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.Myers said.—Really we do.We are sorry, you understand.We truly are.Our kids will be heartsick if they don’t get to meet you folks, Alice Ann said.—Ralph, goddamn it, fix the fucking drinks.Really, not for us, Mr.Myers said.—Perhaps another time.We really have to be going.People are waiting for us.We are expected somewhere.At three or four o’clock in the fucking morning? Alice Ann said.—Don’t make me laugh.Our children are not at home, is that it, Ralph? Ralph, tell me where our children are at three or four fucking o’clock in the morning.Mr.Crawford.„.Mr.Myers said.Ralph to you, Alice Ann said.Somebody professional, Mr.Crawford, Mr.Myers said.—Somebody recommended.A good doctor.Did you know, Mr.and Mrs.Myers, that my husband, Mr.Crawford, is a famous author?Please, Alice Ann, Ralph said.—Please.Don’t be so modest, Mr.Crawford, Alice Ann said.—Haven’t you folks heard of Ralph Crawford, the famous author?Well, to tell you the truth, Mr.Myers said, I’m not very conversant with contemporary authors.A fact I am rather ashamed to admit, since I’m a professor of literature at San Jose State.My area of concern is the Victorian period.I am something of an Arnoldian, I must confess.He is very prominent in his field, Mrs.Myers said.I will make it a point to look up your work, however, Mr.Crawford, Mr.Myers said, and withdrew a small notebook from his coat pocket.—Perhaps you could give me some of the tides of your books.No, that’s all right, Ralph said.—Really.Just forget about it.I’d much rather that you forget everything about tonight, if you can.My husband, Mr.Crawford, won’t forget anything about this night, Alice Ann said.—My husband is probably making this into a story right now.Tell him the stories of your lives, Mr.and Mrs.Myers.Go on, I dare you.Well, it has been nice to meet you folks, Ralph said to the Myerses, who stood there frozen in an attitude of departure.—Even under these trying circumstances.Mrs.Myers, Alice Ann said, and raised a hand toward Mrs.Myers, I simply cannot tell you how much you remind me of my mother.She was beautiful and kind, as you are.I got my hair from her, and my voice.My mother would have looked exactly like you, Mrs.Myers, if her brain had not exploded, Alice Ann said, and picked up the empty half-pint bottle from the table.She shook it and looked at it in the light.I’m afraid that little baby is history, Ralph said.—To tell the sad truth, I don’t think there’s a drop of anything in the whole house for a nightcap.I don’t suppose you have a little drop of something with you, do you, Mr.Myers?When Mr.and Mrs.Myers turned hurriedly for the door, Mr.Myers stumbled over a scrambling cat.Alice Ann jumped up from the table and rushed after them.Let’s stay in touch, Alice Ann called from the doorway to the departing Myerses.Sea of Love1The Beach Chalet was a two-story Byzantine dream of a bar.Once a fabled watering hole for the wealthy, it was now an aging, once-grand Beaux Arts building on the curb of the Great Highway, with the Pacific Ocean as a view and inspiration for serious boozing.A vast cathedral of a gin joint, it was flooded with a smoky lyric light that left you with an illusion of flying buttresses and a floating cloudy dome of a ceiling dim and distant and rich with mysterious portents as meaningful for some as a Sistine Chapel, beneath which its generally lowlife but dedicated disciples could get truly religious about their drinking—graybeard biker types and their sagging bleached-blond babes; old salts nodding with nostalgia as they nursed the last, sad beers of their lives; fading, tattooed trollops tottering around the room, as they slow-danced in lonely self-hugs and awaited the second coming of desire.They all took turns plugging silver into an enormous Mexican folk altar of a jukebox packed with those sentimental, plaintive country tunes in which self-pity just comes natural, in which at the end of long suffering you get to be just who you have always suspected you are, the real star of the song.Jim gazed across the room, that smoky shadowland of sudden love and its attendant loss, to where Mary Mississippi was shooting pool with a tall, one-armed biker whose pure white hair hung in a ponytail nearly to his butt.Mary had taken off her motorcycle jacket, and each time she bent forward to shoot a ball her small, firm breasts pressed against the cotton of her sleeveless cut-off black T-shirt.Her hair was still damp from the rainy day outside, and its red ringlets were pasted around her shining penny of a face.As Mary took each studied shot, Jim looked with lust at the supple ripple of sleek muscle beneath the tanned, toned flesh of Mary’s arms.Her wide sea-green eyes had that show-me-something-I- haven’t-seen-before look in them, and when she raised a fist in the air after a very good shot, Jim could see a haze of red hair under her arm.Within that slant of autumnal ocean light in which she moved languidly around the table, Mary’s hair and flesh shed the soft glow of a sunset.The aging biker, who had your basic battered, been- around face and, Jim had to acknowledge, a true elegance of motion as he deftly handled the pool cue one-handed, was clearly entranced by Mary, and Jim knew the name of that song.Jim saw Mary touch the old biker fart on his shoulder when he made a poor shot, and she fluttered her fingers there as they spoke for a few moments, their heads inclined intimately.Mary poked the old biker in the ribs with a forefinger as she nodded her head against his chest and laughed at something wonderfully funny he said.After another game of pool, they strolled over to the jukebox together, Mary and the old biker fuck, and Mary stood with the side of her hip pressed against the old biker’s leg, while they took turns punching selections.When they began to slow-dance, the old biker bent forward so that his face was against Mary’s upturned face [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
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.Myers said.—Really we do.We are sorry, you understand.We truly are.Our kids will be heartsick if they don’t get to meet you folks, Alice Ann said.—Ralph, goddamn it, fix the fucking drinks.Really, not for us, Mr.Myers said.—Perhaps another time.We really have to be going.People are waiting for us.We are expected somewhere.At three or four o’clock in the fucking morning? Alice Ann said.—Don’t make me laugh.Our children are not at home, is that it, Ralph? Ralph, tell me where our children are at three or four fucking o’clock in the morning.Mr.Crawford.„.Mr.Myers said.Ralph to you, Alice Ann said.Somebody professional, Mr.Crawford, Mr.Myers said.—Somebody recommended.A good doctor.Did you know, Mr.and Mrs.Myers, that my husband, Mr.Crawford, is a famous author?Please, Alice Ann, Ralph said.—Please.Don’t be so modest, Mr.Crawford, Alice Ann said.—Haven’t you folks heard of Ralph Crawford, the famous author?Well, to tell you the truth, Mr.Myers said, I’m not very conversant with contemporary authors.A fact I am rather ashamed to admit, since I’m a professor of literature at San Jose State.My area of concern is the Victorian period.I am something of an Arnoldian, I must confess.He is very prominent in his field, Mrs.Myers said.I will make it a point to look up your work, however, Mr.Crawford, Mr.Myers said, and withdrew a small notebook from his coat pocket.—Perhaps you could give me some of the tides of your books.No, that’s all right, Ralph said.—Really.Just forget about it.I’d much rather that you forget everything about tonight, if you can.My husband, Mr.Crawford, won’t forget anything about this night, Alice Ann said.—My husband is probably making this into a story right now.Tell him the stories of your lives, Mr.and Mrs.Myers.Go on, I dare you.Well, it has been nice to meet you folks, Ralph said to the Myerses, who stood there frozen in an attitude of departure.—Even under these trying circumstances.Mrs.Myers, Alice Ann said, and raised a hand toward Mrs.Myers, I simply cannot tell you how much you remind me of my mother.She was beautiful and kind, as you are.I got my hair from her, and my voice.My mother would have looked exactly like you, Mrs.Myers, if her brain had not exploded, Alice Ann said, and picked up the empty half-pint bottle from the table.She shook it and looked at it in the light.I’m afraid that little baby is history, Ralph said.—To tell the sad truth, I don’t think there’s a drop of anything in the whole house for a nightcap.I don’t suppose you have a little drop of something with you, do you, Mr.Myers?When Mr.and Mrs.Myers turned hurriedly for the door, Mr.Myers stumbled over a scrambling cat.Alice Ann jumped up from the table and rushed after them.Let’s stay in touch, Alice Ann called from the doorway to the departing Myerses.Sea of Love1The Beach Chalet was a two-story Byzantine dream of a bar.Once a fabled watering hole for the wealthy, it was now an aging, once-grand Beaux Arts building on the curb of the Great Highway, with the Pacific Ocean as a view and inspiration for serious boozing.A vast cathedral of a gin joint, it was flooded with a smoky lyric light that left you with an illusion of flying buttresses and a floating cloudy dome of a ceiling dim and distant and rich with mysterious portents as meaningful for some as a Sistine Chapel, beneath which its generally lowlife but dedicated disciples could get truly religious about their drinking—graybeard biker types and their sagging bleached-blond babes; old salts nodding with nostalgia as they nursed the last, sad beers of their lives; fading, tattooed trollops tottering around the room, as they slow-danced in lonely self-hugs and awaited the second coming of desire.They all took turns plugging silver into an enormous Mexican folk altar of a jukebox packed with those sentimental, plaintive country tunes in which self-pity just comes natural, in which at the end of long suffering you get to be just who you have always suspected you are, the real star of the song.Jim gazed across the room, that smoky shadowland of sudden love and its attendant loss, to where Mary Mississippi was shooting pool with a tall, one-armed biker whose pure white hair hung in a ponytail nearly to his butt.Mary had taken off her motorcycle jacket, and each time she bent forward to shoot a ball her small, firm breasts pressed against the cotton of her sleeveless cut-off black T-shirt.Her hair was still damp from the rainy day outside, and its red ringlets were pasted around her shining penny of a face.As Mary took each studied shot, Jim looked with lust at the supple ripple of sleek muscle beneath the tanned, toned flesh of Mary’s arms.Her wide sea-green eyes had that show-me-something-I- haven’t-seen-before look in them, and when she raised a fist in the air after a very good shot, Jim could see a haze of red hair under her arm.Within that slant of autumnal ocean light in which she moved languidly around the table, Mary’s hair and flesh shed the soft glow of a sunset.The aging biker, who had your basic battered, been- around face and, Jim had to acknowledge, a true elegance of motion as he deftly handled the pool cue one-handed, was clearly entranced by Mary, and Jim knew the name of that song.Jim saw Mary touch the old biker fart on his shoulder when he made a poor shot, and she fluttered her fingers there as they spoke for a few moments, their heads inclined intimately.Mary poked the old biker in the ribs with a forefinger as she nodded her head against his chest and laughed at something wonderfully funny he said.After another game of pool, they strolled over to the jukebox together, Mary and the old biker fuck, and Mary stood with the side of her hip pressed against the old biker’s leg, while they took turns punching selections.When they began to slow-dance, the old biker bent forward so that his face was against Mary’s upturned face [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]