tiger," he told the incurably unhappy baby.
When he was drunk, however, the ritual was more complicated. To an observer (of which there were none) it would not have been absolutely clear that John understood these photographs were not truly of his family. There would be no irony in his tone as he described his day to the black-and-white photo-, graph of the woman in front of the tree. He might sit in the chair across from her and lean forward with his legs apart in an effort to stay awake. He might doze for a minute, then half open his eyes with a muttered apology. He might say he had made a mistake in moving to this foreign city—it had seemed like a good idea in California, but now where else could he go? He would explain in grim detail how Scott had been an intolerable and intolerant figure for much of his youth, how Scott was disappointing him every day now and seemed to be enjoying it, then quickly laugh and do imitations of his editor or other people at the paper, trying to make her laugh, knowing it was only a photograph and yet still speaking to her as if a relationship existed, or perhaps just practicing for Emily. Hours might pass in which he slept in the chair and then he might awaken, some degree closer to sober, and as his eyes opened slowly and painfully, he would see her picture spotlit under the bedside lamp, just a few feet away from him in the darkness, like the end of a long journey just now in view, just a little farther on, and he would smile. 'Are you still awake?" he might ask in the intimate whisper of 3 A.M. lovers who half arise, warm and happy, to find they have been in someone's company during all those lost hours of sleep. And he would stumble to the still folded sofa bed.
The next mornings, none of this remained, no memory, no idea, no anger toward Scott, no warmth of having slept in another's company, only the tired ache and sour stomach, the dry gums and eyes and balled-up tissues, the warm
muuut i in
and suspect spring water in plastic bottles, the cracked porcelain of the ancient sink, the fruitless search for an interesting cable channel, the first cigarette on the balcony and the accompanying first thought about Emily.
JOHN HELD NOT o N E religious belief, was not a painfully closeted homosexual, boasted no particular physical deformities. Intelligent enough, interested in the world around him, not raised under any particular regime of antisexuality, not matrimony-mad, attracted to women in general and some women in particular, John Price was a virgin.
A healthy American male, born in 1966, navigated adolescence and coeducational college and reached July 1, 1990, age twenty-four, a virgin?
From well before puberty, from well before the first time he noticed a girl's distinctive shape and perfume, from well before his first horrifying playground misinformation about the pertinent mechanics, from well before his first pounding, merciless erection, which threatened to drain the blood from his brain until he passed out, John Price had liked to read.
An avid and precocious reader like his brother before him, from books he extracted pithy life lessons, which he kept in a small notebook, whose cover bore a picture of Willie Stargell, the charismatic captain and first baseman of the Pittsburgh Pirates. Opening in the sloppy printing of an eight-year-old, advancing to the cautious cursive of a ten-year-old, developing into the reckless swoops of a twelve-year-old trying to mimic his father's hand, and then arriving at the sloppy printing of a college freshman, John inscribed lessons such as:
age 8: avoid sea travel (Treasure Island)
age 9: as you get older, it's harder to have any fun (The Lion, the
Witch and the Wardrobe)
age 9: don't go looking for trouble (The Hobbit) age 10: it takes a lot of money to get out of trouble (The Count of
Monte Cristo) age 11: sometimes it's better to just leave well enough alone
When he was drunk, however, the ritual was more complicated. To an observer (of which there were none) it would not have been absolutely clear that John understood these photographs were not truly of his family. There would be no irony in his tone as he described his day to the black-and-white photo-, graph of the woman in front of the tree. He might sit in the chair across from her and lean forward with his legs apart in an effort to stay awake. He might doze for a minute, then half open his eyes with a muttered apology. He might say he had made a mistake in moving to this foreign city—it had seemed like a good idea in California, but now where else could he go? He would explain in grim detail how Scott had been an intolerable and intolerant figure for much of his youth, how Scott was disappointing him every day now and seemed to be enjoying it, then quickly laugh and do imitations of his editor or other people at the paper, trying to make her laugh, knowing it was only a photograph and yet still speaking to her as if a relationship existed, or perhaps just practicing for Emily. Hours might pass in which he slept in the chair and then he might awaken, some degree closer to sober, and as his eyes opened slowly and painfully, he would see her picture spotlit under the bedside lamp, just a few feet away from him in the darkness, like the end of a long journey just now in view, just a little farther on, and he would smile. 'Are you still awake?" he might ask in the intimate whisper of 3 A.M. lovers who half arise, warm and happy, to find they have been in someone's company during all those lost hours of sleep. And he would stumble to the still folded sofa bed.
The next mornings, none of this remained, no memory, no idea, no anger toward Scott, no warmth of having slept in another's company, only the tired ache and sour stomach, the dry gums and eyes and balled-up tissues, the warm
muuut i in
and suspect spring water in plastic bottles, the cracked porcelain of the ancient sink, the fruitless search for an interesting cable channel, the first cigarette on the balcony and the accompanying first thought about Emily.
JOHN HELD NOT o N E religious belief, was not a painfully closeted homosexual, boasted no particular physical deformities. Intelligent enough, interested in the world around him, not raised under any particular regime of antisexuality, not matrimony-mad, attracted to women in general and some women in particular, John Price was a virgin.
A healthy American male, born in 1966, navigated adolescence and coeducational college and reached July 1, 1990, age twenty-four, a virgin?
From well before puberty, from well before the first time he noticed a girl's distinctive shape and perfume, from well before his first horrifying playground misinformation about the pertinent mechanics, from well before his first pounding, merciless erection, which threatened to drain the blood from his brain until he passed out, John Price had liked to read.
An avid and precocious reader like his brother before him, from books he extracted pithy life lessons, which he kept in a small notebook, whose cover bore a picture of Willie Stargell, the charismatic captain and first baseman of the Pittsburgh Pirates. Opening in the sloppy printing of an eight-year-old, advancing to the cautious cursive of a ten-year-old, developing into the reckless swoops of a twelve-year-old trying to mimic his father's hand, and then arriving at the sloppy printing of a college freshman, John inscribed lessons such as:
age 8: avoid sea travel (Treasure Island)
age 9: as you get older, it's harder to have any fun (The Lion, the
Witch and the Wardrobe)
age 9: don't go looking for trouble (The Hobbit) age 10: it takes a lot of money to get out of trouble (The Count of
Monte Cristo) age 11: sometimes it's better to just leave well enough alone
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