listen," hulking diffidence, "you doin' anything tonight?"
"No, and I don't really feel like doing anything either, Randy, all right?" Suddenly I was angry, mad enough to show it. Sorry We're Closed, no sideshow tonight. "I feel like shit and my fucking hand hurts and all I want to do is go home and take a shit and go to bed, okay? Is that okay with you?"
In the following silence my anger shriveled. I looked away, out the window into the ten o'clock dark, shifting wind but not as black as it gets, no. He pulled you out of the Funhole, you dumb ungrateful piece of shit, remember? Sat by you and watched you puke. Talk about only a mother.
"Hey." I turned back, wanted to put out my hand but, embarrassed, couldn't decide which one—there's a unique dilemma for you—and settled for a stupid shrug. "I'm, I'm just—shook-up. If you want to stop by later, come on ahead."
"No big deal," he said. No smile, but not pissed either. "I wanted to check on Dead End mostly."
Oh yes, that's right, the art they said I melted. By my fiery touch. Shit. "Sure." I felt so incredibly tired all of a sudden. "Listen, I don't mean to be a prick. I just—"
"Don't worry about it," with a great and sudden gravity. "If all this shit was happening to me, I'd be plenty worried about it too."
Whatever else he said lost me, but those words went all the way home, in the flat and sitting in the dark and thinking, thinking. Worried, yeah. A simple idea but a good one. I thought of myself weeping to Nakota, loose-mouthed and sloppy and sick looking, and I was swept with a
feeling of self-disgust so intense that I had to leave ray chair, stand and pace it away, away. But it wouldn't go away. So I did.
4
She owed me a favor, this woman, I had almost forgotten her name but I still had her phone number. We had lived in the same building once, years ago, never lovers but fairly good friends; she liked to go to movies and drink beer and in those days I liked to do those things too, so we got along pretty well. I had once loaned her money to get her car out of a police pound; whether she had paid me back or not was a moot point. On the phone her voice was friendly but not too, which was exactly what I wanted.
"Can I stay at your place for a little while?" I said. I had the bottom of the phone balanced against my hip, at my feet half a ripped gym bag already packed, I was that sure.
"How long," Nora, her name was Nora, "did you want to stay?"
"Not long. Week, maybe."
"Still remember how to get here?"
"Better give me directions."
My car was making a fairly suspicious coughing sound—I don't know shit about cars, so every unknown sound it ever made had the power to spook me—but it was a clear night, extremely cold, and I was making pretty good time away from the city; maybe I could get to Nora's before it died.
She lived out past the 'burbs, not real country, or "rural" as Nakota always called it in her sneering way, but far enough so there was a kind of space around things; that was what I was hunting. Get far enough away from everything and maybe I could get away from myself, too. Maybe. Because otherwise there would have to be another kind of running, yeah; don't think about it now. Windshield wipers, monotonous back-and-forth, my radio the victim of random static. Driving through an immense quiet. Just don't think about it now.
I had left a note for Randy stuck in my door, advising him that Nakota, Shrike had a key, and at any rate the other door was always open, the Funhole was nothing if not twenty-four hours. "Good luck with your art," I had added at the bottom, then felt silly, but I didn't have time to write another note, so I left it there. I didn't add anything for Nakota.
The drive took a little over two hours, the last ten minutes puzzling out my way; Nora's directions were spotty and memory was worse, but I saw a place I did remember, kind of a makeshift rifle-and-archery range, the pale circles of the targets visible in my headlights
"No, and I don't really feel like doing anything either, Randy, all right?" Suddenly I was angry, mad enough to show it. Sorry We're Closed, no sideshow tonight. "I feel like shit and my fucking hand hurts and all I want to do is go home and take a shit and go to bed, okay? Is that okay with you?"
In the following silence my anger shriveled. I looked away, out the window into the ten o'clock dark, shifting wind but not as black as it gets, no. He pulled you out of the Funhole, you dumb ungrateful piece of shit, remember? Sat by you and watched you puke. Talk about only a mother.
"Hey." I turned back, wanted to put out my hand but, embarrassed, couldn't decide which one—there's a unique dilemma for you—and settled for a stupid shrug. "I'm, I'm just—shook-up. If you want to stop by later, come on ahead."
"No big deal," he said. No smile, but not pissed either. "I wanted to check on Dead End mostly."
Oh yes, that's right, the art they said I melted. By my fiery touch. Shit. "Sure." I felt so incredibly tired all of a sudden. "Listen, I don't mean to be a prick. I just—"
"Don't worry about it," with a great and sudden gravity. "If all this shit was happening to me, I'd be plenty worried about it too."
Whatever else he said lost me, but those words went all the way home, in the flat and sitting in the dark and thinking, thinking. Worried, yeah. A simple idea but a good one. I thought of myself weeping to Nakota, loose-mouthed and sloppy and sick looking, and I was swept with a
feeling of self-disgust so intense that I had to leave ray chair, stand and pace it away, away. But it wouldn't go away. So I did.
4
She owed me a favor, this woman, I had almost forgotten her name but I still had her phone number. We had lived in the same building once, years ago, never lovers but fairly good friends; she liked to go to movies and drink beer and in those days I liked to do those things too, so we got along pretty well. I had once loaned her money to get her car out of a police pound; whether she had paid me back or not was a moot point. On the phone her voice was friendly but not too, which was exactly what I wanted.
"Can I stay at your place for a little while?" I said. I had the bottom of the phone balanced against my hip, at my feet half a ripped gym bag already packed, I was that sure.
"How long," Nora, her name was Nora, "did you want to stay?"
"Not long. Week, maybe."
"Still remember how to get here?"
"Better give me directions."
My car was making a fairly suspicious coughing sound—I don't know shit about cars, so every unknown sound it ever made had the power to spook me—but it was a clear night, extremely cold, and I was making pretty good time away from the city; maybe I could get to Nora's before it died.
She lived out past the 'burbs, not real country, or "rural" as Nakota always called it in her sneering way, but far enough so there was a kind of space around things; that was what I was hunting. Get far enough away from everything and maybe I could get away from myself, too. Maybe. Because otherwise there would have to be another kind of running, yeah; don't think about it now. Windshield wipers, monotonous back-and-forth, my radio the victim of random static. Driving through an immense quiet. Just don't think about it now.
I had left a note for Randy stuck in my door, advising him that Nakota, Shrike had a key, and at any rate the other door was always open, the Funhole was nothing if not twenty-four hours. "Good luck with your art," I had added at the bottom, then felt silly, but I didn't have time to write another note, so I left it there. I didn't add anything for Nakota.
The drive took a little over two hours, the last ten minutes puzzling out my way; Nora's directions were spotty and memory was worse, but I saw a place I did remember, kind of a makeshift rifle-and-archery range, the pale circles of the targets visible in my headlights
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