Round Rock by Michelle Huneven Page B

clearly then, the solar system was an atom in something unimaginably vast. For some reason, I located the sun and its orbiting planets in the thigh of a giant clown, a clown that looked exactly like a stuffed toy I owned: soft red velour body and a maniacally grinning hard plastic face.
    Sanity he defined as “not letting people or stuff bug me. Having equanimity, concentration, clarity. Minimal self-deceit of mind andbody. Good instincts. Feeling comfortable being alive.
Wanting
to be alive.”
    “A LL RIGHT ,” Red said when Lewis read him this writing. “Now, using your own definitions, can you believe that a power greater than yourself can
restore
you to sanity?”
    “Aha! A trick!” said Lewis. Could the worship of wrinkled green hills encourage flexibility of mind and body? Would the knowledge that he was imbedded in some giant, antic thigh give him equanimity, clarity, and ease in his daily life?
    “H OW MUCH time do you have now, Lewis?”
    They were in Red’s old truck, en route to the Blue House for dinner on a starry, moonless night. There had been rumors of a freak late frost, and men were lighting smudge pots in the groves.
    Lewis hesitated. Every time he answered this question, something was denied him. “Twenty-four days.”
    “Great! And what are your plans after you leave?”
    Hang in coffeeshops, read books, get laid. “Go home. Find a job.”
    “And where’s home, again?”
    “I’ll stay with my philosophy prof in Westwood.”
    “In the garage?”
    Lewis shrugged. The cold slab, he had to admit, had limited appeal.
    “Would you consider staying on here? I could offer you a full-time job, with benefits.”
    Very flattering. A small triumph, even. He, Lewis, had charmed Mr. Detachment, had been singled out, chosen. Nice to know he could still pull it off. Still, the answer was definitely no. Stay in this depressing backwater joint stocked with sad, boring men? No way. “I already told my prof I’m coming back.”
    “You don’t have to decide this very moment,” said Red. “Think about it, and let me know.”
    S TAN, THE gentle, gray-eyed Round Rock shrink, conducted Lewis’s exit interview on a bright sun porch in the back of the mansion.He read questions off a form and took notes as Lewis talked. “Did you work with a sponsor?”
    “Nope. I don’t buy the whole sponsor-sponsee deal. It infantilizes grown men.”
    “I see. And will you continue to attend AA meetings?”
    Probably, thought Lewis, but why give Stan any satisfaction? “I don’t know. Maybe.”
    Stan wrote intently. “Do you feel comfortable with your sobriety?”
    “ ‘Comfortable’ isn’t a word I would use, no. I’m
interested
in sobriety. Does that count?”
    “Absolutely. Interest is a very important motivator. Now, what did you like best about Round Rock?”
    “The architecture. I mean, when will I have another opportunity to live in a place like this? And I always wanted to live on a citrus ranch. I grew up in the San Fernando Valley and watched the last groves bulldozed for tract housing. Killed me.”
    “There’s something to be said for geographic affinity, all right. And what didn’t you like about Round Rock?”
    “Don’t get me started. No. It’s a cool place. But I didn’t like being coerced into coming here. And it would’ve been a lot easier if I could’ve run to town for parts. And I didn’t like having a roommate, not one who snored. And there was too much meat at every meal. Who
is
Ernie Tola, anyway? He’s not a very good cook, like sub-short order. And that fakey beard. I told you, don’t get me started. And I hated visitors’ day—all those strangers milling around looking at you like you’re a zoo exhibit.”
    “Did you have any visitors?”
    “No.”
    “Did you invite anyone to visit you?”
    “My mother.”
    “She didn’t come?”
    “No, but she sent a note and some money.”
    “You must’ve been disappointed.”
    “Par for the course.” The note had said,