niece still died?
But he kept quiet because a few months after his father’s death he was convinced his father had faked it so he could leave town and start a new family. Grief made you believe the sun revolved around the earth and that kid from
Saved by the Bell
died from eating Mentos with Diet Coke and if you feed a seagull Alka-Seltzer its stomach explodes.
The old man walked into the kitchen from the back of the house. He leaned over and kissed Myra on the cheek.
“Now, is that good bacon or is that good bacon,” he said. “Never liked it with the soft fat around the edges.”
Ben’s cell vibrated in his pocket. He looked at the number and excused himself, walking back upstairs.
“Ben?”
Downstairs he heard Myra shriek with laughter. In his mind he saw the old man feeding her a bacon strip. Inch by inch. The crumbly burnt stuff falling into her barely tied robe.
“Ben, I spoke with your father last night.”
He slid down to the white carpet, his back against the side of the bed. He closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead.
“I just wanted to tell you I haven’t dreamt about him in weeks, but he apologized and said he’s been very busy. Very busy—can you imagine? Anyway, he wanted me to tell you that you need to be careful because apartment fires are among the top five killers of men in their mid-twenties. He said that no matter how careful you are yourself, you live in a public building and cannot control the actions of others. Chinese cooking uses a lot of oil, you know. And the Chinese are not known for their safety.”
“We have smoke alarms, Mom. In every room.”
“And in the stairwells?”
“Yes.”
“Your father is still very concerned. Fire inspectors are overworked and understaffed. I doubt they’ve come to your building within the past year.”
“We had an inspection a few months ago. I requested one, after you called.”
“And the inspector was thorough?”
“He seemed very competent.”
“That’s fine but it only takes one day to violate code. Maybe you should call for another inspection. Your father and I think it would be prudent.”
“Tell Dad there’s nothing to worry about. Tell him I’m being very careful.”
“You can tell him yourself.”
“I’d rather you tell him.”
Silence. Ben counted the seconds. He could see his mom, sitting at the kitchen table, sleep lines creasing her face.
“Well, I’ll make sure to let your father know. And please be careful, Ben.”
“I will.”
He closed his cell and rubbed his head with both hands, then pressed his thumbs into the pressure points above his ears.
The Triple Warmer Meridian, it’s called. He’d read a massage book a few weeks earlier,
The Art of Erotic Massage
, copyright 1978, found in a box in the basement of his apartment building, next to piles of dirty linens, empty vegetable crates with Chinese script painted along the side (possible fire code violation), and stacks of rusted oil paint cans and turpentine (definite fire code violation). The massage book was hilarious—age-yellowed glossy paper, and the women all had enormous bush. One woman with pendulous breasts lay on a crocheted orange hammock, legs spread, her nude man standing behind her with both hands on her shoulders, both of them with the come-hither stares of professional swingers. Satisfying women isn’t just about the clitoris or the G-spot, the caption insisted. It’s about
kundalini
. The energy that lies dormant at the base of the spine. The dragon’s fire.
He thought about calling Jess.
What’s that? You want me to visit you? You know I’d love to but I can’t. I’m driving Elvis to Memphis in search of his granddaughter. That’s right, I said
Elvis.
The one and only. He even looks a little like him
.
Downstairs he heard more laughter. The old man was like a light switch, Ben thought. From dark to blinding just like that.
But maybe I can stop by on my way back home. Work on your kundalini for a while. I’ll bring
But he kept quiet because a few months after his father’s death he was convinced his father had faked it so he could leave town and start a new family. Grief made you believe the sun revolved around the earth and that kid from
Saved by the Bell
died from eating Mentos with Diet Coke and if you feed a seagull Alka-Seltzer its stomach explodes.
The old man walked into the kitchen from the back of the house. He leaned over and kissed Myra on the cheek.
“Now, is that good bacon or is that good bacon,” he said. “Never liked it with the soft fat around the edges.”
Ben’s cell vibrated in his pocket. He looked at the number and excused himself, walking back upstairs.
“Ben?”
Downstairs he heard Myra shriek with laughter. In his mind he saw the old man feeding her a bacon strip. Inch by inch. The crumbly burnt stuff falling into her barely tied robe.
“Ben, I spoke with your father last night.”
He slid down to the white carpet, his back against the side of the bed. He closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead.
“I just wanted to tell you I haven’t dreamt about him in weeks, but he apologized and said he’s been very busy. Very busy—can you imagine? Anyway, he wanted me to tell you that you need to be careful because apartment fires are among the top five killers of men in their mid-twenties. He said that no matter how careful you are yourself, you live in a public building and cannot control the actions of others. Chinese cooking uses a lot of oil, you know. And the Chinese are not known for their safety.”
“We have smoke alarms, Mom. In every room.”
“And in the stairwells?”
“Yes.”
“Your father is still very concerned. Fire inspectors are overworked and understaffed. I doubt they’ve come to your building within the past year.”
“We had an inspection a few months ago. I requested one, after you called.”
“And the inspector was thorough?”
“He seemed very competent.”
“That’s fine but it only takes one day to violate code. Maybe you should call for another inspection. Your father and I think it would be prudent.”
“Tell Dad there’s nothing to worry about. Tell him I’m being very careful.”
“You can tell him yourself.”
“I’d rather you tell him.”
Silence. Ben counted the seconds. He could see his mom, sitting at the kitchen table, sleep lines creasing her face.
“Well, I’ll make sure to let your father know. And please be careful, Ben.”
“I will.”
He closed his cell and rubbed his head with both hands, then pressed his thumbs into the pressure points above his ears.
The Triple Warmer Meridian, it’s called. He’d read a massage book a few weeks earlier,
The Art of Erotic Massage
, copyright 1978, found in a box in the basement of his apartment building, next to piles of dirty linens, empty vegetable crates with Chinese script painted along the side (possible fire code violation), and stacks of rusted oil paint cans and turpentine (definite fire code violation). The massage book was hilarious—age-yellowed glossy paper, and the women all had enormous bush. One woman with pendulous breasts lay on a crocheted orange hammock, legs spread, her nude man standing behind her with both hands on her shoulders, both of them with the come-hither stares of professional swingers. Satisfying women isn’t just about the clitoris or the G-spot, the caption insisted. It’s about
kundalini
. The energy that lies dormant at the base of the spine. The dragon’s fire.
He thought about calling Jess.
What’s that? You want me to visit you? You know I’d love to but I can’t. I’m driving Elvis to Memphis in search of his granddaughter. That’s right, I said
Elvis.
The one and only. He even looks a little like him
.
Downstairs he heard more laughter. The old man was like a light switch, Ben thought. From dark to blinding just like that.
But maybe I can stop by on my way back home. Work on your kundalini for a while. I’ll bring
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