Y: A Novel by Marjorie Celona

Author:Marjorie Celona [Celona, Marjorie]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 9781451674385
Amazon: 1451674384
Publisher: Free Press
Published: 2013-01-07T11:00:00+00:00

Outside of the Mac’s on Cook and Pandora, I flip through the phone book until I find Julian’s name. There it is. He still lives on Olive Street. Raquelle’s name is listed, too. She’s still in the same apartment. I barely remember her. I remember being left alone a lot. I remember watching a little boy stick a penny up his bum. I don’t think I’ll call her. Anna—I don’t remember her at all. There was that girl who wet the bed. I’d like to see her again. But who knows what her name was? Anyway, Anna’s not listed. And neither is this Linda McIntosh. Who the hell was she? It’s like there’s a black curtain hung over a part of my brain and it’s too heavy to slip off and see what’s underneath. Fuck it, who cares.

Letter from H.C., William Head.

This, though, is interesting. William Head is a prison in Metchosin. I know this because my drama teacher took us to see a play out there one time. The prisoners have a little theater. We watched their performance of Endgame. The guy who shuttled us from the prison entrance to the theater told us he was in for murder. He was in his eighties.

I walk into Mac’s and get a hot chocolate, which is syrupy and gross, so I give it to a man playing the trumpet outside and we talk for a while. I like him. He’s always around, playing that crappy old trumpet. He has curly hair, lots of it, piled on his head like a wig, but today he’s wearing an orange toque. He tells me his name is Mickey.

“Mickey,” I say. “Got a cigarette?”

He looks at me like I’m nuts. The guys around here have not seen this new side of me. He rolls me one, lights it with a dog-eared pack of matches, takes a big long puff, and hands it to me.

“Tastes weird.”

“Might be some hash mixed in there,” he says and winks. He’s got watery eyes and a deeply lined face and he’s short, five-four max. I like short people, short men. So, fine, I’ll smoke this cigarette. I’ll smoke this hash. We lean up against the big glass window of Mac’s, and he picks up his trumpet and blows into it some more.

“I went to the mainland,” I tell him. I tell him my trip did nothing to curb my restlessness. I tell him I am still so curious. I want to feel to the fullest extent.

He rests his trumpet against his thigh and turns to me. “With eyes like those, you need to be outdoors. Maybe you ride horses? Yes? No? You should be at the ocean definitely.”

“Okay, Mickey.” My way of dealing with people who make no sense is just to agree. Works every time.

Some dudes drive up blasting hip-hop, and I bob my head to the music for a minute. They say hey to Mickey and come out of Mac’s a minute later with bags of potato chips and Slurpees, then peel away.

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