some
chico
in the sixth grade who wrote poetry.”
Her voice has dropped, there’s that light on her face (those killer cheekbones), and she’s fiddling with the napkin.
I ask, “Did you ever cry over a guy?”
She acts like I’d asked her to recite “The Raven” in Urdu. “Fuck, no. Did you ever cry over a girl?”
“Get serious. I never had a girlfriend to cry over.”
“And now you’ve got two.”
I reach for her silverware. “If you mean A.J., first of all, you said she was just curious about me, and you’re right. Second, no way would you let me call you my girlfriend.”
She looks toward the ceiling and pretends to be amazed. “From Mary Fivefingers — and that doesn’t really count — to two live girls. It’s like you won the lottery, Ben. Or at least got a second car. Except I’m the beater all corroded by the elements, and A.J.’s a Lexus.”
“You’re not a corroded beater.”
She tucks her head. “Well, I feel like one sometimes.”
She lets me smooth her hair and kiss her on dumb places like her shoulders and her nose before we settle in the den, where the big TV is. Barely bigger, actually, than the other ones in the house. My grandma is kind of a semi-Buddhist: she’s not attached to large things. So I don’t switch on some 102-inch, throbbing plasma, just a supercrisp 32-inch wide-screen LCD.
“What are we watching, baby?”
Baby.
It doesn’t mean anything. She probably called all her boyfriends
baby.
But I still love it.
I tell her, “It’s a surprise.”
I’ve seen
The Usual Suspects
a dozen times. It’s a terrific movie, but especially the opening: the dark water, the explosions, the shadowy figure, the guns.
After that, I watch Colleen watch. She’s totally absorbed, and that’s the expression I love: her mouth open a little while she tries to figure out what everybody else is trying to figure out — who is Keyser Söze?
We work our way through the lineup (that’s where the title comes from, which is ironic, because no way are those five guys the usual suspects), the slick robbery, the bungled one, all the way back to the burning ship. Then Verbal Klint, played by the amazing Kevin Spacey, exits the police station dragging one foot and favoring one arm, like he has in every frame until now. But a block away, suddenly he stands straighter and strides out. His left hand unclenches and he lights a cigarette with a gold lighter before he’s whisked away in a black Jaguar. The end. Roll credits. Bring up the lights.
Colleen bounces on the couch, she’s so jazzed. “Holy shit, Ben. No wonder you love this movie. You are Verbal Klint!”
“Except I’m not pretending to be crippled.”
“I’m not saying you don’t have C.P. I’m just saying, for years you fooled everybody into thinking you’re this total cipher. But you and I go to clubs, you made a movie and showed up at that gallery, and half the school knows who you are now.” She pats the cushion right beside her. “Get your disabled ass over here so I can drive you crazy with desire.”
But all we do is make out. A little. And that winds down fairly fast. I can tell Colleen’s not really into it. Or into me, maybe.
I ask her, “Everything okay?”
She stretches. Her long arms go straight up, and under the one right next to me is a couple of days’ worth of stubble. “I’m probably just tired,” she says. “I’m not used to all this.”
“What’s ‘all this’?”
“You know — a bathroom all my own, clean sheets, dinner and a movie. It kind of wears me out.” She gets to her feet so fast that, even though I’m sitting down, I still lose my balance and fall over on the couch. She says, “I’ll see you in the morning, kid.”
Three seconds later I’m all by myself, so it’s okay for me to roll off the couch, onto the floor, get on my knees, and eventually pull myself up. Not a pretty sight.
I’m barely in my bedroom before the phone rings, and it’s A.J.
“Is this too
chico
in the sixth grade who wrote poetry.”
Her voice has dropped, there’s that light on her face (those killer cheekbones), and she’s fiddling with the napkin.
I ask, “Did you ever cry over a guy?”
She acts like I’d asked her to recite “The Raven” in Urdu. “Fuck, no. Did you ever cry over a girl?”
“Get serious. I never had a girlfriend to cry over.”
“And now you’ve got two.”
I reach for her silverware. “If you mean A.J., first of all, you said she was just curious about me, and you’re right. Second, no way would you let me call you my girlfriend.”
She looks toward the ceiling and pretends to be amazed. “From Mary Fivefingers — and that doesn’t really count — to two live girls. It’s like you won the lottery, Ben. Or at least got a second car. Except I’m the beater all corroded by the elements, and A.J.’s a Lexus.”
“You’re not a corroded beater.”
She tucks her head. “Well, I feel like one sometimes.”
She lets me smooth her hair and kiss her on dumb places like her shoulders and her nose before we settle in the den, where the big TV is. Barely bigger, actually, than the other ones in the house. My grandma is kind of a semi-Buddhist: she’s not attached to large things. So I don’t switch on some 102-inch, throbbing plasma, just a supercrisp 32-inch wide-screen LCD.
“What are we watching, baby?”
Baby.
It doesn’t mean anything. She probably called all her boyfriends
baby.
But I still love it.
I tell her, “It’s a surprise.”
I’ve seen
The Usual Suspects
a dozen times. It’s a terrific movie, but especially the opening: the dark water, the explosions, the shadowy figure, the guns.
After that, I watch Colleen watch. She’s totally absorbed, and that’s the expression I love: her mouth open a little while she tries to figure out what everybody else is trying to figure out — who is Keyser Söze?
We work our way through the lineup (that’s where the title comes from, which is ironic, because no way are those five guys the usual suspects), the slick robbery, the bungled one, all the way back to the burning ship. Then Verbal Klint, played by the amazing Kevin Spacey, exits the police station dragging one foot and favoring one arm, like he has in every frame until now. But a block away, suddenly he stands straighter and strides out. His left hand unclenches and he lights a cigarette with a gold lighter before he’s whisked away in a black Jaguar. The end. Roll credits. Bring up the lights.
Colleen bounces on the couch, she’s so jazzed. “Holy shit, Ben. No wonder you love this movie. You are Verbal Klint!”
“Except I’m not pretending to be crippled.”
“I’m not saying you don’t have C.P. I’m just saying, for years you fooled everybody into thinking you’re this total cipher. But you and I go to clubs, you made a movie and showed up at that gallery, and half the school knows who you are now.” She pats the cushion right beside her. “Get your disabled ass over here so I can drive you crazy with desire.”
But all we do is make out. A little. And that winds down fairly fast. I can tell Colleen’s not really into it. Or into me, maybe.
I ask her, “Everything okay?”
She stretches. Her long arms go straight up, and under the one right next to me is a couple of days’ worth of stubble. “I’m probably just tired,” she says. “I’m not used to all this.”
“What’s ‘all this’?”
“You know — a bathroom all my own, clean sheets, dinner and a movie. It kind of wears me out.” She gets to her feet so fast that, even though I’m sitting down, I still lose my balance and fall over on the couch. She says, “I’ll see you in the morning, kid.”
Three seconds later I’m all by myself, so it’s okay for me to roll off the couch, onto the floor, get on my knees, and eventually pull myself up. Not a pretty sight.
I’m barely in my bedroom before the phone rings, and it’s A.J.
“Is this too
Similar Books
