[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
Haul them home. It's how his recovery is going to be about doing something big and
good instead of just not doing little bad shit.
"It's so I don't act out, dude," he says. "You have no idea how tough it is to find good
rocks in a city. I mean, not like chunks of concrete or those plastic rocks people hide their
extra keys inside."
The total for today's checks is seventy-five bucks. All from strangers who Heimlich
Maneuvered me in some restaurant somewhere. This is nowhere near what I figure a
stomach tube has got to cost.
To Denny, I say, "So how many days you got so far?"
"One hundred and twenty-seven rocks' worth," Denny says. He comes around the
table next to me, looking at the birthday cards, looking at the checks, and says, "So
where's your mom's famous diary?"
He picks up a birthday card.
"You can't read it," I say.
Denny says, "Sorry, dude," and starts to put the card down.
No, I tell him. The diary. It's written in some foreign language. That's why he can't
read it. I can't read it. How my mom thinks is she probably wrote it that way so I'd never
sneak through it when I was a kid. "Dude," I say, "I think it's Italian."
And Denny goes, "Italian?"
"Yeah," I go, "you know, like spaghetti?"
Still with his big plaid coat on, Denny says, "You eat yet?"
Not yet. I seal the deposit envelope.
Denny says, "You think they're going to banish me tomorrow?"
Yes, no, probably. Ursula saw him with the newspaper.
The deposit slip is ready for the bank tomorrow. All the thank-you letters, the
underdog letters, are signed and stamped and ready to mail. I get my coat from the sofa.
Next to it, Denny's rock is squashing the springs down.
"So what's with these rocks," I say.
Denny's opened the front door, and he's standing there while I turn off some lights.
In the doorway, he says, "I don't know. But rocks are like, you know, land. It's like these
rocks are a kit. It's land, but with some assembly required. You know, landowner-ship,
but for right now it's indoors."
I say, "For sure."
We go out and I lock the door behind us. The night sky is all fuzzy with stars. All out
of focus. There's no moon.
Outside on the sidewalk, Denny looks up at the mess and says, "What I think
happened is when God wanted to make the earth out of chaos, the first thing he did was
just get a lot of rocks together."
While we walk, his new obsessive compulsion has my eyes already scanning vacant
lots and places for rocks we can pick up.
Walking down to the bus stop with me, still with the pink baby blanket folded over
his shoulder, Denny says, "I only take the rocks nobody wants." He says, "I'll just get one
rock every night. Then I figure I'll figure out the next part, you know next."
It's such a creepy idea. Us taking home rocks. We're collecting land.
"You know that girl, Daiquiri?" Denny says. "The dancer with the cancery mole." He
says, "You didn't sleep with her, did you? "We're shoplifting real property. Burgling terra
firma.
And I say, "Why not?"
We're just an outlaw couple of land rustlers.
And Denny says, "Her real name is Beth."
The way Denny thinks, he's probably got plans to start his own planet.
Chapter 22
DR. PAIGE MARSHALL STRETCHES A STRING of something white tight between her two
gloved hands. She stands over a deflated old woman in a recliner chair, and Dr. Marshall
says, "Mrs. Wintower? I need you to open your mouth as wide as you can."
Latex gloves, the yellow way they make your hands look, this is just how cadaver
skin looks. The medical cadavers from first-year anatomy with their shaved heads and
pubic hair. The little stubble of the hairs. The skin could be chicken skin, cheap stewing
chicken, turning yellow and dimpled with follicles. Feathers or hair, it's all just keratin.
The muscles of the human thigh look the same as dark-meat turkey. During first-year
anatomy, you can't look at chicken or turkey and not be eating a cadaver.
The old woman tilts her head back to show her teeth wedged in their brown curve.
Her tongue coated white. Her eyes are closed. This is how all these old women look at
Communion, at Catholic Mass, when you're an altar boy and have to follow along with
the priest as he puts the wafer on tongue after old tongue. The church says you can
receive the Host into your hand, then feed yourself, but not these old ladies. In church,
you'll still look down the Communion rail and see two hundred open mouths, two
hundred old ladies stretching their tongues toward salvation.
Paige Marshall leans in and forces the white string between the old woman's teeth.
She pulls, and when the string twangs out from the mouth, some soft gray bits flick out.
She runs the string between two more teeth, and the string comes out red.
For bleeding gums, see also: Oral cancers.
See also: Necrotizing ulcerative gingivitis.
The only good part about being an altar boy is you get to hold the paten under the
chin of each person receiving Communion. This is a gold platter on a stick you use to [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
zanotowane.pl doc.pisz.pl pdf.pisz.pl akte20.pev.pl
Haul them home. It's how his recovery is going to be about doing something big and
good instead of just not doing little bad shit.
"It's so I don't act out, dude," he says. "You have no idea how tough it is to find good
rocks in a city. I mean, not like chunks of concrete or those plastic rocks people hide their
extra keys inside."
The total for today's checks is seventy-five bucks. All from strangers who Heimlich
Maneuvered me in some restaurant somewhere. This is nowhere near what I figure a
stomach tube has got to cost.
To Denny, I say, "So how many days you got so far?"
"One hundred and twenty-seven rocks' worth," Denny says. He comes around the
table next to me, looking at the birthday cards, looking at the checks, and says, "So
where's your mom's famous diary?"
He picks up a birthday card.
"You can't read it," I say.
Denny says, "Sorry, dude," and starts to put the card down.
No, I tell him. The diary. It's written in some foreign language. That's why he can't
read it. I can't read it. How my mom thinks is she probably wrote it that way so I'd never
sneak through it when I was a kid. "Dude," I say, "I think it's Italian."
And Denny goes, "Italian?"
"Yeah," I go, "you know, like spaghetti?"
Still with his big plaid coat on, Denny says, "You eat yet?"
Not yet. I seal the deposit envelope.
Denny says, "You think they're going to banish me tomorrow?"
Yes, no, probably. Ursula saw him with the newspaper.
The deposit slip is ready for the bank tomorrow. All the thank-you letters, the
underdog letters, are signed and stamped and ready to mail. I get my coat from the sofa.
Next to it, Denny's rock is squashing the springs down.
"So what's with these rocks," I say.
Denny's opened the front door, and he's standing there while I turn off some lights.
In the doorway, he says, "I don't know. But rocks are like, you know, land. It's like these
rocks are a kit. It's land, but with some assembly required. You know, landowner-ship,
but for right now it's indoors."
I say, "For sure."
We go out and I lock the door behind us. The night sky is all fuzzy with stars. All out
of focus. There's no moon.
Outside on the sidewalk, Denny looks up at the mess and says, "What I think
happened is when God wanted to make the earth out of chaos, the first thing he did was
just get a lot of rocks together."
While we walk, his new obsessive compulsion has my eyes already scanning vacant
lots and places for rocks we can pick up.
Walking down to the bus stop with me, still with the pink baby blanket folded over
his shoulder, Denny says, "I only take the rocks nobody wants." He says, "I'll just get one
rock every night. Then I figure I'll figure out the next part, you know next."
It's such a creepy idea. Us taking home rocks. We're collecting land.
"You know that girl, Daiquiri?" Denny says. "The dancer with the cancery mole." He
says, "You didn't sleep with her, did you? "We're shoplifting real property. Burgling terra
firma.
And I say, "Why not?"
We're just an outlaw couple of land rustlers.
And Denny says, "Her real name is Beth."
The way Denny thinks, he's probably got plans to start his own planet.
Chapter 22
DR. PAIGE MARSHALL STRETCHES A STRING of something white tight between her two
gloved hands. She stands over a deflated old woman in a recliner chair, and Dr. Marshall
says, "Mrs. Wintower? I need you to open your mouth as wide as you can."
Latex gloves, the yellow way they make your hands look, this is just how cadaver
skin looks. The medical cadavers from first-year anatomy with their shaved heads and
pubic hair. The little stubble of the hairs. The skin could be chicken skin, cheap stewing
chicken, turning yellow and dimpled with follicles. Feathers or hair, it's all just keratin.
The muscles of the human thigh look the same as dark-meat turkey. During first-year
anatomy, you can't look at chicken or turkey and not be eating a cadaver.
The old woman tilts her head back to show her teeth wedged in their brown curve.
Her tongue coated white. Her eyes are closed. This is how all these old women look at
Communion, at Catholic Mass, when you're an altar boy and have to follow along with
the priest as he puts the wafer on tongue after old tongue. The church says you can
receive the Host into your hand, then feed yourself, but not these old ladies. In church,
you'll still look down the Communion rail and see two hundred open mouths, two
hundred old ladies stretching their tongues toward salvation.
Paige Marshall leans in and forces the white string between the old woman's teeth.
She pulls, and when the string twangs out from the mouth, some soft gray bits flick out.
She runs the string between two more teeth, and the string comes out red.
For bleeding gums, see also: Oral cancers.
See also: Necrotizing ulcerative gingivitis.
The only good part about being an altar boy is you get to hold the paten under the
chin of each person receiving Communion. This is a gold platter on a stick you use to [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]