and
"Easy Does It."
Duke crossed his legs, uncrossed them, crossed
them the other way, uncrossed them. Preston couldn't tell whether he sought
comfort or modesty, and he didn't much care, for he had locked his mind on to a
vision of a hand opening a freezer door and withdrawing a bottle of Stolichnaya
and pouring the gelid syrup into a tulip wineglass and swirling it around and
raising it to his lips and—
A commotion approached across the lobby. There
was no reason for Preston to assume that it would home in on him and
Duke, but he did. And it did.
It was a Hispanic behemoth, wearing sandals
hewn from truck tires, jeans so often washed in such virulent detergents that
they were flayed and gray, a black T-shirt whose mesh fabric strained against a
cylinder of suet and each of whose sleeves was rolled up around a package of
cigarettes, and enough tattoos to recount the entire history of the discovery
of the New World. All Preston could see of its head was a drooping Zapata
mustache, for the rest was enveloped in a haze of cigarette smoke.
It greeted everyone it passed: "Hey,
man!" "What's goin' down?" "How they hangin'?"
It stopped before the couch and proffered its
hand to Duke. On the extended arm Preston made out the legends "Born To Hang," "Fuck Death—I'll Take
Dishonor" and "The Only Living Abortion."
"Hey, man," it said, a cigarette
crushed between its front teeth. "Hector . . . junkie . . . lulu."
To Preston 's
amazement, Duke brightened. He held out his hand and allowed himself to be
yanked to his feet. “Duke,” he said. "DWI . . . lulu.''
Hector pumped Duke's hand, discarded it and
took Preston 's. His teak-colored eyes waited for Preston to speak, but Preston didn't know what to say. It was a foreign
language.
Duke rescued him. “His name's Hector. He's a
junkie. And he's like me, a lulu: He's here in lieu of going to jail."
“I see."
“You?" Hector said to Preston .
“Scott," Preston began. Then he stopped. He refused to say
the word “alcoholic." Or “rummy." Or “lush." He was not these
things. But what could he say? Social drinker? Hardly. Then a word occurred to
him, a word from his last connection to the real world.
“Juicer," he said.
Hector nodded. “Kinda name's Scott? First or
last?"
“First. Scott Preston."
“Poor WASP bastard. Parents who give their
kids two last names oughta have their balls cut off." Hector squashed his
cigarette in an ashtray, unrolled a sleeve and let a pack drop into his hand.
He offered a cigarette to Duke, who snatched
it and said, “I’m s'posed to quit."
Hector lit it for him with a denim-burnished
Zippo. “We're all s'posed to quit everything alla time. Piss on 'em. something's
gonna kill us. Might's well be something fun."
He offered one to Preston , who declined, then lit one for himself,
sucking so hard on the weed as the flame touched it that by the time he closed
the lighter, a third of the cigarette was ash.
Duke was smiling at the cigarette in his hand.
Color suffused his face, wiping away the wan and pasty look. “All right.” he
said.
“Okay, man," said Hector. “Let's
boogie."
Hector led the way down the corridor. Duke
shuffled behind in his paper slippers. Preston brought up the rear, carrying his suitcase.
The procession looked like a cartoon: the Pillsbury Doughboy leading a demented
invalid who was followed by a worried porter.
"Easy Does It."
Duke crossed his legs, uncrossed them, crossed
them the other way, uncrossed them. Preston couldn't tell whether he sought
comfort or modesty, and he didn't much care, for he had locked his mind on to a
vision of a hand opening a freezer door and withdrawing a bottle of Stolichnaya
and pouring the gelid syrup into a tulip wineglass and swirling it around and
raising it to his lips and—
A commotion approached across the lobby. There
was no reason for Preston to assume that it would home in on him and
Duke, but he did. And it did.
It was a Hispanic behemoth, wearing sandals
hewn from truck tires, jeans so often washed in such virulent detergents that
they were flayed and gray, a black T-shirt whose mesh fabric strained against a
cylinder of suet and each of whose sleeves was rolled up around a package of
cigarettes, and enough tattoos to recount the entire history of the discovery
of the New World. All Preston could see of its head was a drooping Zapata
mustache, for the rest was enveloped in a haze of cigarette smoke.
It greeted everyone it passed: "Hey,
man!" "What's goin' down?" "How they hangin'?"
It stopped before the couch and proffered its
hand to Duke. On the extended arm Preston made out the legends "Born To Hang," "Fuck Death—I'll Take
Dishonor" and "The Only Living Abortion."
"Hey, man," it said, a cigarette
crushed between its front teeth. "Hector . . . junkie . . . lulu."
To Preston 's
amazement, Duke brightened. He held out his hand and allowed himself to be
yanked to his feet. “Duke,” he said. "DWI . . . lulu.''
Hector pumped Duke's hand, discarded it and
took Preston 's. His teak-colored eyes waited for Preston to speak, but Preston didn't know what to say. It was a foreign
language.
Duke rescued him. “His name's Hector. He's a
junkie. And he's like me, a lulu: He's here in lieu of going to jail."
“I see."
“You?" Hector said to Preston .
“Scott," Preston began. Then he stopped. He refused to say
the word “alcoholic." Or “rummy." Or “lush." He was not these
things. But what could he say? Social drinker? Hardly. Then a word occurred to
him, a word from his last connection to the real world.
“Juicer," he said.
Hector nodded. “Kinda name's Scott? First or
last?"
“First. Scott Preston."
“Poor WASP bastard. Parents who give their
kids two last names oughta have their balls cut off." Hector squashed his
cigarette in an ashtray, unrolled a sleeve and let a pack drop into his hand.
He offered a cigarette to Duke, who snatched
it and said, “I’m s'posed to quit."
Hector lit it for him with a denim-burnished
Zippo. “We're all s'posed to quit everything alla time. Piss on 'em. something's
gonna kill us. Might's well be something fun."
He offered one to Preston , who declined, then lit one for himself,
sucking so hard on the weed as the flame touched it that by the time he closed
the lighter, a third of the cigarette was ash.
Duke was smiling at the cigarette in his hand.
Color suffused his face, wiping away the wan and pasty look. “All right.” he
said.
“Okay, man," said Hector. “Let's
boogie."
Hector led the way down the corridor. Duke
shuffled behind in his paper slippers. Preston brought up the rear, carrying his suitcase.
The procession looked like a cartoon: the Pillsbury Doughboy leading a demented
invalid who was followed by a worried porter.
Similar Books
