life, one of thoserare instances of heroic potential. He takes in the drowning girl, also a pair of tugboats guiding a barge through the bay. The water churns cold and turbulent. Larry slowly, methodically, unbuttons his shirt; his actions are as precise and meticulous as those of a watch smith dismantling a mechanical timepiece. He vaults himself onto the parapet. He looks over his shoulder, capturing the ambivalence of the spectators, the hope, the apprehension, the motherâs distorted features, Van Huizenâs bemused grimace, the unadulterated befuddlement of a stout woman in a beige shawl. Larry steps forward, braces himself. And then, as the girlâs head nears the point of submersion, her bare arms slackening, the tension easing from her face, in recognition, maybe in resignation, she resurfaces on the shoulders of a park ranger armed with a life ring. The ordeal is over.
Larry has no place in the bathos that follows. He is not a hero, not even a player, only a bare-chested tour guide standing on a parapet, holding a button-down shirtâa man self-conscious of his concave chest and sun-starved skin. The park ranger receives the applause, the grateful maternal hug, the generous-if-gauche gratuity from the armchair historian. They lay the girl out on a cushioned tarp, drawing her hair away from her slightly bloated face. She sputters water, smiles. Soon sirens announce the arrival of professionals, paramedics, strapping men equipped with a gurney and gauze. They do not offer Larry medical attention; they do not even inquire after his health. Their only concern is loading the teenager onto an ambulance, shepherding her parents in after her, transporting the VIP trio out of the war zone at a high rate of speed. The Dutch tourists disperse. They replay the incident in hushed voices, queuing for tickets to the Ellis Island ferry, still determined to make the most of their morning. No irreparable damage has been done. Nobody has died. If their numbers have been marginally reduced, it is their responsibility, their moral duty, like alpine hikers or characters in a murder mystery, to compensate for the loss. They are up for the occasion.
Larry is the only genuine victim of the episode. His moment of glory has degenerated into self-consciousness, his teenage beautylassoed from his clutches like a rodeo steer. His book will fail. His date will fail. It is all carved in stone. Men like Larry Bloom donât win the love of women like Starshine Hart. Men like Larry Bloom donât publish epic novels to literary acclaim. When you get right down to itâand Larry doesnât think he can go much lower at the momentâmen like Larry Bloom donât do much of anything.
One by one, his fingers refasten the buttons of his shirt.
CHAPTER 3
BY LARRY BLOOM
Word on the street: Bone, the one-armed super, can get you anything.
He sits in the forenoon sun, eyes closed but not sleeping, absorbing his beauty rays with a silver reflector, so that if his aluminum lawn chair werenât planted on the Fillmore Avenue sidewalk, if his Hawaiian shirt werenât clipped at the top with a bolo tie, if the shades resting in his tight-cropped hair didnât boast a bridge of custom-made gold leaf, in short, if he were not Bone, but just another olive-skinned cripple at the curbside, you might make the gross mistake of feeling sorry for him. He seems so harmless, so overtly innocuous. It is difficult to imagine, at first glance, that this emaciated creature is the kingpin, the Alpha and the Omega, the man who has connected the sorts of people who know each other. But it would take only one blink of a lizardâs eye, one snap of Boneâs calloused fingers, to supply you with anything, absolutely anything, contraband and coveted. Bone is the Wells Fargo wagon of the nascent millennium. He can get you high, he can get you screwed, he can get you shot. He can arm your band of mercenaries with Kalashnikovs and M-16
Larry has no place in the bathos that follows. He is not a hero, not even a player, only a bare-chested tour guide standing on a parapet, holding a button-down shirtâa man self-conscious of his concave chest and sun-starved skin. The park ranger receives the applause, the grateful maternal hug, the generous-if-gauche gratuity from the armchair historian. They lay the girl out on a cushioned tarp, drawing her hair away from her slightly bloated face. She sputters water, smiles. Soon sirens announce the arrival of professionals, paramedics, strapping men equipped with a gurney and gauze. They do not offer Larry medical attention; they do not even inquire after his health. Their only concern is loading the teenager onto an ambulance, shepherding her parents in after her, transporting the VIP trio out of the war zone at a high rate of speed. The Dutch tourists disperse. They replay the incident in hushed voices, queuing for tickets to the Ellis Island ferry, still determined to make the most of their morning. No irreparable damage has been done. Nobody has died. If their numbers have been marginally reduced, it is their responsibility, their moral duty, like alpine hikers or characters in a murder mystery, to compensate for the loss. They are up for the occasion.
Larry is the only genuine victim of the episode. His moment of glory has degenerated into self-consciousness, his teenage beautylassoed from his clutches like a rodeo steer. His book will fail. His date will fail. It is all carved in stone. Men like Larry Bloom donât win the love of women like Starshine Hart. Men like Larry Bloom donât publish epic novels to literary acclaim. When you get right down to itâand Larry doesnât think he can go much lower at the momentâmen like Larry Bloom donât do much of anything.
One by one, his fingers refasten the buttons of his shirt.
CHAPTER 3
BY LARRY BLOOM
Word on the street: Bone, the one-armed super, can get you anything.
He sits in the forenoon sun, eyes closed but not sleeping, absorbing his beauty rays with a silver reflector, so that if his aluminum lawn chair werenât planted on the Fillmore Avenue sidewalk, if his Hawaiian shirt werenât clipped at the top with a bolo tie, if the shades resting in his tight-cropped hair didnât boast a bridge of custom-made gold leaf, in short, if he were not Bone, but just another olive-skinned cripple at the curbside, you might make the gross mistake of feeling sorry for him. He seems so harmless, so overtly innocuous. It is difficult to imagine, at first glance, that this emaciated creature is the kingpin, the Alpha and the Omega, the man who has connected the sorts of people who know each other. But it would take only one blink of a lizardâs eye, one snap of Boneâs calloused fingers, to supply you with anything, absolutely anything, contraband and coveted. Bone is the Wells Fargo wagon of the nascent millennium. He can get you high, he can get you screwed, he can get you shot. He can arm your band of mercenaries with Kalashnikovs and M-16
Similar Books
