guy.”
“Yes,” said Alex happily, kicking some water in the direction of children who had kicked some at him, “you’re
the
black guy.”
“Yes,
I’m
the black guy. No doubt I die halfway through. So. I don’t know. I think it’s probably more of a class thing.”
Water dribbled out of Adam’s nose along with some more viscous material. There should be a law. Alex took an Olympic breath and surged to the gritty, tiled bottom of the pool, performed a rolly-turn thing and kicked off from the side, after which he swam two thirds of the length underwater, a personal record. He was a little fat, these days, and he smoked. When he returned, he got four floats and put them underneath his body in such a way as to enable him to sit upright in the water and bob up and down in a sort of Mer-King scenario.
“What do you mean, class thing? We’re not
posh.
”
Here Adam paused to do some of his weird stretches. These made Alex feel that his friend came to the pool with a complex, beneficial, possibly spiritual, certainly undisclosed, exercise program in his mind, while Alex just spent the time pissing around (often literally), examining the incredible potential variance in the curvature of young women’s pubic bones. Adam hooked his ankle round the handrail. Near Alex a floating plaster flipped over to reveal a tiny circular concentration of blood. Again, thought Alex, there should be a law. Adam yawned, and seemed to take his arms, turn them backwards and force his hands to pray behind his back. His stretch was impressive and women looked. These days he was the opposite of fat and did not smoke, except for weed. His stomach was a taut drum of rippled jet. He said:
“No, true, but we’re posher than
Marvin.
That’s the key fact. But it’s subtler than that, though, it’s like, the voice Marvin’s doing, that’s the same voice you do when you’re doing your Lenny Bruce goy voice—”
“So what are you saying?”
“Well, brainiac, I’m saying that
maybe,
in relation to him and his ex–drug dealer, working-class soulfulness et cetera,
we’re all goys.
”
“And
he’s;
the Jew?”
“And he’s the Jew.”
“That argument is uniquely . . .” said Alex, but couldn’t think of the word.
“Yeah . . . but I sort of
like
it for that. You should put it in your book—justifies a whole new subsection.”
After which Adam went alone to the diving tank, while Alex, treading water furiously, internally raged at a repulsive woman in fluorescent costume. Her head was hinged and awful on her fat neck. Her mouth was huge. She was laughing off her son’s fecal mishap in the shallow end. There should be law upon law, with commentary.
IT WAS NOW that Marvin—who had turned his back on Alex to look towards the house opposite—made a sudden little yelp. He rolled back on his heels in the International Gesture for surprise. He thrust one arm out in the air. He looked like Chaplin.
“Mate, isn’t that your
car
? Check it! Oh my
gosh. Jesus Christ Almighty.
”
Two spaces down from where she was usually parked, Alex could see his vintage MG, Greta, hitched up on the curb quite desperately, trying to save herself. Her front bumper had been brutally torn from her body and now hung by an iron thread; her door had been punched by a giant. Her back window had been visited by a glass spider. So had the front.
“
And
the passenger window!” shrieked Marvin, pointing to the passenger window. Greta’s side was scratched from toe to tail, and her canvas roof was sadly pleated and condensed, an exhausted accordion. The whole of the car, in fact, was shorter by half a foot.
“Brer, did
you
do that?”
Alex folded into the door frame like Lauren Bacall. It was only eight-thirty A.M. , but already it was time to throw in the white towel. The day had looked good. The day had lied. He felt he could not fight days like this. He believed utterly that there are days in which it is revealed that someone has written a cruel
“Yes,” said Alex happily, kicking some water in the direction of children who had kicked some at him, “you’re
the
black guy.”
“Yes,
I’m
the black guy. No doubt I die halfway through. So. I don’t know. I think it’s probably more of a class thing.”
Water dribbled out of Adam’s nose along with some more viscous material. There should be a law. Alex took an Olympic breath and surged to the gritty, tiled bottom of the pool, performed a rolly-turn thing and kicked off from the side, after which he swam two thirds of the length underwater, a personal record. He was a little fat, these days, and he smoked. When he returned, he got four floats and put them underneath his body in such a way as to enable him to sit upright in the water and bob up and down in a sort of Mer-King scenario.
“What do you mean, class thing? We’re not
posh.
”
Here Adam paused to do some of his weird stretches. These made Alex feel that his friend came to the pool with a complex, beneficial, possibly spiritual, certainly undisclosed, exercise program in his mind, while Alex just spent the time pissing around (often literally), examining the incredible potential variance in the curvature of young women’s pubic bones. Adam hooked his ankle round the handrail. Near Alex a floating plaster flipped over to reveal a tiny circular concentration of blood. Again, thought Alex, there should be a law. Adam yawned, and seemed to take his arms, turn them backwards and force his hands to pray behind his back. His stretch was impressive and women looked. These days he was the opposite of fat and did not smoke, except for weed. His stomach was a taut drum of rippled jet. He said:
“No, true, but we’re posher than
Marvin.
That’s the key fact. But it’s subtler than that, though, it’s like, the voice Marvin’s doing, that’s the same voice you do when you’re doing your Lenny Bruce goy voice—”
“So what are you saying?”
“Well, brainiac, I’m saying that
maybe,
in relation to him and his ex–drug dealer, working-class soulfulness et cetera,
we’re all goys.
”
“And
he’s;
the Jew?”
“And he’s the Jew.”
“That argument is uniquely . . .” said Alex, but couldn’t think of the word.
“Yeah . . . but I sort of
like
it for that. You should put it in your book—justifies a whole new subsection.”
After which Adam went alone to the diving tank, while Alex, treading water furiously, internally raged at a repulsive woman in fluorescent costume. Her head was hinged and awful on her fat neck. Her mouth was huge. She was laughing off her son’s fecal mishap in the shallow end. There should be law upon law, with commentary.
IT WAS NOW that Marvin—who had turned his back on Alex to look towards the house opposite—made a sudden little yelp. He rolled back on his heels in the International Gesture for surprise. He thrust one arm out in the air. He looked like Chaplin.
“Mate, isn’t that your
car
? Check it! Oh my
gosh. Jesus Christ Almighty.
”
Two spaces down from where she was usually parked, Alex could see his vintage MG, Greta, hitched up on the curb quite desperately, trying to save herself. Her front bumper had been brutally torn from her body and now hung by an iron thread; her door had been punched by a giant. Her back window had been visited by a glass spider. So had the front.
“
And
the passenger window!” shrieked Marvin, pointing to the passenger window. Greta’s side was scratched from toe to tail, and her canvas roof was sadly pleated and condensed, an exhausted accordion. The whole of the car, in fact, was shorter by half a foot.
“Brer, did
you
do that?”
Alex folded into the door frame like Lauren Bacall. It was only eight-thirty A.M. , but already it was time to throw in the white towel. The day had looked good. The day had lied. He felt he could not fight days like this. He believed utterly that there are days in which it is revealed that someone has written a cruel
Similar Books
