begins, “I got this real problem. My dad, he used to, like, come into my room. You know?”
“To kiss you goodnight?”
“Des, fucking grow up.”
“Oh.” When in doubt, go back to the tonic.
“I mean, he used to come into my room and get into the bed with me and do it to me. Okay?”
“It’s not okay,” I mumble.
“No, it’s not okay. And the thing of it is, like, I can’t help you with that.” She nods towards my bathrobe. “I even want to, in a way, but I just can’t.”
“Is that sort of thing common up on Toronto?”
“I don’t know. Probably. It’s not like my dad’s a real prick or anything, either. In a lot of ways he’s a pretty nice guy. But …” Claire shrugs. “I guess being a nice guy’s not what it used to be.”
“Oh, say,” I point out, “no need to worry. It has died. Wormy once more.” I curl my fingers and pound the keyboard hard, searching for ethereal polyphony, that place where logic and beauty intersect and the world makes a wonderful sense. I miss. “Why are you dressed so nicely?” I ask the alien Claire. “Are you going out?”
“Des.”
This is something new, this little undertone of annoyance that has bled into her voice.
“Yes?”
“Don’t you remember yesterday, there was a phone call? And it was your old friend Dewey Moore? And don’t you remember inviting him over for dinner tonight?”
“Company?”
“Absolutely.”
“Agh!” I blunder up from the piano bench and scurry under the covers. “Tell him I’m sick. Tell him I have trichomoniasis.”
“Desmond. He’s going to be here any time.”
“You can entertain him.”
“So now, we’re going to get dressed.”
“In clothes?”
“Yes, in clothes. Nice clothes.”
“None of them fit. Those are vestiges from the days when I approached normalcy, both physically and mentally.”
“I let these babies out.” She removes a pair of pants from the closet. “And,” she says, pulling out a shirt, “I figure you could get into this.”
“I don’t want to see Dewey Moore. He’s a born-again Christian and he wants to convert me.”
“Well, you’re the guy that invited him, Des. He just got married—”
“Again?”
“And you said, come on over for dinner. Which, by the way, I have cooked, and it took me a fuck of a long time, and it’s Bouillabaisse for god’s sake, and it’s not as if you can buy Bouillabaisse Helper in the grocery store. So are you getting dressed or are you pissing me off? Them’s the choices, babe.”
“Agh.”
“Quit going
agh.”
“It’s a sound I make when deeply distressed.”
“Where do you keep your gotchies?”
“How should I know?”
Claire buckles her hands on her hips, she glares at me. Then she marches over to the chest of drawers and bangs around for a bit. She finally comes up with a pair of underwear which has seen better days.
“Are you gonna put these on?” she demands.
“All right, all right. Give them to me.”
She tosses them hard, they hit my face. I drag my legs over the side of the bed and slowly draw on the underpants.
“Satisfied?” I ask.
“For fuck’s sake.” She tosses me my trousers. “Jump in.”
I pull them on. Amazingly, they fit. Claire flings a shirt at me. I stick my arms through and do up the buttons. Claire marches over and tucks the tail into my trousers.
“You look good,” she announces, appraising me.
“You lie, alien.”
Then the doorbell rings. Claire sticks a little finger at my face. “You say
agh
, Des, and so help me I’ll scream.”
“Company!”
“That’s right. We got company.”
“Say, though. I’ve just had an idea for the Whale Music. If you would excuse me for no more than twenty minutes—”
“Sure. And then four days later you’ll show up again.” Claire grabs a hairbrush, scrapes my scalp and beard. “Let’s go.” She turns. Perhaps one small and soothing major seventh chord. I spread my hand like an eagle’s talon, poise it over the
“To kiss you goodnight?”
“Des, fucking grow up.”
“Oh.” When in doubt, go back to the tonic.
“I mean, he used to come into my room and get into the bed with me and do it to me. Okay?”
“It’s not okay,” I mumble.
“No, it’s not okay. And the thing of it is, like, I can’t help you with that.” She nods towards my bathrobe. “I even want to, in a way, but I just can’t.”
“Is that sort of thing common up on Toronto?”
“I don’t know. Probably. It’s not like my dad’s a real prick or anything, either. In a lot of ways he’s a pretty nice guy. But …” Claire shrugs. “I guess being a nice guy’s not what it used to be.”
“Oh, say,” I point out, “no need to worry. It has died. Wormy once more.” I curl my fingers and pound the keyboard hard, searching for ethereal polyphony, that place where logic and beauty intersect and the world makes a wonderful sense. I miss. “Why are you dressed so nicely?” I ask the alien Claire. “Are you going out?”
“Des.”
This is something new, this little undertone of annoyance that has bled into her voice.
“Yes?”
“Don’t you remember yesterday, there was a phone call? And it was your old friend Dewey Moore? And don’t you remember inviting him over for dinner tonight?”
“Company?”
“Absolutely.”
“Agh!” I blunder up from the piano bench and scurry under the covers. “Tell him I’m sick. Tell him I have trichomoniasis.”
“Desmond. He’s going to be here any time.”
“You can entertain him.”
“So now, we’re going to get dressed.”
“In clothes?”
“Yes, in clothes. Nice clothes.”
“None of them fit. Those are vestiges from the days when I approached normalcy, both physically and mentally.”
“I let these babies out.” She removes a pair of pants from the closet. “And,” she says, pulling out a shirt, “I figure you could get into this.”
“I don’t want to see Dewey Moore. He’s a born-again Christian and he wants to convert me.”
“Well, you’re the guy that invited him, Des. He just got married—”
“Again?”
“And you said, come on over for dinner. Which, by the way, I have cooked, and it took me a fuck of a long time, and it’s Bouillabaisse for god’s sake, and it’s not as if you can buy Bouillabaisse Helper in the grocery store. So are you getting dressed or are you pissing me off? Them’s the choices, babe.”
“Agh.”
“Quit going
agh.”
“It’s a sound I make when deeply distressed.”
“Where do you keep your gotchies?”
“How should I know?”
Claire buckles her hands on her hips, she glares at me. Then she marches over to the chest of drawers and bangs around for a bit. She finally comes up with a pair of underwear which has seen better days.
“Are you gonna put these on?” she demands.
“All right, all right. Give them to me.”
She tosses them hard, they hit my face. I drag my legs over the side of the bed and slowly draw on the underpants.
“Satisfied?” I ask.
“For fuck’s sake.” She tosses me my trousers. “Jump in.”
I pull them on. Amazingly, they fit. Claire flings a shirt at me. I stick my arms through and do up the buttons. Claire marches over and tucks the tail into my trousers.
“You look good,” she announces, appraising me.
“You lie, alien.”
Then the doorbell rings. Claire sticks a little finger at my face. “You say
agh
, Des, and so help me I’ll scream.”
“Company!”
“That’s right. We got company.”
“Say, though. I’ve just had an idea for the Whale Music. If you would excuse me for no more than twenty minutes—”
“Sure. And then four days later you’ll show up again.” Claire grabs a hairbrush, scrapes my scalp and beard. “Let’s go.” She turns. Perhaps one small and soothing major seventh chord. I spread my hand like an eagle’s talon, poise it over the
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