The Rooster Trapped in the Reptile Room: A Barry Gifford Reader by Barry Gifford

Author:Barry Gifford [Gifford, Barry]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Literary Collections, Short Stories (Single Author), FICTION, American, Essays, General
ISBN: 9781609800925
Google: qOAqxfK4w0UC
Publisher: Seven Stories Press
Published: 2011-01-04T21:10:36+00:00

NIGHT AND DAY AT THE IGUANA HOTEL

“HOW DO YOU GET SIXTEEN HAITIANS into a Dixie cup?” said Sparky.

“How?” asked Lula.

“Tell ’em it floats.”

Sailor, Lula, Sparky and Buddy were sitting in the lobby of the Iguana Hotel at ten P.M., sharing Sparky’s fifth of Ezra Brooks and shooting the shit.

“Sparky’s big on Florida jokes,” said Buddy.

“You need a active sense of humor to survive in the Big Tuna,” said Sparky.

Bobby Peru walked in and came over.

“Hey, everybody,” he said.

“Sailor, Lula, this here’s the man himself,” said Buddy. “Bobby, this is Sailor and Lula, the most recent strandees, economic variety.”

Bobby nodded to Lula and offered a hand to Sailor.

“Bobby Peru, just like the country.”

Sparky and Buddy laughed.

“Accordin’ to Red and Rex,” said Buddy, “Bobby’s the most excitin’ item to hit Big Tuna since the ’86 cyclone sheared the roof off the high school.”

“Only in town two months and there ain’t a young thing around don’t know how that cobra tattoo works, right, Bob?” Sparky said.

Bobby laughed. He had a lopsided grin that exposed only three brownish front teeth on the upper right side of his mouth. He had dark, wavy hair and a small, thin nose that bent slightly left. His eyebrows were long and tapered and looked as if they’d been drawn on. What frightened Lula about Bobby Peru were his eyes: flat black, they reflected no light. They were like heavy shades, she thought, that prevented people from seeing inside. Lula guessed that he was about the same age as Sparky and Buddy, but Bobby was the kind of person who would look the same when he was forty-five as he did when he was twenty.

“You from Texas, Mr. Peru?” Lula asked.

Bobby pulled up a chair and poured himself a shot glass full of whisky.

“I’m from all over,” he said. “Born in Tulsa, raised in Arkansas, Illinois, Indiana, lived in Oregon, South Dakota, Virginia. Got people in Pasadena, California, who I was headin’ to see when my Dodge busted a rod. Still meanin’ to get out there.”

“You was in the marines, huh?” said Sailor, noticing a USMC tattoo on Bobby’s right hand.

Bobby looked down at his hand, flexed it.

“Four years,” he said.

“Bobby was at Cao Ben,” said Sparky.

“What’s Cao Ben?” asked Lula.

“How old are you?” Buddy asked her.

“Twenty.”

“Bunch of civilians got killed,” said Bobby. “March 1968. We torched a village and the government made a big deal out of it. Politicians tryin’ to get attention. Put the commandin’ officer on trial for murder. Only problem was, there weren’t no such persons as civilians in that war.”

“Lotta women and kids and old people died at Cao Ben,” said Buddy.

Bobby sipped the whisky and closed his eyes for several seconds before reopening them and looking at Buddy.

“You was on a ship, pardner. Hard to make contact with the people when you’re off floatin’ in the Gulf of Tonkin. It weren’t simple.”

“Saw Perdita this afternoon,” said Sparky. “Came by Red’s lookin’ for you.”

“Had some business over by Iraaq,” said Bobby. “I’m just about to go check on her now.

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