Try by Dennis Cooper

Author:Dennis Cooper
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Grove Atlantic
Published: 1994-06-10T16:00:00+00:00

“Hello, angel,” says Roger’s voice. First the guy’s just some wavering shade sort of doused in fluorescence, but, as Ziggy’s pupils do their mysterious adjustments, his visitor crisps into focus.

“Uh . . . yeah. Hi.” It’s weird, Ziggy thinks. Maybe his dad’s gotten older and heavier over the weeks, make that months, since they last hung around, but the “Roger” he’s been imagining to jerk off and the Roger he has to accept as, like, fact, as of now, could be . . . son and father?

“So it begins,” Roger half-says, half- . . . moans? His short brown hair has thinned out to the point of transparency; his sharp-angled, colorless face is an abstracty bust, its bloodshot eyes, nose, and lips oddly spaced across the surface. Clothes-wise, everything’s just a little too fresh off the rack—“casual” stuff with this expensive patina—not to mention that none of it fits properly—strangly Sebadoh T-shirt, massive jeans, which, in his case, reads as hopelessly eggheaded, as opposed to, uh, devil-may-care, or whatever he thinks.

“So . . . uh . . .” Ziggy waves his dad in.

The man hobbles a few feet and throws his suitcase down on the dining-room table, then bends over, clicks open the lid. “First your presents,” he says, reaching into the jumble of T-shirts, CD’s, socks, uh, what the fuck’s that? His hands reemerge fists, which he immediately hides in the small of his back. “Pick one.”

Ziggy nods toward the left for no particular reason.

Roger’s left fist swings around, stops, hovering at chest level, cracks, and this white cloth droops out, looking for all the world like a really huge gob of spit. “I’d like you to slip into this . . .” His remaining fist jabs into view, blooming finger by finger. A small, Pepsi-colored pill bottle is perched on the palm. “. . . then take several of these.”

“What are they?” Ziggy plucks the bottle, holding it up between him and the ceiling light.

“In my day, we called them goofballs. I think you kids use the term pharmaceutical straitjackets.” Roger lays the spitty cloth, which is actually some sort of, like, silken bikini, over Ziggy’s raised arm. “Now, off to the showers.” He scrunches his eyes, zigzagging them down Ziggy’s chest.

“Okay, cool,” Ziggy says. “Ha ha ha.”

Roger grins. “It’s . . . spectacular to see you.” He obviously means “see” Ziggy’s crotch, though there’s nothing of note in that particular region, thanks to the T-shirt, unless his dad’s studying his thighs, which are totally available, not that Ziggy can imagine them turning guys on, except—oh, yeah, right—in the early days, particularly re: Uncle Ken. Still, they were different back then—short and skinnier, to start with—and, so, probably just, like, cutesy in the way children are to adults right across the board.

“So . . .” Ziggy raises an eyebrow.

“So.” Roger glances up. For some reason eye contact sets off this intense, like, commotion, and, by the time Ziggy’s brain’s back in order, his face is tipped sideways and swirled painfully on his dad’s.

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