Aug102010
Things might look better
tomorrow, through the...
Things might look better
tomorrow, through the haze of a hangoverI did
not see how they could look much worseI reached
for my crutch and my foot - my left one, my good
foot, for Christ's sake - caught under my chairMy right leg wasn't strong enough to
hold me up and I fell full-length, reaching out
with my right arm to break my fall
Just instinct, of courseexcept it did break my
fallI didn't see it - my eyes were
squeezed shut, the way you squeeze them when you
know you're going to take one for the team - but
if I hadn't broken my fall, I would almost
certainly have done myself significant damage,
204
carpet or no carpetI could have sprained my neck,
or even broken it
I lay there a moment, confirming to myself that I
was still alive, then got to my cartier pasha watch knees, my hip
aching fiercely, holding my throbbing right arm up
in front of my eyesThere was no arm thereI set
my chair up on its legs, leaned on it with my left
forearmthen darted my head forward and bit my
right arm
I felt the crescents of my teeth sink in just
below the elbowI felt the flesh of my forearm
against my lipsThen I drew back, panting"Jesus!
Jesus! What's happening? What is this?"
I almost expected to see the arm swirl into
existenceIt didn't, but it was there, all right
I reached across the seat of my chair for one of
my brushesI could feel my fingers grasp it, but
the brush didn't moveI thought: So this is what
it's like to be a ghost
I scrambled into the chairMy hip was snarling,
but that pain seemed to be happening far downriver
With my chanel white ceramic watch left hand I snatched up the brush I'd
cleaned and put it behind my left earCleaned
205
another and put it in the gutter of the easel
Cleaned a third and put that in the gutter, as
wellThought about cleaning a fourth and decided
I didn't want to take the timeThat fever was on
me again, that hungerIt was as sudden and
violent as my fits of rageIf the smoke detectors
had gone off downstairs, announcing the house was
on fire, I would have paid no attentionI
stripped the cellophane from a brand-new brush,
dipped black, and began to paint
As with the picture I'd called The End of the Game,
I don't remember much about the actual creation of
Friends with BenefitsAll I know is it happened
in a violent explosion, and sunsets had nothing to
do with itIt was mostly prada milano black and blue, the
color of bruises, and when it was done, my left
arm ached from the exerciseMy hand was
splattered with paint all the way to the wrist
The finished canvas reminded me a little of those
noir paperback covers I used to see back when I
was a kid, the ones that always featured some
roundheels dame headed for hellOnly on the
paperback covers, the dame was usually blond and
twenty-twoishIn my picture, she had dark hair
206
and looked on the plus side of fortyThis dame
was my ex-wife
She was sitting on a rumpled bed, wearing nothing
but a pair of blue pantiesThe strap of a
matching bra trailed across one legHer head was
slightly bent, but there was no mistaking her
features; I had caught her BRILLIANTLY in just a
few harsh strokes of black seamaster de ville that were almost like
Chinese ideogramsOn the slope of one breast was
the picture's only real spot of brightness: a rose
tattooI wondered when she'd gotten it, and why
Pam wearing ink seemed as unlikely to me as Pam
racing a dirt-bike at Mission Hill, but I had no
doubt whatever that it was true; it was just a
fact, like Carson Jones's Torii Hunter tee-shirt
There were also two men in the picture, both naked
One stood at the window, half-turnedHe had a
perfectly typical body for a white middle-class
man of fifty or so, one I imagined you could see
in any Gold's Gym changing room: poochy stomach,
flat little no-cheeks ass, moderate man-titsHis
face was intelligent and well-bredOn that face
now was a melancholy she's-almost-gone lookA
nothing-will-change-it omega automatic geneve
tomorrow, through the haze of a hangoverI did
not see how they could look much worseI reached
for my crutch and my foot - my left one, my good
foot, for Christ's sake - caught under my chairMy right leg wasn't strong enough to
hold me up and I fell full-length, reaching out
with my right arm to break my fall
Just instinct, of courseexcept it did break my
fallI didn't see it - my eyes were
squeezed shut, the way you squeeze them when you
know you're going to take one for the team - but
if I hadn't broken my fall, I would almost
certainly have done myself significant damage,
204
carpet or no carpetI could have sprained my neck,
or even broken it
I lay there a moment, confirming to myself that I
was still alive, then got to my cartier pasha watch knees, my hip
aching fiercely, holding my throbbing right arm up
in front of my eyesThere was no arm thereI set
my chair up on its legs, leaned on it with my left
forearmthen darted my head forward and bit my
right arm
I felt the crescents of my teeth sink in just
below the elbowI felt the flesh of my forearm
against my lipsThen I drew back, panting"Jesus!
Jesus! What's happening? What is this?"
I almost expected to see the arm swirl into
existenceIt didn't, but it was there, all right
I reached across the seat of my chair for one of
my brushesI could feel my fingers grasp it, but
the brush didn't moveI thought: So this is what
it's like to be a ghost
I scrambled into the chairMy hip was snarling,
but that pain seemed to be happening far downriver
With my chanel white ceramic watch left hand I snatched up the brush I'd
cleaned and put it behind my left earCleaned
205
another and put it in the gutter of the easel
Cleaned a third and put that in the gutter, as
wellThought about cleaning a fourth and decided
I didn't want to take the timeThat fever was on
me again, that hungerIt was as sudden and
violent as my fits of rageIf the smoke detectors
had gone off downstairs, announcing the house was
on fire, I would have paid no attentionI
stripped the cellophane from a brand-new brush,
dipped black, and began to paint
As with the picture I'd called The End of the Game,
I don't remember much about the actual creation of
Friends with BenefitsAll I know is it happened
in a violent explosion, and sunsets had nothing to
do with itIt was mostly prada milano black and blue, the
color of bruises, and when it was done, my left
arm ached from the exerciseMy hand was
splattered with paint all the way to the wrist
The finished canvas reminded me a little of those
noir paperback covers I used to see back when I
was a kid, the ones that always featured some
roundheels dame headed for hellOnly on the
paperback covers, the dame was usually blond and
twenty-twoishIn my picture, she had dark hair
206
and looked on the plus side of fortyThis dame
was my ex-wife
She was sitting on a rumpled bed, wearing nothing
but a pair of blue pantiesThe strap of a
matching bra trailed across one legHer head was
slightly bent, but there was no mistaking her
features; I had caught her BRILLIANTLY in just a
few harsh strokes of black seamaster de ville that were almost like
Chinese ideogramsOn the slope of one breast was
the picture's only real spot of brightness: a rose
tattooI wondered when she'd gotten it, and why
Pam wearing ink seemed as unlikely to me as Pam
racing a dirt-bike at Mission Hill, but I had no
doubt whatever that it was true; it was just a
fact, like Carson Jones's Torii Hunter tee-shirt
There were also two men in the picture, both naked
One stood at the window, half-turnedHe had a
perfectly typical body for a white middle-class
man of fifty or so, one I imagined you could see
in any Gold's Gym changing room: poochy stomach,
flat little no-cheeks ass, moderate man-titsHis
face was intelligent and well-bredOn that face
now was a melancholy she's-almost-gone lookA
nothing-will-change-it omega automatic geneve
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