and left as a bloody mess for wild pigs to feed on.
He’s built an impressive portfolio of reasons for people to not only not miss him, but rejoice when he dies. Hell, they might throw a parade.
Fuckers.
Sure, a few criminals will miss his legal services, but fuck those guys. Really? That’s it, he thinks, that’s the sum of me?
Uncharacteristically, Remo hugs the man for an extended period of time, hoping maybe some of the old man’s good nature will rub off on him. Perhaps the proximity of good people will help. Can’t hurt.
But even the kind old man has his limits. “Could you please release me, son?”
Remo drifts out of the church, all eyes on him. No longer kind, understanding eyes, these are the eyes of men and women who have now joined the long list of people who don’t want anything to do with Remo. He wants to thank them, but we’re past that now. Remo slips out the door, making the long, lonely walk to his deluxe apartment in the sky.
22
There’s a song that rattles around in Remo’s head from time to time. He avoids it on his iPod when he’s sober. When he’s hammered he gives it a listen. By the time the last chords of the song fade away Remo’s usually in a puddle. It’s an obscure Pink Floyd song from one of their lesser-known albums, but Roger’s words cut right through Remo every damn time.
Through the fish-eyed lens of tear-stained eyes,
I can barely define the shape of this moment in time.
And far from flying high in clear blue skies,
I'm spiraling down to the hole in the ground where I hide.
There’s no chorus or catchy riff to speak of, but the lyrics continue…
There's a kid who had a big hallucination
Making love to girls in magazines
He wonders if you're sleeping with your new found faith.
Could anybody love him,
Or is it just a crazy dream?
The words that send Remo down for the count…
And if I show you my dark side
Will you still hold me tonight?
And if I open my heart to you
And show you my weak side
What would you do?
Would you sell your story to Rolling Stone?
Would you take the children away
And leave me alone?
And smile in reassurance
As you whisper down the phone?
Would you send me packing,
Or would you take me home?
23
Remo sits stone-faced in his apartment, ever-present glass of scotch in hand while seated at his long, empty dining room table. It’s imported from…somewhere. He remembers that someone referred him to a gay guy who hand-picked everything in the place. Nothing here has any real meaning or history, other than Remo’s memory of suffering through the gay guy’s presentation of his urban chic vision.
Remo’s set up a small video camera on a tripod on the far side of the table, lens pointed directly at him. A one-man press conference of sorts.
He looks long and hard into the camera’s lens, struggling to capture his thoughts before starting this little exercise. Maybe this was a bad idea.
No, it is a good idea. Great idea. Just fucking do it already.
He clears his throat, starts to address the camera. Stops for a snort of scotch. Coughs and clears his throat again.
S hakes his head hard side-to-side and then starts. “Boy . . . So n . . . Sean. You have no idea who I am, and that’s probably a good thing.” Thinks, goes with it. “I’m your dad.”
Takes a beat to let that sink in. Sounds funny for him to hear. No one ever talks to him about Sean, and God knows he never talks about Sean to anyone else. Well, aside from the goofy waitress. He can’t imagine what it will sound like to Sean.
Remo continues, “I set up a college fund for you, started it when you were born. Your mom doesn't know about it. You should go to school, drink . . . drink a lot. It'll assist in the realignment of your thinking about your old man.”
Sip of scotch.
“You should drink and get weird with a lot of girls. Everybody says that kind of behavior doesn't help; they're fucking idiots. It
He’s built an impressive portfolio of reasons for people to not only not miss him, but rejoice when he dies. Hell, they might throw a parade.
Fuckers.
Sure, a few criminals will miss his legal services, but fuck those guys. Really? That’s it, he thinks, that’s the sum of me?
Uncharacteristically, Remo hugs the man for an extended period of time, hoping maybe some of the old man’s good nature will rub off on him. Perhaps the proximity of good people will help. Can’t hurt.
But even the kind old man has his limits. “Could you please release me, son?”
Remo drifts out of the church, all eyes on him. No longer kind, understanding eyes, these are the eyes of men and women who have now joined the long list of people who don’t want anything to do with Remo. He wants to thank them, but we’re past that now. Remo slips out the door, making the long, lonely walk to his deluxe apartment in the sky.
22
There’s a song that rattles around in Remo’s head from time to time. He avoids it on his iPod when he’s sober. When he’s hammered he gives it a listen. By the time the last chords of the song fade away Remo’s usually in a puddle. It’s an obscure Pink Floyd song from one of their lesser-known albums, but Roger’s words cut right through Remo every damn time.
Through the fish-eyed lens of tear-stained eyes,
I can barely define the shape of this moment in time.
And far from flying high in clear blue skies,
I'm spiraling down to the hole in the ground where I hide.
There’s no chorus or catchy riff to speak of, but the lyrics continue…
There's a kid who had a big hallucination
Making love to girls in magazines
He wonders if you're sleeping with your new found faith.
Could anybody love him,
Or is it just a crazy dream?
The words that send Remo down for the count…
And if I show you my dark side
Will you still hold me tonight?
And if I open my heart to you
And show you my weak side
What would you do?
Would you sell your story to Rolling Stone?
Would you take the children away
And leave me alone?
And smile in reassurance
As you whisper down the phone?
Would you send me packing,
Or would you take me home?
23
Remo sits stone-faced in his apartment, ever-present glass of scotch in hand while seated at his long, empty dining room table. It’s imported from…somewhere. He remembers that someone referred him to a gay guy who hand-picked everything in the place. Nothing here has any real meaning or history, other than Remo’s memory of suffering through the gay guy’s presentation of his urban chic vision.
Remo’s set up a small video camera on a tripod on the far side of the table, lens pointed directly at him. A one-man press conference of sorts.
He looks long and hard into the camera’s lens, struggling to capture his thoughts before starting this little exercise. Maybe this was a bad idea.
No, it is a good idea. Great idea. Just fucking do it already.
He clears his throat, starts to address the camera. Stops for a snort of scotch. Coughs and clears his throat again.
S hakes his head hard side-to-side and then starts. “Boy . . . So n . . . Sean. You have no idea who I am, and that’s probably a good thing.” Thinks, goes with it. “I’m your dad.”
Takes a beat to let that sink in. Sounds funny for him to hear. No one ever talks to him about Sean, and God knows he never talks about Sean to anyone else. Well, aside from the goofy waitress. He can’t imagine what it will sound like to Sean.
Remo continues, “I set up a college fund for you, started it when you were born. Your mom doesn't know about it. You should go to school, drink . . . drink a lot. It'll assist in the realignment of your thinking about your old man.”
Sip of scotch.
“You should drink and get weird with a lot of girls. Everybody says that kind of behavior doesn't help; they're fucking idiots. It
Similar Books
