Peter by Jeffrey DeShell

Author:Jeffrey DeShell
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Peter
ISBN: 978-1-4804-5488-0
Publisher: Dzanc Books
Published: 2013-02-15T00:00:00+00:00

“So, you want to talk about it or not?”

They had passed Carillo Beach and were just outside of Solomar (“My Name Is” [Eminem, extended remix], “What It’s Like” [Everlast], “Song II” [Blur {Ooo-hoo}], “You know things are bad when cheerleaders are bumming, Go star-bursts go,” “10 10 345 Long Distance,” “The Bridge” [Red Hot Chile Peppers], “People don’t dance no mo’” [Goodie Mob]), neither having spoken since Wanda’s house. The soft Egyptian cotton of the Lang felt great, which annoyed him even more (Ten Things I Hate About You).

“What? Do I want to talk about what?”

“Whatever the fuck is bothering you. You’ve been sulking since you came over. Bloody hell (Bloody hell? where’d that come from?) if I wanted to hang with mutes, I’d go find Rita and Satchmo and watch them nod off. So what’s eating you, Gilbert Grape?”

“I hate that movie.”

“Something at Fortunato? Is it that guy, Ramses or whatever?”

“Trojan, Jonathan Trojan. And no, it’s not him, and it’s not something at work.”

“He’s black, right?”

He turned to look at her. “So?”

“Just curious. Well if it isn’t him, and it isn’t work, then why are you pouting?”

“I’m not pouting.”

“Pouting, sulking, moping, scowling, call it what you want, you’re acting like a spoiled child, and it’s boring me.”

It required some self-control to refrain from pulling the Saab onto the shoulder and, and what? Slapping her? (not likely). Walking home? (again, not likely). Turning the motor off and sitting silently on the side of the road? (perhaps). He should do something, he was within his rights. That was no more insulting word in Wandaland than ‘boring’: it was absolutely her most radical cut, her most extreme dig. The word ‘boring’ signified that she was not amused (of course), but it went beyond that, beyond anger (she was no longer angry), but beyond even indifference into something approaching pure forgetfulness (not only was she no longer angry, not only did she no longer care, but she could not even remember caring): the word ‘boring’ signaled that her memory of you, if it could be recalled, never mattered in the first place. He drove on (courageously), trying not to think. He turned up the volume on the Blaupunkt as (the ubiquitous) Will Smith began his “Welcome to Miami Bienvenino á Miami” (he wished he were in Miami right now, or even Turkey, anywhere but here).

Her left arm struck quickly, like a snake, killing the radio. “So?”

“So what?”

“So if you’re not going to say anything, turn around and take me home. I didn’t hurry through Tae Bo so I could sit here on my ass, listening to Top fucking 40 and wondering what if anything is on your mind, wondering what if anything is making you act like a dick. And not an interesting dick either, a limp dick, a small, flaccid, pink, silent, limp dick who is not amusing, not engaging, and who probably just needs to be alone for awhile to sulk.”

“So I’m a boring dick, huh?”

“I didn’t say you are a boring dick, I said you are acting like a boring dick.

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