attentive shop girls swing from every hand. A few moments ago, the underpinnings of the world were shifting, calling us down. I see two girls on mobile phones looking around forone another. Rising on their tippy-toes, chins high. Their eyes meet and they scurry toward each other. For a few moments, they stand face to face, fingers interlaced, still communicating through their tiny silver cells.
“No,” I say. Doesn’t matter.
We go around the building to a garbage-strewn alleyway and crouch by the wall. I look up at the building, which is tiled dusty-rose—eight stories tall, dotted with curtained windows, a gulag of one-room clubs with cute names. A scrawny cat with no tail slinks by, eyeing us. Adam pulls a chunk of hash from his pocket and holds the lighter to it.
“Do you ever feel like you’re in a cartoon? In Japan I mean?” I’m having a moment .
“Fucking hell. We haven’t even smoked yet.” He returns to his work, arranging the little black beads on the rolling paper. “Cartoon! What the—”
“All the time,” Ines answers. “What will I draw for myself tomorrow. Hmmm. Maybe an Israeli with rippling abs and a bad attitude.”
“Maybe it’s already drawn. The next frame. Maybe we’re already drawn.”
Adam puts the joint in his mouth and talks around it. “Alright Marge, I’m going to have to ask you to shut your gob. Freakin’ me out already.”
Somewhere water is dripping like a metronome. We smoke the joint. Our chests puff up. We speak in squeaky voices, trying to keep the smoke in. Above us, the sky is squeezing out the last remnants of day, navy blue turning black and blacker second by second. My body becomes anetwork of subtle sensations, tingling and buzzing. I cut and paste the feelings from part to part, enjoying the control. Paranoia is lurking there. I keep it back by staring at Adam’s nose. Adam stares at Ines’s chest. Ines stares at her shoes.
“Ever heard that Japanese fairy tale about the fisherman and the turtle?” Ines asks. A light rain starts to fall, and we line up—backs pressed against the wall—sheltered under a small overhang.
“So this young fisherman saves a turtle who’s stuck in the mud and the turtle takes him under the sea to this fantastic castle. Pure A-list fish party. Fishy drugs and fishy martinis—”
“Mermaids?” Adam asks.
“Sure. Mermaids. Mermen. Everything. Naive little fisherboy thinks he’s died and gone to heaven. He parties hard, like all night, all the next day. Mr. Turtle is all ‘Stay as long as you want. Enjoy! Enjoy!’ So he does, you know. He hides out. Who wants to gut fish when you can fuck an octopus? So he’s looking for the loo one night and he comes upon this room where he can see his old life, his village and his family. And yeah, of-fucking-course he gets nostalgic and pathetic and tells Mr. Turtle, ‘I gotta go.’
“And being the consummate host, Turtle-san gives the fisherboy a gift. A gold box that he tells him never to open. Zenzen akimasu . Never.
“Fisherboy says his good-byes, goes to the surface, and starts walking to his village. Everything’s as dull as ever. And he’s walking and walking and thinking Hmmm, where’s my house? ”
Adam has a little coughing fit, waves his hand around a bit. “Right, right—the turtle like slaughtered his family and torched his house?”
Ines slaps Adam’s head. “Anyway, fisher-dork sits down under a big tree. He’s used to floating around. His feet are sore, you know? He takes out the box and he can’t resist—so he opens it. But there’s nothing in it but a mirror. Takes him a minute to figure out it’s him he’s looking at—he’s an old man, ancient, almost dead.”
I stare at a tangled pile of abandoned bicycles. Wordless for a minute or so. The dripping is coming from both sides now, hollow and resonant. The alley feels like a cave.
Ines stands up, smoothes her hair down. “We should go dancing.”
“I’m gonna go home,” I say. I
“No,” I say. Doesn’t matter.
We go around the building to a garbage-strewn alleyway and crouch by the wall. I look up at the building, which is tiled dusty-rose—eight stories tall, dotted with curtained windows, a gulag of one-room clubs with cute names. A scrawny cat with no tail slinks by, eyeing us. Adam pulls a chunk of hash from his pocket and holds the lighter to it.
“Do you ever feel like you’re in a cartoon? In Japan I mean?” I’m having a moment .
“Fucking hell. We haven’t even smoked yet.” He returns to his work, arranging the little black beads on the rolling paper. “Cartoon! What the—”
“All the time,” Ines answers. “What will I draw for myself tomorrow. Hmmm. Maybe an Israeli with rippling abs and a bad attitude.”
“Maybe it’s already drawn. The next frame. Maybe we’re already drawn.”
Adam puts the joint in his mouth and talks around it. “Alright Marge, I’m going to have to ask you to shut your gob. Freakin’ me out already.”
Somewhere water is dripping like a metronome. We smoke the joint. Our chests puff up. We speak in squeaky voices, trying to keep the smoke in. Above us, the sky is squeezing out the last remnants of day, navy blue turning black and blacker second by second. My body becomes anetwork of subtle sensations, tingling and buzzing. I cut and paste the feelings from part to part, enjoying the control. Paranoia is lurking there. I keep it back by staring at Adam’s nose. Adam stares at Ines’s chest. Ines stares at her shoes.
“Ever heard that Japanese fairy tale about the fisherman and the turtle?” Ines asks. A light rain starts to fall, and we line up—backs pressed against the wall—sheltered under a small overhang.
“So this young fisherman saves a turtle who’s stuck in the mud and the turtle takes him under the sea to this fantastic castle. Pure A-list fish party. Fishy drugs and fishy martinis—”
“Mermaids?” Adam asks.
“Sure. Mermaids. Mermen. Everything. Naive little fisherboy thinks he’s died and gone to heaven. He parties hard, like all night, all the next day. Mr. Turtle is all ‘Stay as long as you want. Enjoy! Enjoy!’ So he does, you know. He hides out. Who wants to gut fish when you can fuck an octopus? So he’s looking for the loo one night and he comes upon this room where he can see his old life, his village and his family. And yeah, of-fucking-course he gets nostalgic and pathetic and tells Mr. Turtle, ‘I gotta go.’
“And being the consummate host, Turtle-san gives the fisherboy a gift. A gold box that he tells him never to open. Zenzen akimasu . Never.
“Fisherboy says his good-byes, goes to the surface, and starts walking to his village. Everything’s as dull as ever. And he’s walking and walking and thinking Hmmm, where’s my house? ”
Adam has a little coughing fit, waves his hand around a bit. “Right, right—the turtle like slaughtered his family and torched his house?”
Ines slaps Adam’s head. “Anyway, fisher-dork sits down under a big tree. He’s used to floating around. His feet are sore, you know? He takes out the box and he can’t resist—so he opens it. But there’s nothing in it but a mirror. Takes him a minute to figure out it’s him he’s looking at—he’s an old man, ancient, almost dead.”
I stare at a tangled pile of abandoned bicycles. Wordless for a minute or so. The dripping is coming from both sides now, hollow and resonant. The alley feels like a cave.
Ines stands up, smoothes her hair down. “We should go dancing.”
“I’m gonna go home,” I say. I
Similar Books
