families. The steering wheels of the racing game, once black, were worn silver. Passingthe winter, young Eskimos pondered the images of the red and blue Ferraris as they surged down a simulated narrow lane in pleasant southern France. Frank Copenhaver wheeled his racer among the palm trees and blue glimpses of the sea even if, as today, there was no one to race but himself. He got up and joined the crack addict for breakfast. She seemed glad of the company. She was shaky from her vice and seemed to bear an infinity of sorrows. And just when he wished to think of average things for discussion, like weather, her interests were entirely millennial: world war, the antichrist, the hole in the ozone layer.
Tuesday he went home. It had taken him half his trip to look at the return reservations on his ticket inside the Sunseeker Travel Service folder. He went through customs in New York and didn’t declare the snowshoe keychain that was his only purchase. Lucy picked him up at the airport, where he took great breaths of the smell of new grain fields in the advancing summer in the Gallatin Valley. This alone gave him the feeling that his trip had been a success. Lucy had a twinkle in her eye. “I know I have a good figure,” she said, “but was it worth it?”
“I hate it when all and sundry are so literal.”
“May I take you to dinner?” she asked.
“The hotel, if you can call it that, was out of hot water the last two days. I haven’t had a shower.”
“Will that prevent you from eating?”
“I guess not. All I’ve had is smoked almonds all day.”
Frank shoved his duffel into the back of Lucy’s gray Volvo and got in. The radio was still playing, a disc jockey crying, “Oh, no, not again!” They started toward Seventh. Frank could see the odd spook shapes of the cottonwoods toward the Bridger Range. The radio announced the coming appearance of a “gospel magician” at a gathering for teenagers. No wonder they stuffed themselves with drugs. Then the folks from Coca-Cola came on and said Coke has always been there for you, always at the heart of the things you do. They said that with Coke and days off, you’ll never be able to beat the feeling. Frank’s spirits sank slightly. The Civic Center, said the radio, was going to have professional wrestling,including a ten-man battle royal in a steel cage; afterward, Sir Lathrop versus The Animal.
“Well, how did you like the Arctic?”
“It was real different.”
She handed him her sunglasses. “Look at the clouds through these, they’re so vivid.” Frank put them on and in fact the clouds thickened up brightly, wet and full of color. With these enriching glasses clamped to his head, he felt a lewd stirring.
“And how have you been?” Frank asked, handing back the glasses. He really didn’t want to get into this.
“I get up in the morning. That’s half the battle.”
Traffic slowed down as an old lady in white headgear and black wraparound sunglasses crossed the road carrying a bag of clothes. She walked straight across through the cars without looking right or left. She reminded him of his mother, at her worst a decrepit scheming shadow who lived to interfere.
An old sedan passed, pulling a cage on wheels filled with white Muscovy ducks. The Volvo crossed Main and entered the parking lot of the Thai restaurant. Lucy got out. “Let’s play the hands we were dealt,” she said. “We will begin by eating.”
Frank looked around the dirty parking spaces under the trees and felt a wonderful lightness. “Remember Gram Parsons’s ‘Grievous Angel’?” he asked.
“Sort of.”
He sang: “ ‘Twenty thousand roads I went down, down, down, and they all led me straight back home to you.’ ”
“How extremely sweet!”
“This is a perfect time and place,” said Frank sincerely. They walked into the restaurant. It had that wonderful feeling of restaurants that had recently been houses: walls in the wrong places, the waitress emerging from
Tuesday he went home. It had taken him half his trip to look at the return reservations on his ticket inside the Sunseeker Travel Service folder. He went through customs in New York and didn’t declare the snowshoe keychain that was his only purchase. Lucy picked him up at the airport, where he took great breaths of the smell of new grain fields in the advancing summer in the Gallatin Valley. This alone gave him the feeling that his trip had been a success. Lucy had a twinkle in her eye. “I know I have a good figure,” she said, “but was it worth it?”
“I hate it when all and sundry are so literal.”
“May I take you to dinner?” she asked.
“The hotel, if you can call it that, was out of hot water the last two days. I haven’t had a shower.”
“Will that prevent you from eating?”
“I guess not. All I’ve had is smoked almonds all day.”
Frank shoved his duffel into the back of Lucy’s gray Volvo and got in. The radio was still playing, a disc jockey crying, “Oh, no, not again!” They started toward Seventh. Frank could see the odd spook shapes of the cottonwoods toward the Bridger Range. The radio announced the coming appearance of a “gospel magician” at a gathering for teenagers. No wonder they stuffed themselves with drugs. Then the folks from Coca-Cola came on and said Coke has always been there for you, always at the heart of the things you do. They said that with Coke and days off, you’ll never be able to beat the feeling. Frank’s spirits sank slightly. The Civic Center, said the radio, was going to have professional wrestling,including a ten-man battle royal in a steel cage; afterward, Sir Lathrop versus The Animal.
“Well, how did you like the Arctic?”
“It was real different.”
She handed him her sunglasses. “Look at the clouds through these, they’re so vivid.” Frank put them on and in fact the clouds thickened up brightly, wet and full of color. With these enriching glasses clamped to his head, he felt a lewd stirring.
“And how have you been?” Frank asked, handing back the glasses. He really didn’t want to get into this.
“I get up in the morning. That’s half the battle.”
Traffic slowed down as an old lady in white headgear and black wraparound sunglasses crossed the road carrying a bag of clothes. She walked straight across through the cars without looking right or left. She reminded him of his mother, at her worst a decrepit scheming shadow who lived to interfere.
An old sedan passed, pulling a cage on wheels filled with white Muscovy ducks. The Volvo crossed Main and entered the parking lot of the Thai restaurant. Lucy got out. “Let’s play the hands we were dealt,” she said. “We will begin by eating.”
Frank looked around the dirty parking spaces under the trees and felt a wonderful lightness. “Remember Gram Parsons’s ‘Grievous Angel’?” he asked.
“Sort of.”
He sang: “ ‘Twenty thousand roads I went down, down, down, and they all led me straight back home to you.’ ”
“How extremely sweet!”
“This is a perfect time and place,” said Frank sincerely. They walked into the restaurant. It had that wonderful feeling of restaurants that had recently been houses: walls in the wrong places, the waitress emerging from
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