over, built a birdhouse for, with one of these miniature Welcome Home mats much loved by the widowed of Mountjoy. But he had come too late for all that. When pushed (she had not been fed), Grace became a garden terrorist and made no sentimental distinctions between species in the same genus. A squirrel was as good as a mouse to her, a parakeet equal to a pigeon. Picking her up, Alex forgave her, kissed her on her flat head, tugged her tail and slid her down the banister. In return, she painted a long streak of red, like a design feature, down the length of pine, punctuated by little hillocks of bird guts. And
still
he did not throw up. Ha! Alex was counting this as Personal Triumph of the Morning #3. The second was walking. The first was consciousness.
3.
“It sort of hurts,
here,
” said Alex to his milk operative, Marvin, who was on the doorstep. Marvin reached out his dark hand and up went his white cuff. Despite himself, Alex thought of Bill Robinson reaching out for the hand of Shirley Temple. It did seem a musical out here today on the chilly street. Bright, awesome.
“Where?”
“Kidney area.”
Marvin felt the area. He had long fingers and he poked deep.
“Careful . . .”
“What am I looking for? A lump?”
“You think it could
create
a lump?”
Marvin shrugged. “Highly unlikely, bro. Not in such a short time, anyway—but it raaver depends what they put
in
it, you get me?”
Alex pulled his pajama top back down and frowned. “I have no idea what they put in it, Marvin. It’s not like this stuff is regulated. There was no ingredients list. There was no consumer—”
Marvin waved his hands in Alex’s face, dismissing him. He never did sarcasm. He possessed what Alex imagined to be the essential sincerity of urban black men with hard lives.
“Yeah, yeah,
yeah.
Your head isn’t itchin’ in your skull or nothing?” he asked, stepping back, holding Alex speculatively by the chin. Alex felt depressed. It was clear that Marvin’s expertise outstripped his own. It is depressing, being out-experted so early in the morning.
“Itching?”
“Then you’re fine. It might have been strong, but it sounds pure. Sometimes they’ve got Floxine in it. Then your head itches in your skull for a bit after.”
“Floxine?”
“Do you want any yogurts, then? Bloody freezing out here,” said Marvin, turning in the direction of his milk truck and employing one hand as a visor against the winter sun. He bounced on the balls of his feet, stepping back, stepping forward. In his left hand, through those long, clever fingers, he passed his small notepad from the first finger to the last and back again like a playing card. Marvin was bored.
“No, not really.”
“Say again?” said Marvin, in a menacing tone.
Marvin was three months into a government-sponsored job initiative. Before this he’d had a brief stint as a parking attendant. Before that, he had been a dealer of drugs. At present he was in addiction counseling, the language of which he sometimes spoke on his milk rounds. As soon as Marvin began his deliveries in Mountjoy, a huge leap in demand for expensive yogurts and milkshakes occurred, a growth that had an exact correlation to public fear of Marvin. Alex too, at first, had ordered a lot of individually wrapped cheese singlets, mousses, pressurized cream cans, etc. But now he wanted to
redraw the boundaries of the relationship.
Now he wanted them both, he and Marvin, to
move towards new criteria.
“I’m all right for yogurts, actually.”
“Well, bully for you,” said Marvin sourly. He slipped his pad into the pouch at the front of his uniform. He reached forward once more and widened Alex’s eyes with his fingers. “What was this foolishness called, again?”
“I think, a Superstar?”
Marvin clapped his hands together, laughed, and shook his head in a move called—if Alex were asked to give it a name—
The Dance of Scoff.
“And
you’re
the intellectual.”
“And I’m the
still
he did not throw up. Ha! Alex was counting this as Personal Triumph of the Morning #3. The second was walking. The first was consciousness.
3.
“It sort of hurts,
here,
” said Alex to his milk operative, Marvin, who was on the doorstep. Marvin reached out his dark hand and up went his white cuff. Despite himself, Alex thought of Bill Robinson reaching out for the hand of Shirley Temple. It did seem a musical out here today on the chilly street. Bright, awesome.
“Where?”
“Kidney area.”
Marvin felt the area. He had long fingers and he poked deep.
“Careful . . .”
“What am I looking for? A lump?”
“You think it could
create
a lump?”
Marvin shrugged. “Highly unlikely, bro. Not in such a short time, anyway—but it raaver depends what they put
in
it, you get me?”
Alex pulled his pajama top back down and frowned. “I have no idea what they put in it, Marvin. It’s not like this stuff is regulated. There was no ingredients list. There was no consumer—”
Marvin waved his hands in Alex’s face, dismissing him. He never did sarcasm. He possessed what Alex imagined to be the essential sincerity of urban black men with hard lives.
“Yeah, yeah,
yeah.
Your head isn’t itchin’ in your skull or nothing?” he asked, stepping back, holding Alex speculatively by the chin. Alex felt depressed. It was clear that Marvin’s expertise outstripped his own. It is depressing, being out-experted so early in the morning.
“Itching?”
“Then you’re fine. It might have been strong, but it sounds pure. Sometimes they’ve got Floxine in it. Then your head itches in your skull for a bit after.”
“Floxine?”
“Do you want any yogurts, then? Bloody freezing out here,” said Marvin, turning in the direction of his milk truck and employing one hand as a visor against the winter sun. He bounced on the balls of his feet, stepping back, stepping forward. In his left hand, through those long, clever fingers, he passed his small notepad from the first finger to the last and back again like a playing card. Marvin was bored.
“No, not really.”
“Say again?” said Marvin, in a menacing tone.
Marvin was three months into a government-sponsored job initiative. Before this he’d had a brief stint as a parking attendant. Before that, he had been a dealer of drugs. At present he was in addiction counseling, the language of which he sometimes spoke on his milk rounds. As soon as Marvin began his deliveries in Mountjoy, a huge leap in demand for expensive yogurts and milkshakes occurred, a growth that had an exact correlation to public fear of Marvin. Alex too, at first, had ordered a lot of individually wrapped cheese singlets, mousses, pressurized cream cans, etc. But now he wanted to
redraw the boundaries of the relationship.
Now he wanted them both, he and Marvin, to
move towards new criteria.
“I’m all right for yogurts, actually.”
“Well, bully for you,” said Marvin sourly. He slipped his pad into the pouch at the front of his uniform. He reached forward once more and widened Alex’s eyes with his fingers. “What was this foolishness called, again?”
“I think, a Superstar?”
Marvin clapped his hands together, laughed, and shook his head in a move called—if Alex were asked to give it a name—
The Dance of Scoff.
“And
you’re
the intellectual.”
“And I’m the
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