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His wife, McDonnells wife, had taken to leaving these fortune
cookie fortune-sized wads of paper all over the kitchen counter, near
the phone, and on the floor around the garbage can; for weeks shed
been spilling these little wads of paper as if shed sprung a leak
of them, as if inside her skin, she was really made of tatters and scraps
and finally, finally against his better judgment, McDonnell unraveled
a few of these balls of paper, these little fortunes, and written oneach
one was a phone number. Local numbers or, at least, numbers without area
codes. He assumed the worst which is to say, he assumed his wife had become
an incredible slut because why else all these numbers? What else were
telephone numbers but coded potentialities, the DNA that code an organism
of intrigue and betrayal. What else could they be for? She was no volunteer,
she wasnt raising money for cancered lungs and she wasnt selling
Tupperware or magazine subscriptions or anything else because selling
was something she didnt do, not evershe gave but she would
not sell. She gave and she gave and she gave. Christ,h e thought, oh lord
Christ she is generous. He called the numbers, every number on every piece
of paper pressed against his moist palm and, yes, men answered,many men,
but just as many children and old women and old women with children in
the background laughing in languages he couldnt understand. He called
for an hour, two hours. He went for a walk.
Uptown, Columbus Avenue, near the park with
the shadows of midtown falling behind him, not long before sunset so the
buildings seemed made of sugar in the slanted light and a recent rain
had dampened the smell of all the tiny dogs pissing on garbage bags, a
regular day, walking through Manhattan, and McDonnell lost his rage to
his uncertainty and guilt in the rhythm of the small massings of bodies
at each corner waitingto cross the street. It was at one of these corners,
somewhere past 90th Street, when he felt, very distinctly, a hand cup
around his ass and squeeze.Instinctively, he thought not to think because,
it happenscrowded streets, a million idiots whose mothers never taught
them to walk, a regular day, walking throughManhattan, it would be easy
to misinterpret a standard collision for the come on of a pervert so forget
it. Then he heard this kind of mechanical giggling he wouldnt describe
as laughter because in the context of the word, laughter, there
is an assumption of human intelligence, of understanding, an intelligence
this particular human sound did not contain. Idiotic and something worse
is how it sounded, like a blight, like the prelude to a blight. And he
twistedaround to glance at the source of the giggling and saw the two
girls, young girls, maybe eighteen, seventeen, creating this noise and
one of them, the one farthest from him, high-fived her friend.
And when they saw him their giggling became explosive. Two young girls
had grabbed his ass, had sexually assaulted him and just McDonnells
luck they were the two ugliest girls he had ever seenbony, shapeless
girls with sagging shoulders, doughy faced and pimply around the ears,
with cheap silver jewelry that glinted wanly like gum wrappers in the
gutter. These two girls, their ugliness was so dense that it curved the
light around them so that they were encased in a solid frame of revulsion,
an ugliness so dense it was all McDonnell could see. He felt now, physically,
that he had lost his imagination the way he might lose an arm or a leg,
the first ghost pain hed noticed and it hurt. What he thoughthell,
anybody could think it.
He could have said something, wanted
to say something, but in a tight spot, he hadno confidence in the
sharpness of his wit, his humor and knew, because it had happened before,
that he would lose his righteousness in stutters. He wanted them to die,
not painfully but quickly but he let this feeling pass and, in the absence
ofanything else to do, allowed the gravity of his inclinations to take
over and let himself become flattered by the situation, that a young girl
had found him attractive, uncontrollably, and had made a clumsy pass.
McDonnell the paragon. McDonnell the heart-breaker-man. Absolutely.
He made his way back downtown and ducked
into a coffee shop on Broadway and sat at a table near the window so he
could look out on the street, at the people walking along, all these people
in their leather jackets and chinos and daring snatches of plaid with
cigarettes poking from their lips, all these beautiful, catalogued
people and he felt flattered again, flattered to be among these people,
flattered to be one of them. He brought the cup of coffee to his lips
and held it there, and just held the cup there so he could take in the
fine smell of the coffee, and held it there at an angle, at just the angle
of a man who appreciated a fine cup of coffee, like a man whose every
motion advertised a warm appreciation for every spinning molecule of his
life.
And we bought this giant bed, ten feet
high it seemed, at the auctioning of the estate of some dissolute British
duke and had it shipped to our apartment piece by piece and I discovered
a trap door leading to an interior hollow on my side of the bed, the trap
door triggered by the nose of a cow carved into the headboard, and one
night, when I finally gave in to this temptation to hide, to fall into
this hollow I had lined with a quilt and stocked with a bottle of scotch,
I landed gently onto her waiting body, her faint smell of citrus, and
she said to me, gently, surprise, and I wasnt surprised and I was
grateful for it.
There were so many things McDonnell didnt
understand, but he wanted to.
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on the streets, you might take a moment to breathe
emmit fox
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