Читать книгу Sunshine on an Open Tomb - Tim Kinsella - Страница 17

Between The Diner and The Club that afternoon I’d stopped at the grocery store to replenish my Jell-o.

Though I keep very little other food at home, I often browsed to confirm that nothing else looked good.

The Barbarians’ pride for their local cream made me embarrassed for them.

And their fish tasted like an oil spill.

It rained as I headed over there in my minivan.

The bare trees, the fences, and the telephone poles all the same color as my breakfast, between pale brown and gray.

Each discrete object faded to a matching hue, obscuring the distinctions between branch, wire, and twine.

The landscape existed as if only to demonstrate the small gestures of fencing that adjacent property requires.

A pigeon-toed young father pushed a stroller uphill.

Someone had invested great energy into covering the entirety of a boxy car in spray-painted flames, each flame’s edge fanning and fading perfectly.

The Barbarians adapt to the violent squash on crowded buses.

You never don’t feel like a stranger walking those streets, stepping over corpses, constantly anticipating a boy will rush from any doorway to walk alongside you, imitating your walk to amuse his friends.

Did you know, Noble Reader, the posh section of Auschwitz was nicknamed Canada?

In the grocery store I pawed gummy tomatoes.

I shook a can of nuts and stroked bendy celery.

Some young Barbarian-ette bargain-hunting with a baby thrown over her shoulder made for an awk flirt indeed, Maiden.

She thought I’d buy her groceries?

And that aloof look obese people cultivate to return every innocent glance, I was sick of participating.

Hands on hips, pondering all kinds of colors excluded from my breakfast and the landscape, I imagined how sticky ketchup feels on the hair at your wrists, and how sticky maple syrup feels there too, and ranch dressing even after wiping it clean.

Then whom should happen to turn the corner at the end of the aisle but That Mike.

I didn’t recognize him without the apron tied around his waist.

He held a little girl’s hand, and they shuffled toward me, him hunched low to hear her murmur.

It pleased me so to saunter over.

He glanced up, and I thought he didn’t see me.

She was a beautiful, blonde little princess gripping a plastic toy horse in one hand, looked nothing like That Mike, who looked and talked just like Bruno Kirby, the talkative limo driver in Spinal Tap who was also in Good Morning, Vietnam last year.

He stood up as I arrived next to them.

All smiles, struggling to bend low, my voice popped up an octave to address the little girl: “Duh, unga-bunga?”

That Mike straightened his back, and, looking down at me bending low, he sighed, “How you doing?”

I nodded and smiled. “Duh, unga-bunga.”

Then I turned my attention back to her, “Duh, unga-bunga?”

“She’s a pony,” she said.

That Mike pulled her by the hand. “Come on, sweetheart. Let’s go.”

And he walked off, leaving me bent down in the middle of the aisle.

Taken aback, I chuckled and stood up straight to watch him walk off.

“Duh, unga-bunga,” I called out sarcastic, truly surprised to see that he exists before four o’clock.

He glanced back. “Yeh, well, I’ll see you later at The Other Greek Place, OK? See you later.”

Moving quick, he pivoted at the end of the aisle and nodded to Aaron.