “The next generation out of the gate got the full biological effect—like napalm babies.”
“The Vietnamese that cleans our office is a napalm baby,” Kooch tells them.
“I thought she was Filipina.”
“Nah, I was shitting you.” He smiles. “She’s Vietnamese. I told her Pops was an American GI so she’d show me her tits.”
Leetower knocks on the hood. “The mystery of the stain, solved.”
“Hold on. I’m not alone in the Asian fetish.” Kooch turns to Duncan. “I just noticed that picture of your wife.”
“What picture?”
“On your desk. Where you had her all dressed up like a chink?”
Duncan feels the skin tighten over his cheeks. “We’ve really got to work on your inside voice, Kooch.”
“No, I want to thank you.” He’s pulling a folded piece of paper out of his pocket. “You inspired me, Chief. My dad’s retirement party’s next week, bunch of vets are getting together.”
Leetower shakes his head. “Not another subscription to
Interracial Spanking?”
Kooch ignores him. “The guys want me to do a speech. But I’m aiming to go with a narrative.”
“That’s real ambitious for an illiterate fuck.”
“Okay. This is about his first tour in ’68, right after Tet.” Kooch clears his throat.
When he first went to Nam, Stanford—
that’s his name
—Stan said to himself, “This is gonna be a piece of piss.” The hard line of his jaw was enough to make the slants cross the street when they saw him coming. He had a quick fuse and a proclivity for small women; a sweet tooth easily indulged in that Southeast Asian armpit. The females, when willing, were all paperclip frames hung with floral print silks and gloves. Unwilling, their voices were shrill, nearly optic. Once, a village of farm women surrounded him and a couple boys, trying to stall their inspection for hidden munitions. Like being swarmed by a flock of sparrows; he had to waste a few to get his point across, shake them off his pant leg.
Kooch folds the page back up. “It’s not done yet.”
“Your mother’s dead, right?” Leetower slides off the hood.
Duncan stares at Kooch. His mouth is dry. There are several seconds that his mind slides off its central axis, free of inertia, untouched by traction. There in the parking garage, Duncan is as primed for the arrival of enlightenment as one can ever be prepared for an event precipitated by nothing.
“You’re a son of a bitch,” he says to Kooch. “But I think I love you.”
The corkboard in the lobby, community administered and partially ravaged, stands defenseless long enough for Lily to remove a sign-up sheet posted by concerned Osterhagenians. The party assembling on Wednesday will search around Bard College for the Sovereign of the Deep Wood. Today is Wednesday. Lily folds the sheet carefully and walks toward the stacks. She tries telling herself that besides the handful that gathered last week, the boar is of limited interest to anyone. She’s done a little research, knows that in ecological terms, feral swine are an invasive species, environmental hazards. Even the forests of folklore were studdedwith pigs who terrorized pilgrims and charged cattle. But despite what she’s read, it’s evident that people love the thing; the beast’s ugly snout is posted on every bulletin board in the library.
Lily finds herself scanning the stacks for Lloyd. While she knows encouraging a friendship with a pervert is not the brightest idea, she can’t help but be drawn by his mastery of logic. Putting aside the content, she’s left admiring his ability to reason through his
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