frying pan. There was a big pot of water on to boil.
“Can I help?”
“Yeah,” Leonard said. “Stay the fuck out of the way.”
“I could do the salad.”
“You could, but it’s too early. Made it now, time we ate, the lettuce would be wilted and the tomatoes would taste like wet golf balls.”
“Maybe I’ll just read.”
I got one of the books I’d brought along, Neal Barrett, Jr.’s,
The Hereafter Gang,
went out on the back porch and sat in a creaky old rocking chair. The left side of the porch was blocked with plywood, most likely so Uncle Chester wouldn’t have to look at the drug dealers next door. The rest of the porch was screened in. The screen door had the bottom part of its screen knocked loose, and it curled up as if suffering from heat stroke.
Out behind the house there was a pile of burned garbage, some of it black, twisted plastic, some of it blackened cans and dark wisps of paper.
On out a ways was a butane tank, and beyond that, a trickle of woods and brambles that gradually became more than a trickle. It turned into full-fledged woods. I wondered how far it went. Had it been in a white section of town, where property values were up, it would have long been cut down and concrete would have been spread over it.
Here, it was a strange oasis of green in the midst of a disintegrating neighborhood that was a slice of human pie neither completely rural nor urban, a world unto itself.
I read from
The Hereafter Gang
until Leonard came out the back door and called to me, “Why don’t you go down and rent us a VCR and a movie. And don’t get none of those damn socially redeeming films or anything you got to read at the bottom what they’re saying. And let’s don’t see
It’s a Wonderful Life
anymore.”
“Three Stooges OK?”
I drove into town and rented a VCR and checked out a couple of movies.
Jaws,
which I’d never seen, and
Gunga Din,
which I saw when I was head high to a cocker spaniel’s nuts.
By the time I got back to the house I was hot and sweaty and nervous. I was wondering if I should put the move on Florida, or just watch the movies like a good little boy. Frankly, I didn’t know how to put the move on anybody anymore. I was too long out of practice. I began to wonder if she’d show up. Maybe she’d bring a date. That would be cozy. Perhaps I could loan him some condoms.
While Leonard hooked up the VCR, I made the salad. I can break lettuce and slice a tomato with the best of them. I didn’t even screw up when I put on the bacon bits and the croutons.
About fifteen minutes after I finished, there was a knock on the door and Leonard let Florida in. She was carrying a bottle of wine and a long loaf of French bread. She had a little black pocket book on a strap draped over her shoulder. She was wearing canary yellow this time. It was like all her other dresses, plain in design, but tight and short and flattering to what it covered. She didn’t have a date.
“Who’re the sweeties next door?” she asked, giving Leonard the bread and the wine.
“Just the local crack house,” Leonard said. “They’re a real fun-loving bunch.”
“They certainly are. They just gave me a verbal anatomical lesson.”
“Sorry,” I said.
She smiled. “That’s all right. I hear worse in court. From my own clients sometimes.”
We seated ourselves at the table and started on the salad. She ate some of it, but nothing was said about its excellence. Personally, I thought the croutons and bacon bits were very fresh. She bragged on the spaghetti, meatballs, and sauce. Leonard, a regular reader of
Bon Appetit,
bragged on her choice of wine. To me, all wine tastes pretty much the same. Bad. But I said I thought it was pretty good, too.
After dinner, we watched the movies.
Jaws
first. The TV was a little-screen affair Leonard had bought at a pawn shop, but the movie, cropped at the corners, scared the shit out of me anyway. I’ve never liked water, and I like sharks even less. Florida
“Can I help?”
“Yeah,” Leonard said. “Stay the fuck out of the way.”
“I could do the salad.”
“You could, but it’s too early. Made it now, time we ate, the lettuce would be wilted and the tomatoes would taste like wet golf balls.”
“Maybe I’ll just read.”
I got one of the books I’d brought along, Neal Barrett, Jr.’s,
The Hereafter Gang,
went out on the back porch and sat in a creaky old rocking chair. The left side of the porch was blocked with plywood, most likely so Uncle Chester wouldn’t have to look at the drug dealers next door. The rest of the porch was screened in. The screen door had the bottom part of its screen knocked loose, and it curled up as if suffering from heat stroke.
Out behind the house there was a pile of burned garbage, some of it black, twisted plastic, some of it blackened cans and dark wisps of paper.
On out a ways was a butane tank, and beyond that, a trickle of woods and brambles that gradually became more than a trickle. It turned into full-fledged woods. I wondered how far it went. Had it been in a white section of town, where property values were up, it would have long been cut down and concrete would have been spread over it.
Here, it was a strange oasis of green in the midst of a disintegrating neighborhood that was a slice of human pie neither completely rural nor urban, a world unto itself.
I read from
The Hereafter Gang
until Leonard came out the back door and called to me, “Why don’t you go down and rent us a VCR and a movie. And don’t get none of those damn socially redeeming films or anything you got to read at the bottom what they’re saying. And let’s don’t see
It’s a Wonderful Life
anymore.”
“Three Stooges OK?”
I drove into town and rented a VCR and checked out a couple of movies.
Jaws,
which I’d never seen, and
Gunga Din,
which I saw when I was head high to a cocker spaniel’s nuts.
By the time I got back to the house I was hot and sweaty and nervous. I was wondering if I should put the move on Florida, or just watch the movies like a good little boy. Frankly, I didn’t know how to put the move on anybody anymore. I was too long out of practice. I began to wonder if she’d show up. Maybe she’d bring a date. That would be cozy. Perhaps I could loan him some condoms.
While Leonard hooked up the VCR, I made the salad. I can break lettuce and slice a tomato with the best of them. I didn’t even screw up when I put on the bacon bits and the croutons.
About fifteen minutes after I finished, there was a knock on the door and Leonard let Florida in. She was carrying a bottle of wine and a long loaf of French bread. She had a little black pocket book on a strap draped over her shoulder. She was wearing canary yellow this time. It was like all her other dresses, plain in design, but tight and short and flattering to what it covered. She didn’t have a date.
“Who’re the sweeties next door?” she asked, giving Leonard the bread and the wine.
“Just the local crack house,” Leonard said. “They’re a real fun-loving bunch.”
“They certainly are. They just gave me a verbal anatomical lesson.”
“Sorry,” I said.
She smiled. “That’s all right. I hear worse in court. From my own clients sometimes.”
We seated ourselves at the table and started on the salad. She ate some of it, but nothing was said about its excellence. Personally, I thought the croutons and bacon bits were very fresh. She bragged on the spaghetti, meatballs, and sauce. Leonard, a regular reader of
Bon Appetit,
bragged on her choice of wine. To me, all wine tastes pretty much the same. Bad. But I said I thought it was pretty good, too.
After dinner, we watched the movies.
Jaws
first. The TV was a little-screen affair Leonard had bought at a pawn shop, but the movie, cropped at the corners, scared the shit out of me anyway. I’ve never liked water, and I like sharks even less. Florida
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