she remembered who she went with to every single movie, where they sat, what movie house it was, and what they’d done afterward. Her dad’s mental filing cabinet just seemed to index movies under: title—seen it—liked it/hated it . A guy thing, she figured. Their filing systems just worked differently. Women filed everything under people and guys under things. There was no question which was superior, more humanist, but it was probably in the genes.
“Yoo-hoo, wake up, Dad. Indian Hill Boulevard means Claremont.”
*
He was surprised that Maeve had chosen Mary Beth as a friend. From what he’d seen dropping her off and having a quick coffee with the family, Mary Beth was a chubby, brooding, not-very-bright girl a year younger than Maeve. There was no accounting for tastes, he thought, and to be charitable, maybe there were things in the girl he didn’t see. After all, at one point in the fifties he’d probably seemed a pretty somber and anti-social kid himself. He hadn’t been very happy as a boy. He wondered why the human species had to go through so much trouble and pain growing up. Puppies got it right almost every time.
Amilcar’s former roommate, David Phelps, was in the phone book, and it turned out to be upstairs in a cheap complex toward the larger town of Pomona, the kind of building with a balconied runway past all the doors. Heat radiated off every surface, and a lot of the windows had aluminum foil on them.
“David Phelps?”
“Who wants to know?”
“Would it matter?”
He had a big ring in the septum of his nose, spiky hair and a tattoo on the side of his neck that only the highest of turtlenecks would cover: it read AVENGE BAUDELAIRE .
“It might.”
“I’ve been hired to find Amilcar Davis, by his parents. My name is Jack Liffey.”
The young man seemed to relax. “Sure. Come on.”
Jack Liffey could see the place would take him a while to assimilate. There were books stacked all over the room, and the walls were a solid pastiche of posters, photographs, bits of butcher paper with scribbling on them and what looked like finger paintings.
“Beer?”
“No thanks. But cold water would be nice.” It was over 100 outside, and hotter in the baking air inside.
“Can do.”
“You have anything to do with that self-destructing art machine out in the quad?” Jack Liffey called toward the kitchen.
“Harvat’s thing? Not a chance. That dude is the very oldest hat of the middling new hats. Jean Tinguely did all that decades ago. What a bore.”
While the young man was banging through cupboards, Jack Liffey examined some of the wall sayings.
THE PRACTICAL IS THE LONGEST DISTANCE BETWEEN TWO POINTS.
EVIL BE THOU MY GOOD: AN UNSATISFACTORY ALTERNATIVE BECAUSE EVERY INVERSION RETAINS THE STRUCTURE OF THE MORAL AXIS.
There was a Life photo Jack Liffey remembered from the late fifties of fraternity boys cramming themselves into a phone booth, and under it:
YOU CONSTRUCT ELABORATE RITUALS TO ALLOW YOU TO TOUCH THE BODIES OF OTHER MEN.
All by itself was a neatly lettered,
WE ARE ATTEMPTING TO COMPLICATE THE CULTURAL SPACE, TO RENDER CRITICISM AS DIFFICULT AS POSSIBLE.
He was back, holding out a glass. “That’s the last ice cube. This heat has overdetermined my old fridge.”
Jack Liffey glanced at the tiny cube. “It deconstructs as I watch.”
The young man smiled at that, but he didn’t bite. “Sit, please. I’m glad somebody is looking for Ami.”
“Did you two get along?”
The young man thought about it for a moment as they sat in noisy burgundy-colored bean bags. His spiked-up hair bobbed whenever he moved. “Yes, like brothers. The college put us together our freshman year, on the theory that grouping all the unusual students would insulate the rest.”
“You’re unusual?”
He smiled. “When they asked for hobbies, Mr. Liffey, I said ‘Being very gay.’ I could have said being subversive, too, but gay was fine for drawing their radar.”
“I’m
“Yoo-hoo, wake up, Dad. Indian Hill Boulevard means Claremont.”
*
He was surprised that Maeve had chosen Mary Beth as a friend. From what he’d seen dropping her off and having a quick coffee with the family, Mary Beth was a chubby, brooding, not-very-bright girl a year younger than Maeve. There was no accounting for tastes, he thought, and to be charitable, maybe there were things in the girl he didn’t see. After all, at one point in the fifties he’d probably seemed a pretty somber and anti-social kid himself. He hadn’t been very happy as a boy. He wondered why the human species had to go through so much trouble and pain growing up. Puppies got it right almost every time.
Amilcar’s former roommate, David Phelps, was in the phone book, and it turned out to be upstairs in a cheap complex toward the larger town of Pomona, the kind of building with a balconied runway past all the doors. Heat radiated off every surface, and a lot of the windows had aluminum foil on them.
“David Phelps?”
“Who wants to know?”
“Would it matter?”
He had a big ring in the septum of his nose, spiky hair and a tattoo on the side of his neck that only the highest of turtlenecks would cover: it read AVENGE BAUDELAIRE .
“It might.”
“I’ve been hired to find Amilcar Davis, by his parents. My name is Jack Liffey.”
The young man seemed to relax. “Sure. Come on.”
Jack Liffey could see the place would take him a while to assimilate. There were books stacked all over the room, and the walls were a solid pastiche of posters, photographs, bits of butcher paper with scribbling on them and what looked like finger paintings.
“Beer?”
“No thanks. But cold water would be nice.” It was over 100 outside, and hotter in the baking air inside.
“Can do.”
“You have anything to do with that self-destructing art machine out in the quad?” Jack Liffey called toward the kitchen.
“Harvat’s thing? Not a chance. That dude is the very oldest hat of the middling new hats. Jean Tinguely did all that decades ago. What a bore.”
While the young man was banging through cupboards, Jack Liffey examined some of the wall sayings.
THE PRACTICAL IS THE LONGEST DISTANCE BETWEEN TWO POINTS.
EVIL BE THOU MY GOOD: AN UNSATISFACTORY ALTERNATIVE BECAUSE EVERY INVERSION RETAINS THE STRUCTURE OF THE MORAL AXIS.
There was a Life photo Jack Liffey remembered from the late fifties of fraternity boys cramming themselves into a phone booth, and under it:
YOU CONSTRUCT ELABORATE RITUALS TO ALLOW YOU TO TOUCH THE BODIES OF OTHER MEN.
All by itself was a neatly lettered,
WE ARE ATTEMPTING TO COMPLICATE THE CULTURAL SPACE, TO RENDER CRITICISM AS DIFFICULT AS POSSIBLE.
He was back, holding out a glass. “That’s the last ice cube. This heat has overdetermined my old fridge.”
Jack Liffey glanced at the tiny cube. “It deconstructs as I watch.”
The young man smiled at that, but he didn’t bite. “Sit, please. I’m glad somebody is looking for Ami.”
“Did you two get along?”
The young man thought about it for a moment as they sat in noisy burgundy-colored bean bags. His spiked-up hair bobbed whenever he moved. “Yes, like brothers. The college put us together our freshman year, on the theory that grouping all the unusual students would insulate the rest.”
“You’re unusual?”
He smiled. “When they asked for hobbies, Mr. Liffey, I said ‘Being very gay.’ I could have said being subversive, too, but gay was fine for drawing their radar.”
“I’m
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