All the Beautiful People We Once Knew by Edward Carlson

Author:Edward Carlson
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Skyhorse Publishing
Published: 2017-06-12T04:00:00+00:00

14

FLEEGER’S CRITICISM WAS LEGITIMATE. My analysis was hazy, my recommendations regarding strategy and future handling flaccid, with too much emphasis on the conflicting facts and not enough on the tactics of refuting specific allegations. The reality was that WorldScore would have to pay Thomas something. It was our job to ensure it was something very little.

“Ready?” Fleeger asked, standing in my doorway and wearing a freshly dry-cleaned suit jacket. We exited the building, both of us nodding good night to the security guard donning saggy pants and an empty holster. I hadn’t thought to call a town car beforehand, neither had Fleeger, and so we stood on Maiden Lane struggling to hail a cab in the cold wind. It was the switching hour, all lights on, medallion and off-duty, as the taxi drivers raced north on Water Street to hand over the keys to the nightshifts.

Fleeger nodded toward the uptown 2/3 and we walked to the subway. My phone double vibrated with a new message. The vibration made me feel whole, like a whole note, with the spaces filled. It was a new message from Kath. I read it inside my jacket pocket as Fleeger walked a few steps ahead of me.

“I want to taste you.”

Followed by a photograph of red lips eating a banana. My tuning fork hummed. I looked ahead at Fleeger, also lost in his phone. We pushed through carousel doors and entered a fake oasis of plastic palms and old black men playing chess and mirrored ceiling tiles and descended into the subway station. The turnstile blocked me when I swiped my MetroCard. A homeless man yelled into the empty tunnel. Tyndall effected by carbon dust and strong dirty yellow lights.

“Fuck,” I said.

“Give me a swipe,” Fleeger commanded.

“I’m out.”

“Come on, man, we’re going to be late.”

“Don’t you have one?”

Robert watched me, mouth agape. Yet another example of me once again failing. Some sticky goo coated the kiosk’s touchscreen. My credit card was unreadable; contact your bank. A quick blast of the subway horn announced the train’s impending arrival. The machine dropped a new yellow card into the lit chamber and I swiped us in.

“I can see what you all trying to hide in there,” a brown kid yelled on the platform, muscles flexed as he gripped the handlebars of his fixed-gear bicycle. “Don’t think I’m unsuccessful because I’m a nigger. Ha ha. Ha ha.”

He laughed like a barking madman, hopped-up on synthetic marijuana—K2, Scooby Snax, Mr. Nice Guy—and slurping from a bottle of cherry-red cough syrup to control the anarchy of the vicious high. The long train entered the station, silver corrugated sheds, small blue lightning, red and green signals, a procession of unfathomable American flags. Fleeger and I boarded the crowded subway. Japanese tourists clutched their expensive handbags as the black kid jammed his bicycle onboard. An African woman with medusa-like curls wept. “You know when you cry and fall asleep that be the best sleep ev-ah,” her friend consoled her, clutching her arm. Bandages and Betadine.

Download

Copyright Disclaimer:
This site does not store any files on its server. We only index and link to content provided by other sites. Please contact the content providers to delete copyright contents if any and email us, we'll remove relevant links or contents immediately.