Читать книгу The End Specialist - Drew Magary, Drew Magary - Страница 28

I Seek The Grail

I have a friend who’s going to have a cure party next week in Las Vegas. He’s really doing it up, too. He booked a suite at the Fountain of Youth, so our trip is guaranteed to be either cheesy in a fascinating, outstanding way or cheesy in a horrible, soul-sucking way. There’s no in-between when you go to Vegas, particularly if you’re committed to staying at that monstrosity. Before the trip, my friend had a request.

“You’ve had the cure, right?” he asked me.

“Yep.”

“Do you have a grail?”

“No. That’s idiotic.”

“You have to get one. We’re all gonna buy grails and bring them. You have to do it. Prerequisite.”

“Oh, come on. Really? I have to buy one of those stupid things?”

“We’re staying at the Fountain of Youth. We have to go all the way with this. I’ll even pay for yours. I can’t have a half-assed cure party.”

“Can’t I buy it when we’re out there?”

“No, because we’re gonna drink out of them on the plane. Hell, I’m looking forward to the plane ride more than any other part of the trip.”

So I had to get a grail. Derrick’s Grail Shop is located on Christopher Street between a gay sex shop and a head shop. Derrick’s is also a head shop, but it seems they do such good business selling grails right now that the bongs have been pushed to a small section on the side. I wondered when the head shop owner next door would wise up to that fact.

I walked in and took a look. They had thousands of the things. I remember that scene from that one Indiana Jones movie where Indy walks into the grail room and sees all these shiny, golden chalices. Only the real Holy Grail was some crudely made cup sitting meekly on the lowest shelf. All the nice looking grails in the movie killed you instantly. Well, Derrick’s had no crude grails—no real grails. All the ones here were like the fakes the bad Nazi guy drank from, designed to tempt you and then suck all the life right out of you.

That said, they were all quite pretty. Some were knockoff versions of what you can get in the Diamond District, with the fake gold and the giant phony gemstones lining the rims. But there were some cool ones, too. I saw one made of stitched leather with a fake gold inlay. Oxo made a couple of stainless steel ones with comfortable rubber grips—the practical grail, if you will. They also had Goth ones, including a grail that had a curled-up dragon for a stem. If I had a van, I would definitely paint that grail on the side of my van. They had grails made of elaborately carved oak, for the environmentally friendly postmortal. None of them looked all that Jesus-appropriate. But hey, they were still nice grails.

I saw one in a Lucite box. It was made of crystal, with an engraved pattern of infinity symbols. I looked at the clerk behind the glass counter and pointed to the box.

“What’s that one?”

“That’s the DX3490,” he said. “Designed by the Swift himself. It’s the same one he drinks from on tour. You can even send away to have him sign it.” He pointed to a poster on the wall. Sure enough, there was the Swift, wearing a white suit and drinking a purple drank out of the very same grail. Spiffy.

“Do you think I could pull off rocking the same grail as the Swift?”

“Truthfully? No.”

He also showed me a room in the back where you can design your own. They had thick stylebooks you could flip through, like choosing wedding invites. You could pick the pattern, the font, everything. They even had suggested sayings you could have embossed on your grail. You could paint your own clay grail and then have them fire it in a kiln. I saw a couple up on the shelf waiting to be picked up. One said BETTY’S GRAIL. I have no clue why that made me laugh, but I nearly soiled myself when I saw it. They had matching grail-and-bong sets, which I found highly tempting, though God help you if you ever confuse the two at five in the morning.

In the end I chose a simple gold one. I wanted a grail that made me feel like a knight who had just finished a long day’s pillaging. The kind you hold in one hand while you eat a turkey drumstick in the other. The kind where you feel compelled to talk like a town crier while holding it. That’s the kind of grail I wanted, and that’s the kind I ended up getting. Twenty bucks. Not bad for the cup of Christ.

I brought it home, mixed a rum and Coke in it, and gave my usual cheers to Katy. I have to say, the Swift was onto something with this trend. Drinks taste way better when you’re drinking them out of a grail.

Date Modified: 11/7/2029, 8:51PM