The Octopus on My Head by Jim Nisbet Page B

availability of raw space from 450 up to 45,000 square feet.
    â€œMan,” I observed, “you might think that it looks like the seventies down here, it’s so deserted, but I might think it could be more like the fifties.”
    â€œI’ve only seen pictures,” Lavinia said.
    â€œMe, too.”
    â€œVisions of the railroad earth,” Lavinia said.
    I turned to look at her. The shadows moved off the dashboard and over her hands on the rim of the steering wheel, sculpting her face. It looked like a flight of pelicans limning a swell. “My favorite Kerouac piece,” I said.
    She shook her head. “ Mexico City Blues is better.”
    â€œI don’t think so, but you’re not alone; Michael McClure called it the great visionary poem of the twentieth century.”
    â€œYeah, well,” she shrugged, “he’s probably never read The Sorrow of War , by Bao Ninh.”
    â€œI’d prefer to call that novel an elegiac triumph, and to hell with visionary.”
    â€œCurly,” she purred, “you are the only person I’ve ever met who’s read as many books as I have.”
    â€œMore,” I corrected her. “More than you have.”
    â€œAfter you starve to death,” she cooed, “can I have your library?”
    â€œI’ll leave you mine if you leave me yours.”
    â€œCan’t do that, I’m sorry to say. Ivy pawned the whole thing one box at a time.” She softened her tone. “Don’t I have anything else you want?”
    I shook my head. “This doesn’t look like a real address.”
    â€œWhat would you know about a real address? You mean it’s not a toilet with a bed and a sink?”
    â€œYou slagging my crib?”
    â€œNo, I’m talking about your shitty apartment. When’s the last time a woman was in there?”
    I gave this a moment’s thought. “About two hours ago,” I replied. “At least, it used to be a woman.”
    â€œYou know what I mean,” she insisted.
    â€œNot counting my guitar?”
    â€œDon’t be pathetic.”
    â€œNone of your business,” I replied pathetically.
    â€œDon’t you know any female octopi?”
    â€œI wouldn’t spend so much time with her, meaning my guitar, if she weren’t the real thing.”
    â€œYou wouldn’t spend so much time with her, meaning your guitar, if you had a real thing.”
    â€œThat,” I conceded, “might be a brush with the truth.”
    â€œAnyhow, where people keep their stolen PA systems isn’t necessarily where they sleep.”
    â€œAnd here I thought I was looking for my beloved brother.”
    â€œYou might still be looking for your beloved brother. Nobody is saying our bird is still here—if he ever was here. Did that landlord look cagey to you?”
    â€œLavinia, think about it. When was the last time you saw somebody look cagey who actually was cagey?”
    â€œUm …. The last time I saw a picture of Little Bush on the cover of Time ?”
    â€œThat guy’s not cagey.”
    â€œOn the contrary, my mouse, I think he put one over on everybody, including himself.”
    â€œSpeaking as a small rodent, I agree with you.”
    â€œIf only there were a little id to go along with it.”
    â€œLike when Clinton was President? But hey, now that we’ve established our San Francisco political credentials, we didn’t come here to talk politics.”
    â€œNo. We came here to talk money.”
    â€œWhat’s the difference?”
    Lavinia took a left around the north corner of the block, on Alameda, and parked on the wrong side of the street.
    â€œWill it fit in your car?”
    â€œWhat, seventy-five hundred bucks?”
    â€œI was thinking we might get the merchandise instead. Seventy-five hundred dollars worth of PA system could take up a lot of space.”
    â€œThat’s just what he owes on it,” she