listening to old music?”
“It depends,” I said, readjusting to the sensation of walking. “If it’s Led Zeppelin or Nick Drake, then no. If it’s Missing Persons or the Osmonds, then quite possibly yes.”
“I listen to Led Zeppelin and Pink Floyd and U2 and Black Sabbath. I also listen to Tremble.”
“You should probably go easy on the Black Sabbath. As for Tremble, your time would be better spent with Boy George solo albums.” I paused in my tracks to massage a boulder of pain out of my temples. “Look, you’re young now, but trust me, that won’t always be the case. Don’t piss away your listening years on music that’s just not good. My point is—do you know what the word myopic means?”
Tereza stared at me with scientific wonder. “You’re not what I expected.”
“Well, we’re all having new experiences today.”
She gave me a once-over that was just probing enough to be insulting. “You’re shorter, more pale.”
As I hobbled through the house, I took note of the photographs covering every wall. I was struck by their mastery, the thought and skill rendered in each composition—experiments in angle, distance, and color saturation. “Your old man has some talent,” I mused. “Although obviously I wish he’d never been born.”
Upon reaching the foyer, I peered through the screen and observed my tormentor crouched apelike as he scoured the grass for mylost tooth. It was a noisy exercise, with snorts and grumbles of disgust. I pushed the door open. “Uh, friend?”
“I will find,” he called without looking up. His thick fingers brushed through the grass. “I knock out, I put back.”
“I don’t think it works that way.”
The man suddenly bounded to his feet, pointed at my mouth, and, as if it had just occurred to him, declared, “You need dentist.”
I spun toward Tereza. “There’s a dentist around here?”
The offense she took at my surprise was a few paces from playful. “Where do you think you are?”
“Lost,” I replied. “Hopelessly lost.”
* * *
Heinz-Peter drove at the speed of a camera shutter on the burst setting, flinging us along slender streets and charmingly precarious bridges. I bounced around the passenger seat, ice held to my lip, suffering steep penance for picking the wrong fight. My driver grinned and patted my knee like I was his date. “Mr. Teddy Tremble in my car,” he boasted, showing precious little interest in the road. “This is big thrill for me.”
I pointed at the windshield. “Focus.”
He steered at a nauseating clip over a hill that dropped into a small town center with narrow cobblestone streets, shops that had no doubt thrived for centuries. An old gray woman with a cane crept up the walkway of a stone house. Children in school uniforms strolled alongside the road with boisterous chatter. All these people looked busy and happy. We’d probably ride over some of them.
“You don’t like picture in museum?” Heinz-Peter asked, resuming our conversation.
“No, I’m afraid I don’t. But hey, my drummer loved it, so don’t feel too bad.”
“Why you don’t like it?”
“Well, let’s see. It makes me look like a dipshit—that’s certainly a big part of it. And you hung it up alongside pictures of other dipshits and you called the exhibit Let’s Laugh at the Losers or something. Those are probably the main reasons I didn’t love it. Would you like to hear others?”
I watched him parse through my critique. “I don’t trying to make fun of you. I think you are victim of fame. This is what exhibit is all about.” He waved his arm expressively as he said this.
“Well, art usually goes right over my head,” I said.
“You are one time very famous,” he explained. “But then it go away and you are not happy. Yes?”
No. “You don’t know the first thing about me. You met me one time in a stupid restaurant in Amsterdam. And in that restaurant, did we talk about that? Not that it
“It depends,” I said, readjusting to the sensation of walking. “If it’s Led Zeppelin or Nick Drake, then no. If it’s Missing Persons or the Osmonds, then quite possibly yes.”
“I listen to Led Zeppelin and Pink Floyd and U2 and Black Sabbath. I also listen to Tremble.”
“You should probably go easy on the Black Sabbath. As for Tremble, your time would be better spent with Boy George solo albums.” I paused in my tracks to massage a boulder of pain out of my temples. “Look, you’re young now, but trust me, that won’t always be the case. Don’t piss away your listening years on music that’s just not good. My point is—do you know what the word myopic means?”
Tereza stared at me with scientific wonder. “You’re not what I expected.”
“Well, we’re all having new experiences today.”
She gave me a once-over that was just probing enough to be insulting. “You’re shorter, more pale.”
As I hobbled through the house, I took note of the photographs covering every wall. I was struck by their mastery, the thought and skill rendered in each composition—experiments in angle, distance, and color saturation. “Your old man has some talent,” I mused. “Although obviously I wish he’d never been born.”
Upon reaching the foyer, I peered through the screen and observed my tormentor crouched apelike as he scoured the grass for mylost tooth. It was a noisy exercise, with snorts and grumbles of disgust. I pushed the door open. “Uh, friend?”
“I will find,” he called without looking up. His thick fingers brushed through the grass. “I knock out, I put back.”
“I don’t think it works that way.”
The man suddenly bounded to his feet, pointed at my mouth, and, as if it had just occurred to him, declared, “You need dentist.”
I spun toward Tereza. “There’s a dentist around here?”
The offense she took at my surprise was a few paces from playful. “Where do you think you are?”
“Lost,” I replied. “Hopelessly lost.”
* * *
Heinz-Peter drove at the speed of a camera shutter on the burst setting, flinging us along slender streets and charmingly precarious bridges. I bounced around the passenger seat, ice held to my lip, suffering steep penance for picking the wrong fight. My driver grinned and patted my knee like I was his date. “Mr. Teddy Tremble in my car,” he boasted, showing precious little interest in the road. “This is big thrill for me.”
I pointed at the windshield. “Focus.”
He steered at a nauseating clip over a hill that dropped into a small town center with narrow cobblestone streets, shops that had no doubt thrived for centuries. An old gray woman with a cane crept up the walkway of a stone house. Children in school uniforms strolled alongside the road with boisterous chatter. All these people looked busy and happy. We’d probably ride over some of them.
“You don’t like picture in museum?” Heinz-Peter asked, resuming our conversation.
“No, I’m afraid I don’t. But hey, my drummer loved it, so don’t feel too bad.”
“Why you don’t like it?”
“Well, let’s see. It makes me look like a dipshit—that’s certainly a big part of it. And you hung it up alongside pictures of other dipshits and you called the exhibit Let’s Laugh at the Losers or something. Those are probably the main reasons I didn’t love it. Would you like to hear others?”
I watched him parse through my critique. “I don’t trying to make fun of you. I think you are victim of fame. This is what exhibit is all about.” He waved his arm expressively as he said this.
“Well, art usually goes right over my head,” I said.
“You are one time very famous,” he explained. “But then it go away and you are not happy. Yes?”
No. “You don’t know the first thing about me. You met me one time in a stupid restaurant in Amsterdam. And in that restaurant, did we talk about that? Not that it
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