up again in earnest, the woman seemed capable only of lying in bed and looking at the lighted people on the screen at her feet, and he, exhausted, not knowing what to do, so sick of it all you cannot imagine, unsure if he should leave or scream or what, sat down and watched with her.
They talked about the plots with the solemnity of idiot children trying to fit pieces into a dull brown puzzle. I hope they patch it up for the baby’s sake, they said to each other, although they knew there was no baby, only a piece of wrapped cloth. Would the hero have his say, would the other hero give some mother something or other? Don’t bet your last billion on it. Don’t get short in the pants over it. And when they’d watched all the ones on TV, he went out and got more for them to watch and when he couldn’t find any in the stores, he ordered more through the mail, downloaded them off the Net, and they, together in the bed, stared forward. They talked and talked and talked. Who knew if he still loved her, they said of some man who seemed to love or not love or love. Who knew if he could ever love again after what he’d been through.
I’m leaving, said Myers.
So am I, said another guy.
They were waiting at the hotel desk in Granada.
Yes, all that, walking in the rain, then the TV, then finally a fight, then another fight, then all the ones afterward, two years’ worth, then her wanting to leave and his not letting her, then her wanting to leave again and his not letting her again, then his leaving at last, then the taxi in Syracuse, then all those airplanes and the accumulation of grit in his guts, then the earthquake and being carted around like a corpse, then the hospital bill and being sent back to the hotel, the entire town on emergency hold, a nagging sensation in his soul, his crooked arm bent in and ribs wrapped, and finally Myers himself, skidding, coming to a stop, here at the hotel checkout, a smooth counter in the middle of the Americas, and Myers stood (or leaned, rather), waiting to pay his bill and go back the other way because he didn’t know what he wanted anymore but he knew it could not be here.
I’m going too, said the other guy. It was the guy from the other day, the one who didn’t want to go outdoors, here he was, again at reception, still trying to check in or out, still, it seemed to Myers, Nicaraguan.
All I wanted was a vacation, he said.
Tell me about it, said Myers.
They went on like that for a while. The man who was obviously a Nicaraguan said it was a fine-looking place but there were spots just like it in Florida with better facilities too. Myers said he’d heard that and that he wasn’t surprised, what with all the revolutions they had around here, what could one expect? Then the man who was obviously a Nicaraguan said he was amazed that they didn’t at least try to do something about the mosquitoes, which were the size of medium-sized dinosaurs , and Myers said, And you can ask about the live, smoking volcano too. Had he heard about that volcano billowing smoke, practically exploding all over everybody, and they didn’t even try to put it out? And the man who had to be a Nicaraguan said, The least they could do is clean the place up, clear away some of those wild plants. Put in some parks, lawn, rides.
Like an amusement park?
There you go. Tilt-a-Whirl. Coaster.
I hear you, said Myers. And what good is a place where a man can’t even check his email, with earthquake volunteers hogging the computers?
They could make a fortune on their beaches, the man said. Ocean front and back and they’ve got nothing like a proper beach—just sand and water and sky.
Want to see a beach? someone said. It was the desk clerk, her face an angry scrawl. She’d had just about enough from these two.
And the man who was a Nicaraguan and not admitting it said, Who wants to know?
You want a beach, go to Corn Island. One hour plane ride, the most beautiful island in the world. Water like glass.
Not
They talked about the plots with the solemnity of idiot children trying to fit pieces into a dull brown puzzle. I hope they patch it up for the baby’s sake, they said to each other, although they knew there was no baby, only a piece of wrapped cloth. Would the hero have his say, would the other hero give some mother something or other? Don’t bet your last billion on it. Don’t get short in the pants over it. And when they’d watched all the ones on TV, he went out and got more for them to watch and when he couldn’t find any in the stores, he ordered more through the mail, downloaded them off the Net, and they, together in the bed, stared forward. They talked and talked and talked. Who knew if he still loved her, they said of some man who seemed to love or not love or love. Who knew if he could ever love again after what he’d been through.
I’m leaving, said Myers.
So am I, said another guy.
They were waiting at the hotel desk in Granada.
Yes, all that, walking in the rain, then the TV, then finally a fight, then another fight, then all the ones afterward, two years’ worth, then her wanting to leave and his not letting her, then her wanting to leave again and his not letting her again, then his leaving at last, then the taxi in Syracuse, then all those airplanes and the accumulation of grit in his guts, then the earthquake and being carted around like a corpse, then the hospital bill and being sent back to the hotel, the entire town on emergency hold, a nagging sensation in his soul, his crooked arm bent in and ribs wrapped, and finally Myers himself, skidding, coming to a stop, here at the hotel checkout, a smooth counter in the middle of the Americas, and Myers stood (or leaned, rather), waiting to pay his bill and go back the other way because he didn’t know what he wanted anymore but he knew it could not be here.
I’m going too, said the other guy. It was the guy from the other day, the one who didn’t want to go outdoors, here he was, again at reception, still trying to check in or out, still, it seemed to Myers, Nicaraguan.
All I wanted was a vacation, he said.
Tell me about it, said Myers.
They went on like that for a while. The man who was obviously a Nicaraguan said it was a fine-looking place but there were spots just like it in Florida with better facilities too. Myers said he’d heard that and that he wasn’t surprised, what with all the revolutions they had around here, what could one expect? Then the man who was obviously a Nicaraguan said he was amazed that they didn’t at least try to do something about the mosquitoes, which were the size of medium-sized dinosaurs , and Myers said, And you can ask about the live, smoking volcano too. Had he heard about that volcano billowing smoke, practically exploding all over everybody, and they didn’t even try to put it out? And the man who had to be a Nicaraguan said, The least they could do is clean the place up, clear away some of those wild plants. Put in some parks, lawn, rides.
Like an amusement park?
There you go. Tilt-a-Whirl. Coaster.
I hear you, said Myers. And what good is a place where a man can’t even check his email, with earthquake volunteers hogging the computers?
They could make a fortune on their beaches, the man said. Ocean front and back and they’ve got nothing like a proper beach—just sand and water and sky.
Want to see a beach? someone said. It was the desk clerk, her face an angry scrawl. She’d had just about enough from these two.
And the man who was a Nicaraguan and not admitting it said, Who wants to know?
You want a beach, go to Corn Island. One hour plane ride, the most beautiful island in the world. Water like glass.
Not
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