into a different gear, Alan recast his plans. Why had he even come here? It had been folly to suppose he could tell this family that he wasn’t really William Burroughs. At this point the only winning strategy was, once again, the imitation game.
“What do you say I gnaw that bone myself,” said Alan, letting a latent William Burroughs accent take over his vocal cords. “It’s been a long, dry day. And to hell with the alligator. Sorry to come on so vaporous, folks. Did you say something about dry clothes?”
“What’s in the pillowcase?” asked Laura, wanting to be mollified.
“ Radio tubes,” said Alan, drawing out he words. He was getting the feel of Bill’s raspy, savory tone. “I’ve been fiddling with electronics. Learned the basics working in a repair shop over in Tangier.” He shot Mote a look, gauging the man’s reactions. “Maybe that’s why I wrote that wild letter. My roundabout way of saying that I might yet end up in a research lab. Not that I’d expect to waltz in no questions asked. But you’d be surprised how much I’ve picked up.”
“That’s what I like to hear,” said Mote. “A new leaf. Hope springs eternal.”
“Get your father some of Mote’s old clothes, Billy,” said Laura. “I have a bag for Goodwill in the extra bedroom.”
Billy ran partway up the stairs and waited for Alan to follow. “Did you really see an alligator, Dad?” he called down. “Sometimes they get washed down the rivers and end up in the ocean and crawl onshore. The salt water clouds their eyes. But they can rise up on their toes and run forty miles an hour. Could you wrestle an alligator, do you think?”
“The blind alligator scents his prey,” said Alan squinting his eyes and charging up the stairs. Billy squealed and fled. They thundered into the spare room. Alan found a lightweight black suit and a tattersall checked shirt, both a bit large, but comfortable enough.
The family gathered around a table in the kitchen and watched Alan eat from the remains of their New Year’s Day meal—black-eyed peas, kale, some very nice roast beef, and a chocolate pudding.
“Drink?” said Mote setting out a bottle of bourbon.
“Something non-alcoholic,” said Alan in the dry Burroughs tone. “I’m a new man, I tell you. We’ll raise a toast to 1955. Weren’t we supposed to have flying cars by now?”
“I want one,” put in Billy. “And a rocket ship.”
“We’ve got a statue of Mercury with winged feet in the store,” said Laura, pouring Alan a glass of Coca Cola. “Mote’s been buying up graven images from Mexico. A gamble.”
“They’ll sell this spring when people start thinking about their patios,” said Mote. He struck a classical pose, with his arms stretched to one side. “Gods and goddesses to rule your bathing beauties, your bartenders and your cane toads.”
“The neighbors had a toad as big as this,” said Billy, holding his hands wide apart. “They said his skin was poison. The gardener hacked him with a machete.”
“The toad used to make a noise like a squeaky wheel,” said Laura. “ Eep eep eep. All night. His doomed cry for love. Are you booked into a hotel, Bill?”
“I, ah, thought I might as well bunk here,” said Alan.
“That would be nice,” said Laura. “Instead of skulking off like a criminal.”
“Sometimes a blind alligator likes a private wallow,” said Alan, trying to lighten the mood.
“What brings you back to the States, my boy?” asked Mote. “Did you finish another book?”
“Not yet,” said Alan. He had inchoate memories of typed pages, dense with mad routines. “I’m organizing my material. Bringing my files into full disarray. I thought I might show excerpts to my friends and push into a literary magazine.” Names popped into his mind. “Allen Ginsberg can help. And maybe Jack Kerouac.”
“Where are they?” asked little Billy. “Mexico? Louisiana?”
“The scene’s in San Francisco right now,” said Alan,
“What do you say I gnaw that bone myself,” said Alan, letting a latent William Burroughs accent take over his vocal cords. “It’s been a long, dry day. And to hell with the alligator. Sorry to come on so vaporous, folks. Did you say something about dry clothes?”
“What’s in the pillowcase?” asked Laura, wanting to be mollified.
“ Radio tubes,” said Alan, drawing out he words. He was getting the feel of Bill’s raspy, savory tone. “I’ve been fiddling with electronics. Learned the basics working in a repair shop over in Tangier.” He shot Mote a look, gauging the man’s reactions. “Maybe that’s why I wrote that wild letter. My roundabout way of saying that I might yet end up in a research lab. Not that I’d expect to waltz in no questions asked. But you’d be surprised how much I’ve picked up.”
“That’s what I like to hear,” said Mote. “A new leaf. Hope springs eternal.”
“Get your father some of Mote’s old clothes, Billy,” said Laura. “I have a bag for Goodwill in the extra bedroom.”
Billy ran partway up the stairs and waited for Alan to follow. “Did you really see an alligator, Dad?” he called down. “Sometimes they get washed down the rivers and end up in the ocean and crawl onshore. The salt water clouds their eyes. But they can rise up on their toes and run forty miles an hour. Could you wrestle an alligator, do you think?”
“The blind alligator scents his prey,” said Alan squinting his eyes and charging up the stairs. Billy squealed and fled. They thundered into the spare room. Alan found a lightweight black suit and a tattersall checked shirt, both a bit large, but comfortable enough.
The family gathered around a table in the kitchen and watched Alan eat from the remains of their New Year’s Day meal—black-eyed peas, kale, some very nice roast beef, and a chocolate pudding.
“Drink?” said Mote setting out a bottle of bourbon.
“Something non-alcoholic,” said Alan in the dry Burroughs tone. “I’m a new man, I tell you. We’ll raise a toast to 1955. Weren’t we supposed to have flying cars by now?”
“I want one,” put in Billy. “And a rocket ship.”
“We’ve got a statue of Mercury with winged feet in the store,” said Laura, pouring Alan a glass of Coca Cola. “Mote’s been buying up graven images from Mexico. A gamble.”
“They’ll sell this spring when people start thinking about their patios,” said Mote. He struck a classical pose, with his arms stretched to one side. “Gods and goddesses to rule your bathing beauties, your bartenders and your cane toads.”
“The neighbors had a toad as big as this,” said Billy, holding his hands wide apart. “They said his skin was poison. The gardener hacked him with a machete.”
“The toad used to make a noise like a squeaky wheel,” said Laura. “ Eep eep eep. All night. His doomed cry for love. Are you booked into a hotel, Bill?”
“I, ah, thought I might as well bunk here,” said Alan.
“That would be nice,” said Laura. “Instead of skulking off like a criminal.”
“Sometimes a blind alligator likes a private wallow,” said Alan, trying to lighten the mood.
“What brings you back to the States, my boy?” asked Mote. “Did you finish another book?”
“Not yet,” said Alan. He had inchoate memories of typed pages, dense with mad routines. “I’m organizing my material. Bringing my files into full disarray. I thought I might show excerpts to my friends and push into a literary magazine.” Names popped into his mind. “Allen Ginsberg can help. And maybe Jack Kerouac.”
“Where are they?” asked little Billy. “Mexico? Louisiana?”
“The scene’s in San Francisco right now,” said Alan,
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