When the Nines Roll Over by David Benioff Page B

opened up his mouth and shined his big white Pennsylvania teeth at me. “Oh, Mackenzie. You walked right into that one.”
    I opened the red door and stepped inside. There were no pigeon cubbies, just a green sleeping bag, patched in places with electrical tape, unrolled on the bare wood flooring; a space heater, unplugged for the summer; a clock radio playing the Beatles; a blue milk crate stacked with paperbacks; an electric water-boiler; and a pyramid of instant ramen noodles in Styrofoam cups. The wires ran into a surge protector connected to a thick yellow extension cord that snaked down a neatly bored hole in the floor.
    â€œThe super sets me up with electric,” said Butchko, standing in the doorway behind me. We had to stoop to fit below the steeply canted ceiling. “Pretty good deal, I think.”
    â€œDon’t you get cold up here?” Even with the space heater at full blast, the coop could not be good shelter in the depths of winter.
    Butchko shrugged. “I don’t sleep here most nights, you know?”
    I picked a paperback off the top of the pile. The Selected Poetry of Robert Browning . I read a few lines then returned the book to its brothers. “There’s a toilet somewhere?”
    â€œDown in the basement. And a shower, too. If I need to pee I just go off the roof, see how far I can get. Here, look at this.” He ushered me out of the converted coop to the edge of the roof. We leaned against the parapet and looked at the brick wall of the building opposite us. “See the fire escape? I hit it the other day. What do you think, twenty feet across?”
    With my eyes I followed the ladders and landings of the fire escape down to the alley below, deserted save for a blue Dumpster overflowing with trash.
    â€œIt’s just rats down there anyway,” said Butchko. “They don’t mind a little pee. Or maybe they do, but screw ’em, they’re rats. And then, here, this is the best part. Come over here.”
    In the cool shadow of the water tower he grabbed a canteen off the tarpaper and began climbing the steel rungs welded onto one of the tower’s legs. I walked back into the sunlight to watch his ascent. At the upper lip of the tower he turned and waved to me, thirty feet below, before pulling himself over the edge and disappearing from view. A minute later he started climbing down. He jumped with five feet to go and hit his landing perfectly.
    â€œHere,” he said, offering me the canteen. I drank cold water.
    â€œThere’s a tap up there for the inspectors. They come twice a year and check things out, make sure there’s no bacteria or whatnot floating around.”
    I handed him back the canteen and watched him drink, watched his heavy Adam’s apple bob in his throat.
    â€œAre you ever going to tell me what the full-out shudders are?”
    Butchko grinned. “Come on, Mackenzie, you’ve been there.”
    â€œWhere?”
    He capped the canteen and laid it down in the shade of the tower. “The shudders are reality,” he said, and by the way he said it I knew he was quoting. “The shudders are the no-lie reality. Listen, women are very different from men.”
    â€œOh! Ah!”
    â€œWell, okay, it sounds obvious, but it’s important. For a man, sex is simple. He gets in and he gets off. But it’s not automatic for a woman.”
    It wasn’t automatic for me either, but I kept my mouth shut.
    â€œThe thing is, women are more sensitive than men. They don’t want to hurt our feelings.”
    â€œHa,” I countered.
    â€œIn general,” he said. “So they act, sometimes. They pretend. Now, for me, given my circumstances, it’s very important that I know exactly what works and what doesn’t. And I can’t rely on what she’s saying, or the groaning, the moaning, the breathing, none of that. Arching the back, curling the foot, biting the lip—none of that