he had not yet brought drugs to the dinner table or purchased a submachine gun.
And, as Lydia had promised, Mikhail cooked—scrambled eggs, hot dogs, cheeseburgers, tomato soup, chili. He didn’t cook well , but after a long day traipsing from EleRail station to EleRail station, Xavier was happy enough to eat what The Mick had prepared. Sometimes, though, he bullied him into presentable clothes and took him out for an expensive dinner.
Bari sometimes went too. Although The Mick used four-letter words as if they meant “great” or “Oh, rats,” he had a quick mind and plunged head-first into any conversation that didn’t depend on a knowledge of topics yet unstudied. The out-of-left-field quality of many of his insights compensated, almost, for the crudity of his tongue. Bari enjoyed these outings, and Xavier relaxed in the realization that playing uncle to The Mick would not necessarily put a crimp in their romance. Early on, though, he and The Mick had a major clash, and The Mick found the subterfuge that kept it from escalating into a permanent feud. Almost.
“I want to paint my room,” he said.
“Fine. What color?”
“Black. I want a cramped, funky black hole of Calcutta twenty stories up.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Why do you think that, Uncle Xave?”
“It sounds hideous. And if you do even a halfway decent job of it, it’ll be almost impossible to paint over later.”
“So I can’t do it?”
“No, you can’t.”
“So I’m a refugee in your backyard? Not like your real flesh-and-blood kin but a total nonperson gook squatter.”
“No, Mikhail. But this is still my place. I’ll have to live here even after you’ve left, and I don’t want a ‘cramped, funky black hole of Calcutta’ in my apartment.”
“Boy, you’re a proprietarial bastard, Uncle Xave. In Central America, you’d be a fucking fatcat landowner.”
“I’m the fucking fatcat landowner only of my own home, and you will not paint any part of it black.”
“Whoa. Sorry I ripped your cord.”
A week later, The Mick invited Xavier into his room, and Xavier was taken aback to find—even in the deliberate gloom—that the walls gleamed black. Plutonian black. Stygian black. Atop this black were black-light posters of rock stars, four-color posters of superheroes, and signs proclaiming no smoking unless your soul’s on fire, dare to eat a peach, and i see uc, you see uc, we all see uc, & the uc we see is good. All Xavier could see, though, was the black walls behind these cryptic tape-ups. He grabbed The Mick’s skinny arm.
“Hold your fucking ponies, Uncle Xave! Take a look, okay?”
Xavier looked. Mikhail had draped every wall with black linen, every one. He had bought king-sized white sheets, carried them across the river to a dyer’s shop, and had them stained the color of anthracite. All for less than three hundred bucks. Wasn’t that a bargain for totally redecorating a bedroom?
“What’s that smell?” Xavier said.
“The dye. My joss sticks. It’ll go away. No big deal.”
Xavier, sniffing, looked around. How to respond? Finally, he hugged his nephew. “Thank you, Mikhail.”
“For what?”
“Respecting my feelings. You show a nobler sensibility than I expected.”
“’Cause I’m a punk who’d, like, sniff dog vomit?”
Xavier waved at the walls. “In a sense, you have. Just look at what passes with you for interior design.”
“I do. All the time. That’s what I taped it all up for. If you don’t like it, just beat it for a while.”
Later, Xavier realized that The Mick had run him off for insulting his values. Still, he’d done the room to his own standards without breaking Xavier’s rule against painting it black: a small cause for celebration.
Except that it wasn’t. The smell in the room wasn’t dye or incense, it was a more familiar smell. One day while The Mick was at school, it drew Xavier in. He lifted the black linen drapery just inside the door. Behind it was more
And, as Lydia had promised, Mikhail cooked—scrambled eggs, hot dogs, cheeseburgers, tomato soup, chili. He didn’t cook well , but after a long day traipsing from EleRail station to EleRail station, Xavier was happy enough to eat what The Mick had prepared. Sometimes, though, he bullied him into presentable clothes and took him out for an expensive dinner.
Bari sometimes went too. Although The Mick used four-letter words as if they meant “great” or “Oh, rats,” he had a quick mind and plunged head-first into any conversation that didn’t depend on a knowledge of topics yet unstudied. The out-of-left-field quality of many of his insights compensated, almost, for the crudity of his tongue. Bari enjoyed these outings, and Xavier relaxed in the realization that playing uncle to The Mick would not necessarily put a crimp in their romance. Early on, though, he and The Mick had a major clash, and The Mick found the subterfuge that kept it from escalating into a permanent feud. Almost.
“I want to paint my room,” he said.
“Fine. What color?”
“Black. I want a cramped, funky black hole of Calcutta twenty stories up.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Why do you think that, Uncle Xave?”
“It sounds hideous. And if you do even a halfway decent job of it, it’ll be almost impossible to paint over later.”
“So I can’t do it?”
“No, you can’t.”
“So I’m a refugee in your backyard? Not like your real flesh-and-blood kin but a total nonperson gook squatter.”
“No, Mikhail. But this is still my place. I’ll have to live here even after you’ve left, and I don’t want a ‘cramped, funky black hole of Calcutta’ in my apartment.”
“Boy, you’re a proprietarial bastard, Uncle Xave. In Central America, you’d be a fucking fatcat landowner.”
“I’m the fucking fatcat landowner only of my own home, and you will not paint any part of it black.”
“Whoa. Sorry I ripped your cord.”
A week later, The Mick invited Xavier into his room, and Xavier was taken aback to find—even in the deliberate gloom—that the walls gleamed black. Plutonian black. Stygian black. Atop this black were black-light posters of rock stars, four-color posters of superheroes, and signs proclaiming no smoking unless your soul’s on fire, dare to eat a peach, and i see uc, you see uc, we all see uc, & the uc we see is good. All Xavier could see, though, was the black walls behind these cryptic tape-ups. He grabbed The Mick’s skinny arm.
“Hold your fucking ponies, Uncle Xave! Take a look, okay?”
Xavier looked. Mikhail had draped every wall with black linen, every one. He had bought king-sized white sheets, carried them across the river to a dyer’s shop, and had them stained the color of anthracite. All for less than three hundred bucks. Wasn’t that a bargain for totally redecorating a bedroom?
“What’s that smell?” Xavier said.
“The dye. My joss sticks. It’ll go away. No big deal.”
Xavier, sniffing, looked around. How to respond? Finally, he hugged his nephew. “Thank you, Mikhail.”
“For what?”
“Respecting my feelings. You show a nobler sensibility than I expected.”
“’Cause I’m a punk who’d, like, sniff dog vomit?”
Xavier waved at the walls. “In a sense, you have. Just look at what passes with you for interior design.”
“I do. All the time. That’s what I taped it all up for. If you don’t like it, just beat it for a while.”
Later, Xavier realized that The Mick had run him off for insulting his values. Still, he’d done the room to his own standards without breaking Xavier’s rule against painting it black: a small cause for celebration.
Except that it wasn’t. The smell in the room wasn’t dye or incense, it was a more familiar smell. One day while The Mick was at school, it drew Xavier in. He lifted the black linen drapery just inside the door. Behind it was more
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