Next Door? “How come nobody ever says what a fox she is?”
“She’s a piece of work, all right.” Red carefully uncapped a coffee for Frank. “Let’s drink these down some before we start moving.”
“Major good looks,” said Lewis. “Hey, you ever go out with her?”
“Me?” Red chuckled. “I do business with her. That’s all I can handle.”
“But she’s single?”
“Oh, yeah. Lives with her dad and her son. Billie and the Bills.”
“And the husband?”
“Never was one, so far as I know.”
“So the kid?”
“An indiscretion in college.” Red took a long sip of coffee.
“Does she hit the bar first thing every morning?”
Red smiled. “No. Yolanda’s also serves breakfast. Great
huevos rancheros.
And Luis makes his own
chorizo.
Big write-up in the
Times
a while back.”
“Well, I could go for some
huevos rancheros
about now.”
Red appeared to consider this, then cranked the engine with a decisive roar. “Another day,” he said. “By the time we got Frank in and out of this truck, it’d be tomorrow.”
So it was back to the monastery, the brotherhood, the lousy food. Lewis leaned his head out the window into the moist, green breeze. The air now was almost warm. It would be spring in a few weeks, and today was a sneak preview. Outside of town, orange groves briefly gave way to lush hay fields. A coyote crossed one field at a diagonal, leaving a slash of darker green behind him. A hillside of flat-paddled cactus burst with waxy yellow blossoms. Bees swarmed around the flowers like electrons and hit the truck with little clacks, tiny explosions of honey on the windshield.
Lewis turned to Red. “Fat Judy’s?” he said.
“Don’t even ask,” said Red.
“B ILLIE F ITZGERALD? ” said Lee. “Yeah, I see her every day.”
“I think she’s stunning,” Lewis said.
“A frigid bitch,” said Gene, “is what she is.”
They were eating tuna casserole in the dining room. The two refrigerators quaked and hummed behind them like small cars idling in place. “You guys don’t know class when you see it,” said Lewis.
“She’s old,” said Lee. “And bossy.”
“And butch,” said Lawrence.
“And she never wears underwear,” said Gene.
“That’s bad?” asked Lewis. “And how would you know, anyway?”
“Oscar’s sister is her housekeeper and she’s never seen any women’s underwear in that house. Bras, panties, nothing.”
“Probably wears boxer shorts,” said Lee.
“I can’t believe what juveniles I’m sitting with.” Lewis shook his head. “What do you guys care about her
underwear
? Sometimes the level of discourse in this place makes me want to weep.”
“Jeez, Lewis,” Lee said. “You brought it up.”
E ARLY in the afternoons, once he had his fill of Gene’s mechanical fumblings and nonstop Raiders commentary, Lewis scrubbed down, walked to the office, and sat down in front of the computer. He didn’t have his notes, or access to a research library, or any real desire to work on his incompletes—he’d mentioned the paper for the conference only to spark Red’s interest—but Red had given him another assignment. Lewis was supposed to define a power greater than himself, and come up with his own definition of sanity.
The purpose of this, Red had explained to Lewis’s mortification, wasn’t to fill up some brochure, but simply to explicate the Twelve Steps of Alcoholics Anonymous, in this case Step 2: “Came to believe that a Power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity.” While Lewis had no yen to be brainwashed in AA dogma, after so many critical essays in graduate school he found it amusing, even gratifying, to write about himself for a change.
As an atheist, I have had no conception of a god or higher power. In my earliest childhood, however, I inexplicably thought of God as wrinkly green hills. Then my father drew diagrams of atoms and the solar system. I saw that the solar system closely resembled an atom;
“She’s a piece of work, all right.” Red carefully uncapped a coffee for Frank. “Let’s drink these down some before we start moving.”
“Major good looks,” said Lewis. “Hey, you ever go out with her?”
“Me?” Red chuckled. “I do business with her. That’s all I can handle.”
“But she’s single?”
“Oh, yeah. Lives with her dad and her son. Billie and the Bills.”
“And the husband?”
“Never was one, so far as I know.”
“So the kid?”
“An indiscretion in college.” Red took a long sip of coffee.
“Does she hit the bar first thing every morning?”
Red smiled. “No. Yolanda’s also serves breakfast. Great
huevos rancheros.
And Luis makes his own
chorizo.
Big write-up in the
Times
a while back.”
“Well, I could go for some
huevos rancheros
about now.”
Red appeared to consider this, then cranked the engine with a decisive roar. “Another day,” he said. “By the time we got Frank in and out of this truck, it’d be tomorrow.”
So it was back to the monastery, the brotherhood, the lousy food. Lewis leaned his head out the window into the moist, green breeze. The air now was almost warm. It would be spring in a few weeks, and today was a sneak preview. Outside of town, orange groves briefly gave way to lush hay fields. A coyote crossed one field at a diagonal, leaving a slash of darker green behind him. A hillside of flat-paddled cactus burst with waxy yellow blossoms. Bees swarmed around the flowers like electrons and hit the truck with little clacks, tiny explosions of honey on the windshield.
Lewis turned to Red. “Fat Judy’s?” he said.
“Don’t even ask,” said Red.
“B ILLIE F ITZGERALD? ” said Lee. “Yeah, I see her every day.”
“I think she’s stunning,” Lewis said.
“A frigid bitch,” said Gene, “is what she is.”
They were eating tuna casserole in the dining room. The two refrigerators quaked and hummed behind them like small cars idling in place. “You guys don’t know class when you see it,” said Lewis.
“She’s old,” said Lee. “And bossy.”
“And butch,” said Lawrence.
“And she never wears underwear,” said Gene.
“That’s bad?” asked Lewis. “And how would you know, anyway?”
“Oscar’s sister is her housekeeper and she’s never seen any women’s underwear in that house. Bras, panties, nothing.”
“Probably wears boxer shorts,” said Lee.
“I can’t believe what juveniles I’m sitting with.” Lewis shook his head. “What do you guys care about her
underwear
? Sometimes the level of discourse in this place makes me want to weep.”
“Jeez, Lewis,” Lee said. “You brought it up.”
E ARLY in the afternoons, once he had his fill of Gene’s mechanical fumblings and nonstop Raiders commentary, Lewis scrubbed down, walked to the office, and sat down in front of the computer. He didn’t have his notes, or access to a research library, or any real desire to work on his incompletes—he’d mentioned the paper for the conference only to spark Red’s interest—but Red had given him another assignment. Lewis was supposed to define a power greater than himself, and come up with his own definition of sanity.
The purpose of this, Red had explained to Lewis’s mortification, wasn’t to fill up some brochure, but simply to explicate the Twelve Steps of Alcoholics Anonymous, in this case Step 2: “Came to believe that a Power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity.” While Lewis had no yen to be brainwashed in AA dogma, after so many critical essays in graduate school he found it amusing, even gratifying, to write about himself for a change.
As an atheist, I have had no conception of a god or higher power. In my earliest childhood, however, I inexplicably thought of God as wrinkly green hills. Then my father drew diagrams of atoms and the solar system. I saw that the solar system closely resembled an atom;
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