joke of my being
delivered, a lone passenger, by so large a vehicle, to his otherwise
undistinguished residence. The driver and I shook hands. He declined
to come in. He eased the giant machine around the corner and slowly
out of sight.
T he
drop-in is not all it was once in the South, and my timing in coming
to see Tom was not good. Tom and his wife, Elaine, were expecting
guests for the weekend--the twin girls of Elaine's sister. At first I
thought that crowding alone was to be the principal hitch, but things
got complex.
When the girls arrived, Elaine fawned over them in a
demonstrative way I suspect was calculated to show Tom something, and
I came to think the something was that they needed girls, or
children, just like these. Tom entertained them with nervous
cartoonisms, affecting a kind of Dr. Seuss character. Elaine acted
happily dazed, serving as a kind of buffer between Tom and the somber
girls, who, as if in opposition, were mature and smiled only when
obligated.
After dinner the girls were put to bed and we sat
talking. Tom got a brilliant light in his eyes and said to me, "Do
you know what Elaine does?"
" I do not," I reported.
Elaine gravely started to peel her blouse over her
head. I wondered if I had badly misjudged them. Beneath her blouse
was a T-shirt proclaiming Slingshot champ of
1249 Bowick .
Tom leaped from the table, returning with a cardboard
box, in the bottom of which was a carpet sample. It was one of our
targets before we got the tents and the rats. Elaine was flexing the
surgical tubing of a slingshot, inspecting for fissures. "Tom
had this made at the shop at work. Aircraft aluminum? I had my first
look at a nuclear-reactor slingshot.
For an hour we shot into the box Tom's array of
suburban grapeshot; marbles, slugs, rocks, fishing weights, ball
bearings, a wild thing that looked like a lead pecan cluster.
" This should be in the Olympics," Tom said.
" Are there any rats?" I asked.
" Rats?" Tom asked, as if he had forgotten
our previous time with the slingshot. "No. No rats. None in
town." There was a momentary drop in Tom's goofy mirth, a kind
of amnesiac stare I was not familiar with. "Tom," Elaine
said.
It was not clear what had happened, what Elaine
meant, what Tom had provoked. Tom put the box containing all the
grapeshot away. Elaine showed me a guest room, appointed in all
details, towels to alarm clock, and retired. I got the entirely
unsupportable impression that she was wondering what Tom had ever
seen in me and felt, so accused, that I couldn't blame her.
Tom and I stayed up in the kitchen. I had given no
explanation for my arrival and had expected to have to. Tom was
usually downright nosy about school and how well or badly folk were
doing. Flunked out was
a phrase he liked to repeat until it was ludicrous. Telling him I
quit Friedeman would ordinarily produce his largest ear-to-ear,
incredulous smile. But he was not curious. We sat and listened to
Elaine closing doors.
Tom looked down the hall. I thought of our once
having wadded up my tent out on the fire escape and firing the
slingshot down the long reach of the apartment hall past the Orphan's
and Veteran's doors, prepared to tell anyone who challenged us we
were humoring the Veteran with a dead fucking nigger cannon. I
thought Tom was just possibly calculating for a long-hall setup. He
remained still.
" Tom, no rats ?"
"Paul White tapirs?" The old glee. Paul
White was our landlord. "Are tapirs really rodents ?
How could they be? I'd like to see the teeth ."
This was the old Tom.
" I can't imagine rodents that large," I said.
" Me either."
He studied the hall. "No rats." Again I
thought I saw a change, a little dark flash.
I got up and got a GO BIG RED commemorative half-pint
out of my bag. To my surprise Tom did not decline it. He is legendary
for sustained and exclusive consumption of soft drinks.
" They take those kids to live filmings of Sesame
Street," he said. "Make them listen to NPR. Had
delivered, a lone passenger, by so large a vehicle, to his otherwise
undistinguished residence. The driver and I shook hands. He declined
to come in. He eased the giant machine around the corner and slowly
out of sight.
T he
drop-in is not all it was once in the South, and my timing in coming
to see Tom was not good. Tom and his wife, Elaine, were expecting
guests for the weekend--the twin girls of Elaine's sister. At first I
thought that crowding alone was to be the principal hitch, but things
got complex.
When the girls arrived, Elaine fawned over them in a
demonstrative way I suspect was calculated to show Tom something, and
I came to think the something was that they needed girls, or
children, just like these. Tom entertained them with nervous
cartoonisms, affecting a kind of Dr. Seuss character. Elaine acted
happily dazed, serving as a kind of buffer between Tom and the somber
girls, who, as if in opposition, were mature and smiled only when
obligated.
After dinner the girls were put to bed and we sat
talking. Tom got a brilliant light in his eyes and said to me, "Do
you know what Elaine does?"
" I do not," I reported.
Elaine gravely started to peel her blouse over her
head. I wondered if I had badly misjudged them. Beneath her blouse
was a T-shirt proclaiming Slingshot champ of
1249 Bowick .
Tom leaped from the table, returning with a cardboard
box, in the bottom of which was a carpet sample. It was one of our
targets before we got the tents and the rats. Elaine was flexing the
surgical tubing of a slingshot, inspecting for fissures. "Tom
had this made at the shop at work. Aircraft aluminum? I had my first
look at a nuclear-reactor slingshot.
For an hour we shot into the box Tom's array of
suburban grapeshot; marbles, slugs, rocks, fishing weights, ball
bearings, a wild thing that looked like a lead pecan cluster.
" This should be in the Olympics," Tom said.
" Are there any rats?" I asked.
" Rats?" Tom asked, as if he had forgotten
our previous time with the slingshot. "No. No rats. None in
town." There was a momentary drop in Tom's goofy mirth, a kind
of amnesiac stare I was not familiar with. "Tom," Elaine
said.
It was not clear what had happened, what Elaine
meant, what Tom had provoked. Tom put the box containing all the
grapeshot away. Elaine showed me a guest room, appointed in all
details, towels to alarm clock, and retired. I got the entirely
unsupportable impression that she was wondering what Tom had ever
seen in me and felt, so accused, that I couldn't blame her.
Tom and I stayed up in the kitchen. I had given no
explanation for my arrival and had expected to have to. Tom was
usually downright nosy about school and how well or badly folk were
doing. Flunked out was
a phrase he liked to repeat until it was ludicrous. Telling him I
quit Friedeman would ordinarily produce his largest ear-to-ear,
incredulous smile. But he was not curious. We sat and listened to
Elaine closing doors.
Tom looked down the hall. I thought of our once
having wadded up my tent out on the fire escape and firing the
slingshot down the long reach of the apartment hall past the Orphan's
and Veteran's doors, prepared to tell anyone who challenged us we
were humoring the Veteran with a dead fucking nigger cannon. I
thought Tom was just possibly calculating for a long-hall setup. He
remained still.
" Tom, no rats ?"
"Paul White tapirs?" The old glee. Paul
White was our landlord. "Are tapirs really rodents ?
How could they be? I'd like to see the teeth ."
This was the old Tom.
" I can't imagine rodents that large," I said.
" Me either."
He studied the hall. "No rats." Again I
thought I saw a change, a little dark flash.
I got up and got a GO BIG RED commemorative half-pint
out of my bag. To my surprise Tom did not decline it. He is legendary
for sustained and exclusive consumption of soft drinks.
" They take those kids to live filmings of Sesame
Street," he said. "Make them listen to NPR. Had
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