lamplit greenery and spinning wheels of the wrecked Mustang.
Ford.
First on Race Day!
(F)ucked (OR) (D)ying.
Andrew in his snakeskin boots and tight black jeans, walking down 104A, tempted to stop at a house but senses heâs done something wrong; he needs to get back to his own house and Sarah. Heâll be safe there; heâll sleep and heâll know what to do in the morning.
The left leg hurts; he sits on a guardrail and pulls his boot off, pours blood out of it, it wonât go back on.
He holds it and keeps limping, waving off several cars that stop, actually yells at one big, Swedish-looking fellow who insists that he should get in his pickup truck, but he wonât go away. Looks like he means to wrestle him into the truck. Until Andrew points at the big manâs face and gives him a cramp in the cheek muscles
How Prospero of you oh that wasnât nice he just wants to help but I have to have to just please God get home
and the big man drives off, scared because he knows the wild, injured little man did it to him. Andrew doesnât understand how mud got on him, but mud is drying in his hair and on his face and he pulls at this, spits on his hand and wipes his cheek.
The boot swinging in the other hand, the magus limping.
Only ten miles to Dog Neck Harbor, should be there by morning.
He waves off two more cars, but the third one pulls in front of him, its roof exploding in sharp but beautiful flashes of blue light.
Andrew says some words in medieval Russian.
Andrew disappears.
Knows the spell wonât last, hobbles into a soy field.
Invisible.
I donât drive so well but Iâm not too drunk to fucking DISAPPEAR!
He curls up in the soy plants, feels something like a beetle crawl on his hand but doesnât slap at it.
Says âI pardon youâ in a German accent like Ralph Fiennes in
Schindlerâs List
and laughs until he passes out.
Dreams his car is radioactive, luminous with it, enough to poison Cayuga County, that he has to shovel enough dirt over it to protect everybody, but he canât. He just canât. And he holds his shovel and cries. Because he really, really fucked up.
In the morning, a trio of dogs sniffing him, a manâs good, lined face, a giant looking down on him.
Fu fu fu, I smell Russian bones.
âAmbulance is on its way. You want some water?â
He does.
O God I fucked up I did.
He did.
More than he knows.
He sits up.
He reaches into his pocket, thinking something in there will help him.
A napkin with a note on it, a semicircle of cabernet from where the glass rested on it, a crescent moon of vice and folly.
I want you in the library tonight.
I want you to fuck me in that leather chair.
âS.
When did she slip that into his pocket?
Is it even from today?
Sarah.
âSit up slow. No hurry.â
The farmer again.
He shows the farmer the napkin note.
âDo you know when this was written?â
The farmer shakes his head.
âA pretty girl wrote it. She writes grant applications. And they say she plays guitar. And laughs and sings.â
The man smiles, points at the ambulance, walks off to talk to them, leaves a jug with a thumbprint of red paint on it.
Andrew notices the bright red silo.
Nice work, mister.
The water tastes like plastic.
And dirt.
Dirt in my mouth.
La la la la.
18
âWhatcha thinking about,
brujo
?â
âMy personal bottom.â
âBang!â Chancho says, swerving the wheel just a little, grinning.
The Mustang is doing seventy on a two-lane country highway.
Andrew jerks, grabs the door.
âWhoever told you you were funny was a
pendejo
.â
Chancho corrects his pronunciation.
19
Andrew wears his hair in a ponytail to do yard work at the Zautke house because he feels too effeminate in his samurai bun. He walks behind the power mower trying to look like he knows what heâs doing, working his way from the curb to the nondescript blue house,
Ford.
First on Race Day!
(F)ucked (OR) (D)ying.
Andrew in his snakeskin boots and tight black jeans, walking down 104A, tempted to stop at a house but senses heâs done something wrong; he needs to get back to his own house and Sarah. Heâll be safe there; heâll sleep and heâll know what to do in the morning.
The left leg hurts; he sits on a guardrail and pulls his boot off, pours blood out of it, it wonât go back on.
He holds it and keeps limping, waving off several cars that stop, actually yells at one big, Swedish-looking fellow who insists that he should get in his pickup truck, but he wonât go away. Looks like he means to wrestle him into the truck. Until Andrew points at the big manâs face and gives him a cramp in the cheek muscles
How Prospero of you oh that wasnât nice he just wants to help but I have to have to just please God get home
and the big man drives off, scared because he knows the wild, injured little man did it to him. Andrew doesnât understand how mud got on him, but mud is drying in his hair and on his face and he pulls at this, spits on his hand and wipes his cheek.
The boot swinging in the other hand, the magus limping.
Only ten miles to Dog Neck Harbor, should be there by morning.
He waves off two more cars, but the third one pulls in front of him, its roof exploding in sharp but beautiful flashes of blue light.
Andrew says some words in medieval Russian.
Andrew disappears.
Knows the spell wonât last, hobbles into a soy field.
Invisible.
I donât drive so well but Iâm not too drunk to fucking DISAPPEAR!
He curls up in the soy plants, feels something like a beetle crawl on his hand but doesnât slap at it.
Says âI pardon youâ in a German accent like Ralph Fiennes in
Schindlerâs List
and laughs until he passes out.
Dreams his car is radioactive, luminous with it, enough to poison Cayuga County, that he has to shovel enough dirt over it to protect everybody, but he canât. He just canât. And he holds his shovel and cries. Because he really, really fucked up.
In the morning, a trio of dogs sniffing him, a manâs good, lined face, a giant looking down on him.
Fu fu fu, I smell Russian bones.
âAmbulance is on its way. You want some water?â
He does.
O God I fucked up I did.
He did.
More than he knows.
He sits up.
He reaches into his pocket, thinking something in there will help him.
A napkin with a note on it, a semicircle of cabernet from where the glass rested on it, a crescent moon of vice and folly.
I want you in the library tonight.
I want you to fuck me in that leather chair.
âS.
When did she slip that into his pocket?
Is it even from today?
Sarah.
âSit up slow. No hurry.â
The farmer again.
He shows the farmer the napkin note.
âDo you know when this was written?â
The farmer shakes his head.
âA pretty girl wrote it. She writes grant applications. And they say she plays guitar. And laughs and sings.â
The man smiles, points at the ambulance, walks off to talk to them, leaves a jug with a thumbprint of red paint on it.
Andrew notices the bright red silo.
Nice work, mister.
The water tastes like plastic.
And dirt.
Dirt in my mouth.
La la la la.
18
âWhatcha thinking about,
brujo
?â
âMy personal bottom.â
âBang!â Chancho says, swerving the wheel just a little, grinning.
The Mustang is doing seventy on a two-lane country highway.
Andrew jerks, grabs the door.
âWhoever told you you were funny was a
pendejo
.â
Chancho corrects his pronunciation.
19
Andrew wears his hair in a ponytail to do yard work at the Zautke house because he feels too effeminate in his samurai bun. He walks behind the power mower trying to look like he knows what heâs doing, working his way from the curb to the nondescript blue house,
Similar Books
