Man Gone Down

Man Gone Down by Michael Thomas Page A

Book: Man Gone Down by Michael Thomas Read Free Book Online
Authors: Michael Thomas
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Anyway, Gavin and I are at a party at one of the mansions, in the side yard, sitting up high on the crossbar of a swing set. We are beer-less and broke. He’s got a black eye, a quick jab from his old man earlier. He’s been telling me about the marathon. How at this point, near where we were sitting, on the other side of the hedge in ’72, the pack had caught his dad. He finished as the fifth American and missed qualifying for Munich.”
    I look up. She’s still awake—involved even.
    â€œ
’Heartbreak Hill. Oh, well.’
He kind of sings it with a quavering voice. He wipes his nose with his hand. His right pupil is red with hemorrhaged blood. His sinus looks swollen. Inside the big house our classmates are talking about their college choices. Some are celebrating; others have already begun the process of burnishing the reputation of their safety school. My ex-girlfriend Sally is inside as well. I can see her.”
    â€œShe white?”
    â€œYeah. I can see her in the window—moon face, freckles, and blue pie-eyes—a concoction of German Berger and hardscrabble Irish. I can see her, the sensible part of her acquiescing to the moment’s demands. Gavin points at her.
‘That’s your true love. Hah.’
He elbows me.
‘I’m kidding, man. I’d love her, too.’
Gavin always wore an old corduroy coat as his top layer. He opens it, reaches into the torn lining and produces two tall boys. He’s like,
‘After a hard day’s work.’
He hands me a can. I give him a cigarette. He’s like,
‘Symbiosis. Good show.’
So we open the beers and toast.
    â€œTo oblivion.”
    â€œGodspeed.”
    â€œWe hear someone on the back porch.
‘Quick,’
he says.
‘No evidence.’
We chug the beers and throw the empty cans into the bushes. Two girls we don’t know walk toward us. They stop, confer with each other, then continue. They’re cute, but they look awkward, ridiculous, you know, like girls who haven’t had sex trying to be sexy in front ofboys who refuse to recognize their libidos. I light our cigarettes. They’re there under us.
‘Hey,’
says one.
‘Do you have anymore?’
So I toss the pack down and the lighter. ‘I thought you guys were athletes,’ says the other. And she’s really pretty, you know, like some wood nymph. But she’s got a whiny voice and she watches her friend light up with all her teen disdain. I take a deep drag and exhale a thick formless cloud.”
    â€œHow do they know?”
    â€œHow do they know what?”
    â€œWho you are.”
    â€œEverybody knew who we were.”
    She’s stunned by the perceived arrogance.
    â€œIt’s not like that,” I say. “We were pretty good athletes. We did pretty well in school. You know, the poor kids usually mowed the rich kids’ lawns. It wasn’t that we were popular. We just stood out in groups like that.”
    She laughs. She seems to have only one, but it serves as many. It’s context dependent, but she won’t give the context. I can’t tell if the laugh is born of amusement, irony, condescension. It’s a yip-laugh, a hyena laugh—but cut short. I look up. The blues-boy is leading a mule down a dusty road. He approaches a chain gang.
    â€œThen what?” She beckons with both hands.
    â€œSo the smoker crosses her arms and holds the cigarette poised for another drag between her rigid index and middle fingers.
‘You know,’
says Gavin, pointing over the hedges into the street,
‘my dad ran this marathon smoking two packs a day.’
    â€œâ€˜Yeah,’
whines whiny in a sanctimonious tone,
‘but did he finish?’
They snicker at him. Girls were always snickering at him after he said something.”
    â€œOh, they probably loved you. And you probably loved it.”
    â€œNo. No, we didn’t. We were just having some drinks and

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