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Six
Two weeks go by without the usual
bead-shop rendezvous. By the third, I figure it’s time for me and Kelly to have
a chat about Damon. I am just cowardly enough to wait until Jessie finds out
about Horny Housewives on her own,
but I’d like some information should the
recriminations come.
I
give a three-fingered Boy Scout salute to Marty – who still can’t look me in
the eye – and fetch my noble 21-speed from the back lot. It’s getting dark, and
a light rain is falling. As I roll by the entry towers on Palm Drive, a passing
image begins to gain detail on my internal screen: a hunched figure in a yellow
slicker, the kind you might see on a package of frozen fish. Only, the hands
and feet are made of bronze, with rough, exaggerated knuckles.
I’m
almost to The El Camino when I realize that the figure is Lisa Pisarro. I stop
and swivel my bike around, then chug back to the towers and slide to a
rain-hindered halt. I’m only five feet away, but still it’s a half-minute
before the hood crumples back and the face appears. The readable features have
been worn to a Zen-like blank, long days full of grief. She greets me with a
nod.
“Mr.
Grinder.”
“Ms.
Pisarro.”
“Wheeling
into town for baguettes?”
“Oui,
mademoiselle.”
“You
have a stripe like a skunk.”
It
occurs to me that she might say anything – though she’s right, my rear tire has
painted my windbreaker with a banner of wet.
“May
I sit with you?”
Her
eyes flicker, as if she has forgotten and remembered me in the same second.
“Will
you do all the talking?”
“Love
to.”
“I
thought you might.”
I
settle my bike against the tower, then lower myself to the bench, bracing for
the small puddles that will further soak my jeans. We sit for a while, facing
forward, small rainclouds disassembling themselves over the Stanford shopping
mall. I guess I’m waiting for a starter’s gun.
“So,”
she says. “Whattya got?”
“My
son continues to surprise the hell out of me. He’s decided to take up baseball.
And I have no idea what you did to his shoulder, but he seems to have a 93
mile-per-hour fastball. Frankly, it’s got all the other kids petrified.”
She
isn’t close to laughing, but she shifts her eyes like she’s thinking about it.
“Let’s
see… The tumor study isn’t that far along, but we are beginning to see some
interesting patterns. For one thing, the…”
She
fixes me with a look of scorn. “I am a woman in desperate need of distraction –
and you’re talking shop? The Nolan Ryan shoulder thing – that was good. Gimme
some more.”
“Okay.
I’m concerned about my daughter, Laura. She’s swimming so much that she’s
developed webbing between her fingers and toes. She’s also sprouted a couple of
gills just below her ribcage, and a dorsal fin. It’s improved her times tremendously,
but if she turns completely to water-breathing, I’m not sure if we can afford
the tank.”
I
consider this to be top-level bullshitting, but Pisarro is looking away, as if
she hasn’t heard a word. I proceed, regardless.
“My
mistress, who likes to paint hookers’ faces on her ass, introduced me to a rich
geek who seduces bored housewives for a hobby. He agreed to sleep with my wife
so she would stop trying to slice out my eyeballs. Turns out he took a video of
the whole thing, and now she’s on a porn site called ‘Horny Housewives.’”
Pisarro
turns to me and smiles. Not a big smile, but it’s more than I expected.
“Jesus,
Hopkins. I wanted amusing stories, not sick fantasies.”
I
could have told her more. Like the way I’ve been masturbating to videos of my
own wife. Instead, I neutralize the whole subject with, “Well, there ya go.”
She
gives me her profile again, back to the road, the palm trees, the mountains.
Her life is in the distance. A van whips by, leaving the faint smell of coffee.
I lift my arm to the back of the bench, grazing Pisarro’s shoulder, and turn in
the same direction. Five minutes later, I state the inevitable.
“He’s
gone.”
“Yes.”
Photo by MJV
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