stories,”
says Matt, or tries to—he’s so parched his tongue produces only a ticking sound against the roof of his mouth. He’s going to have to move soon. And he’s going to have to
move
soon, get the hell out of this palace. Starlight Executive Inn? Fricking Jatinder.
Matt risks another glance at the bedside table. Four bottles from the mini-bar, two scotches, two Drambuies. A pre- and a post-coital shot each. Or no, wait, Katherine declined, so Matt chivalrously drained hers too. Two before, while she freshened up, and two after, once she’d slipped away. Karen?
“I’m getting a young man, J-something. John? Jeff?” This is Kevin Scion, Matt’s second-favourite TV psychic. The audience member upon whom he’s trained his mediumistic gaze shakes his head, no. He’d love there to be a John or a Jeff but there isn’t one. Maybe, then, Kevin is a fake. Maybe there’s no afterlife, maybe this is
it.
Maybe our lives are pointless little flares of light between frigid eternities of impenetrable darkness.
“A brother,” Kevin insists. No panic. “A cousin? He was close to you, closer then either of you ever realized.”
Nope, sorry, nothing.
“There’s a voice, a young man’s voice, no, a young
woman’s
voice. Not a man, a woman. Jane? June?”
“Jenny,” says the poor guy, and he starts to weep.
Oh, Lord. Matt thumbs down the volume, rolls out of bed and slinks into the bathroom. He’s naked—he recalls waking up dawnish to strip off his T-shirt and jockeys, which were horrid with sweat. What was that dream? Zane was there, a young Zane, but Matt was old. There was a gnu too, bawling pathetically and crying out for his daddy. Matt and Zane tried to comfort him with a song but they couldn’t agree on what to sing. They couldn’t even agree on what kind of creature they were singing
to.
Matt said gnu, Zane said wildebeest. They scrapped about it, schoolyard scrapped—“Oh yeah?” “Yeah!” “Oh yeah?” “Yeah!”—until the flight attendant popped her head in and sang, “Gnu-u, wildebeest, Gnu-u, wildebeest …” to the tune of “I Feel Pretty” from
West Side Story.
Is this maybe a perk of fever, that your dreams get fancier? Most nights they’re so drab, Matt’s dreams.
He sits to pee. Still shaky but not so bad. With luck it’s already behind him, the what’s-it, the wacky temperature. How does West Nile work? On the toilet’s right arm (this toilet has
arms?)
there’s a console, knobs and buttons and blinking lights. Rear Jet, Front Jet, Water Pressure, Water Temp. A treat for later.
Matt’s bladder releases and he hazards a peek down. No condom, Christ. Never mind birth, what about death? This is exactly how it happens. You go decades being careful and then one night you get a little zesty and expansive, you get a little hopped up on fate and, bingo, it’s in your blood. She’ll be pregnant, he’ll be sick. Birth and death and it took
how
long?
Matt groans. Nice echo in here so he groans again. Is this how it was for Zane too? He’s another serial monogamy guy, his tally of partners just as pathetic as Matt’s. There was Jean Michel, there was Mauritz, there was Phil, there was Nico. Is Nico? And then that one slip-up, that one segue, that one episode of desperate whoopee between bouts of I-love-you …
Guilt, yeah. There’s guilt here for Matt (why
wasn’t
he there for his friend that night?) mixed in with something even stranger. Jealousy? Not precisely, but … Here it comes again. Burnished by years of handling, this memory, but imbued this morning with an extra edge, a hallucinatory intensity. Febrile, feverish …
You couldn’t call it fucking. For one thing they were always fully clothed, he and Zane. For another thing they were
ten years old
at the time. Their bodies weren’t capable of sex yet, so you couldn’t even say they had a sex, could you? A sexuality?
Summer of ‘69, a cinch to remember since it was the year of the
Apollo
landing, the
says Matt, or tries to—he’s so parched his tongue produces only a ticking sound against the roof of his mouth. He’s going to have to move soon. And he’s going to have to
move
soon, get the hell out of this palace. Starlight Executive Inn? Fricking Jatinder.
Matt risks another glance at the bedside table. Four bottles from the mini-bar, two scotches, two Drambuies. A pre- and a post-coital shot each. Or no, wait, Katherine declined, so Matt chivalrously drained hers too. Two before, while she freshened up, and two after, once she’d slipped away. Karen?
“I’m getting a young man, J-something. John? Jeff?” This is Kevin Scion, Matt’s second-favourite TV psychic. The audience member upon whom he’s trained his mediumistic gaze shakes his head, no. He’d love there to be a John or a Jeff but there isn’t one. Maybe, then, Kevin is a fake. Maybe there’s no afterlife, maybe this is
it.
Maybe our lives are pointless little flares of light between frigid eternities of impenetrable darkness.
“A brother,” Kevin insists. No panic. “A cousin? He was close to you, closer then either of you ever realized.”
Nope, sorry, nothing.
“There’s a voice, a young man’s voice, no, a young
woman’s
voice. Not a man, a woman. Jane? June?”
“Jenny,” says the poor guy, and he starts to weep.
Oh, Lord. Matt thumbs down the volume, rolls out of bed and slinks into the bathroom. He’s naked—he recalls waking up dawnish to strip off his T-shirt and jockeys, which were horrid with sweat. What was that dream? Zane was there, a young Zane, but Matt was old. There was a gnu too, bawling pathetically and crying out for his daddy. Matt and Zane tried to comfort him with a song but they couldn’t agree on what to sing. They couldn’t even agree on what kind of creature they were singing
to.
Matt said gnu, Zane said wildebeest. They scrapped about it, schoolyard scrapped—“Oh yeah?” “Yeah!” “Oh yeah?” “Yeah!”—until the flight attendant popped her head in and sang, “Gnu-u, wildebeest, Gnu-u, wildebeest …” to the tune of “I Feel Pretty” from
West Side Story.
Is this maybe a perk of fever, that your dreams get fancier? Most nights they’re so drab, Matt’s dreams.
He sits to pee. Still shaky but not so bad. With luck it’s already behind him, the what’s-it, the wacky temperature. How does West Nile work? On the toilet’s right arm (this toilet has
arms?)
there’s a console, knobs and buttons and blinking lights. Rear Jet, Front Jet, Water Pressure, Water Temp. A treat for later.
Matt’s bladder releases and he hazards a peek down. No condom, Christ. Never mind birth, what about death? This is exactly how it happens. You go decades being careful and then one night you get a little zesty and expansive, you get a little hopped up on fate and, bingo, it’s in your blood. She’ll be pregnant, he’ll be sick. Birth and death and it took
how
long?
Matt groans. Nice echo in here so he groans again. Is this how it was for Zane too? He’s another serial monogamy guy, his tally of partners just as pathetic as Matt’s. There was Jean Michel, there was Mauritz, there was Phil, there was Nico. Is Nico? And then that one slip-up, that one segue, that one episode of desperate whoopee between bouts of I-love-you …
Guilt, yeah. There’s guilt here for Matt (why
wasn’t
he there for his friend that night?) mixed in with something even stranger. Jealousy? Not precisely, but … Here it comes again. Burnished by years of handling, this memory, but imbued this morning with an extra edge, a hallucinatory intensity. Febrile, feverish …
You couldn’t call it fucking. For one thing they were always fully clothed, he and Zane. For another thing they were
ten years old
at the time. Their bodies weren’t capable of sex yet, so you couldn’t even say they had a sex, could you? A sexuality?
Summer of ‘69, a cinch to remember since it was the year of the
Apollo
landing, the
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