while—”
“It’ll blow over?”
“So to speak. In my experience the fever breaks in six or—how old are you again?”
“Nineteen.”
“—eight weeks. After that, there has to be something more. Can I ask you a favor, Dwayne?”
“Sure, Mr. H.”
“Could you keep it to yourself that the two of them are here? We don’t want anyone else to know.”
His face dropped. “You mean I can’t tell anyone? Not even the guys?”
“One word gets out and the press will be all over this place. And then they’ll have to leave.”
He tugged at his scraggly goatee. “Well, if that’s how it is then I’m cool with it.”
“You’re a good man, Dwayne.”
His eyes were on Thor again. “Hope I get a chance to have some more talks with him. I mean, you’re a bright guy and all, and I enjoy rapping with you about books and stuff, but Mr. Gibbs … he’s like a true wise man.”
I left that one alone.
Dwayne turned and looked at me. “Well, isn’t he?”
“I suppose he is, Dwayne. I suppose he is.”
I took Clethra to the mall for our little talk. The nearest was the Crystal Mall, which was about twenty miles away in New London, where the Coast Guard Academy and Naval Submarine Base were found. I hate the mall. Any mall. Something about all of those loud, tacky stores selling 163 different kinds of loud, tacky crap that people don’t need and can’t afford. Something about all of those fat, greedy housewives in polyester sweat suits elbowing and grabbing their way deeper and deeper into debt. Something about all of those brain-dead teenagers in reversed baseball caps milling aimlessly around, chewing on limp french fries, when they should have been in school learning how to spell. All it takes me is one trip to the mall and I want to flee this country for good. Sometimes, I want to do that anyway. But when I asked her where she wanted to go she said the mall. She needed clothes. So we went to the mall.
Lulu, of course, loves the place. They have a pet store there with tropical fish that’s one of her absolute fave places to hang. Oh, well, at least she barked at the guy who was dressed up like Barney.
I sat on a bench drinking a tepid, oily brown coffee-like liquid while Clethra shopped. The Seventies, I noticed, were back again. Flared hiphuggers, body shirts, stacked platform heels … all back in fashion. Made me think I’d lost the last twenty years with the blink of an eye. I frequently feel that way—that I’m still twenty-one, still trying to figure the world out, positive that it will all make sense to me someday. I’m still waiting for it to make sense. Only now I know it never will. This, I am told, is maturity.
Clethra bought jeans at the Gap and flannel shirts at Eddie Bauer and some socks and tights and underwear at a place that sold socks and tights and underwear. She had to come looking for me when it came time to pay, what with Ruth having nuked her credit cards. I had to use mine. I started out in a hole with Clethra Feingold, to the tune of $317.64. And if you want to know the truth I never climbed out of it.
“This mall sucks.” She flopped down on the bench next to me with her purchases. She had one of her new flannel shirts on over a gray gym shirt of Merilee’s. “There’s no Vicky’s Secret, no Banana Republic …”
“Don’t you have anything nice to say about anything?”
“Why should I?” she sniffed. “You don’t.”
“That’s different. I’ve earned the right to be so utterly disillusioned.”
“Hey, it’s not easy bein’ happy if you’re a child livin’ in this free world,” she moaned. This was her being tragic and vulnerable, vintage Sylvia Plath by way of Kurt Cobain, with a generous side order of gag me with a spoon, Muffy. “Does Dwayne have a girlfriend?”
“He’s never mentioned one.”
“Like, don’t you think he looks like T-Bone?”
“T-Bone?”
“Tommy Lee, the Crue drummer. One who’s married to Pam Anderson from
“It’ll blow over?”
“So to speak. In my experience the fever breaks in six or—how old are you again?”
“Nineteen.”
“—eight weeks. After that, there has to be something more. Can I ask you a favor, Dwayne?”
“Sure, Mr. H.”
“Could you keep it to yourself that the two of them are here? We don’t want anyone else to know.”
His face dropped. “You mean I can’t tell anyone? Not even the guys?”
“One word gets out and the press will be all over this place. And then they’ll have to leave.”
He tugged at his scraggly goatee. “Well, if that’s how it is then I’m cool with it.”
“You’re a good man, Dwayne.”
His eyes were on Thor again. “Hope I get a chance to have some more talks with him. I mean, you’re a bright guy and all, and I enjoy rapping with you about books and stuff, but Mr. Gibbs … he’s like a true wise man.”
I left that one alone.
Dwayne turned and looked at me. “Well, isn’t he?”
“I suppose he is, Dwayne. I suppose he is.”
I took Clethra to the mall for our little talk. The nearest was the Crystal Mall, which was about twenty miles away in New London, where the Coast Guard Academy and Naval Submarine Base were found. I hate the mall. Any mall. Something about all of those loud, tacky stores selling 163 different kinds of loud, tacky crap that people don’t need and can’t afford. Something about all of those fat, greedy housewives in polyester sweat suits elbowing and grabbing their way deeper and deeper into debt. Something about all of those brain-dead teenagers in reversed baseball caps milling aimlessly around, chewing on limp french fries, when they should have been in school learning how to spell. All it takes me is one trip to the mall and I want to flee this country for good. Sometimes, I want to do that anyway. But when I asked her where she wanted to go she said the mall. She needed clothes. So we went to the mall.
Lulu, of course, loves the place. They have a pet store there with tropical fish that’s one of her absolute fave places to hang. Oh, well, at least she barked at the guy who was dressed up like Barney.
I sat on a bench drinking a tepid, oily brown coffee-like liquid while Clethra shopped. The Seventies, I noticed, were back again. Flared hiphuggers, body shirts, stacked platform heels … all back in fashion. Made me think I’d lost the last twenty years with the blink of an eye. I frequently feel that way—that I’m still twenty-one, still trying to figure the world out, positive that it will all make sense to me someday. I’m still waiting for it to make sense. Only now I know it never will. This, I am told, is maturity.
Clethra bought jeans at the Gap and flannel shirts at Eddie Bauer and some socks and tights and underwear at a place that sold socks and tights and underwear. She had to come looking for me when it came time to pay, what with Ruth having nuked her credit cards. I had to use mine. I started out in a hole with Clethra Feingold, to the tune of $317.64. And if you want to know the truth I never climbed out of it.
“This mall sucks.” She flopped down on the bench next to me with her purchases. She had one of her new flannel shirts on over a gray gym shirt of Merilee’s. “There’s no Vicky’s Secret, no Banana Republic …”
“Don’t you have anything nice to say about anything?”
“Why should I?” she sniffed. “You don’t.”
“That’s different. I’ve earned the right to be so utterly disillusioned.”
“Hey, it’s not easy bein’ happy if you’re a child livin’ in this free world,” she moaned. This was her being tragic and vulnerable, vintage Sylvia Plath by way of Kurt Cobain, with a generous side order of gag me with a spoon, Muffy. “Does Dwayne have a girlfriend?”
“He’s never mentioned one.”
“Like, don’t you think he looks like T-Bone?”
“T-Bone?”
“Tommy Lee, the Crue drummer. One who’s married to Pam Anderson from
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