Drop City by T. C. Boyle Page A

they?”
    â€œRacist,” Verbie said. People began to hiss.
    â€œIt’s not like that at all, man, and that’s not fair”—Mendocino Bill’s voice went up a notch—“because I of all people was in Selma and Birmingham and I wonder where the rest of you were cause I sure as hell don’t remember seeing any of you down there, and I’m telling you I don’t care who it is, we’ve got to police ourselves, people, or the Sonoma County sheriff’ll come in here and do it for us—and I don’t think there’s anybody here wants that.”
    That was when everybody started talking at once, accusations flying, people making bad jokes, somebody hitting a sour note on a harmonica over and over and Ronnie slipping out of the spotlight and settling back into the nest of pillows like a lizard disappearing into a crevice. Lydia took hold of his hand and Merry gave him a million-kilowatt smile, but he reached over to her, to Star, to make his plea. He was shaking his head, and this was for Marco too, because Marco was right there with his eyelids rolled back and his ears perked: “I swear,” Ronnie said. “I swear I didn’t do a thing.”
    â€œBum’s rush!” Jiminy shouted. “Kick ’em out!”
    â€œWho?”
    â€œThe spades! Kick ’em the fuck out! Norm, come on, Norm —”
    All eyes went to Norm Sender where he sat Buddha-like in the center of the table, and for a fraction of a moment, everyone exhaled. But Norm was having none of it—he ducked his head and shrank down to half his size. “Land Access to Which Is Denied No One,” he said.
    â€œSomebody’s got to do something—it’s like Lord of the Flies out there, man.”
    â€œOh, yeah, sure it is—and what’s it like in here, then?”
    â€œHey, fuck you.”
    â€œNo, fuck you! ”
    The whole thing was too much. Star lay there, propped up on her elbows, wishing they’d all just shut up, wondering where all the harmony and joy had gone to and why everybody had to hassle all the time, and then she looked at Ronnie, looked into his eyes, and saw a cold hard nugget of triumph there, sealed in, impervious to all things hip and the brotherly and the sisterly too. She was going to say something to him, she was going to call him out, when she felt the warmth leave her side as if it had evaporated and she was looking at Marco’s frayed jeans and the dead bleached leather of his boots planted on the floor. “Hey,” he was saying, “hey, everybody,” and he put two fingers to his lips and produced one of those nails-on-the-blackboard sort of whistles you hear at ball games and rock concerts.
    The room went quiet. Everybody was watching him. “Listen,” he said, “why doesn’t somebody just go talk to them?”
    â€œTalk to them?” Alfredo was incredulous. “If they wanted to talk they’d be here now, wouldn’t they? But no, they’re up there drunk as usual, looking to ball some other fourteen-year-old chick.” He glanced round the room. “Who’s going to do it? You? Are you volunteering?”
    â€œYeah,” Marco said, nodding slowly. “I guess I am.”

    That first day, the day when he lifted her up into his tree as if the breeze was blowing right through her, she’d felt like the heroine of some fairy tale, like Rapunzel—or no, that wasn’t right. Like Leda maybe, Leda all wrapped in feathered glory. Leda and the Swan. That had been her favorite poem in Lit class, and she’d read it over and over till it was part of her, all that turmoil and fatality spinning out of a single unguarded moment, and that was something, it was, but what made her face burn and her fingers tingle was the weirdness of the act itself. Picturing it. Dreaming it. The flapping of the wings, the smell, the violence. All the other poems in the anthology were