64. The first Thursday-night seminar. . . .
The first Thursday-night seminar after the break was also the next-to-last; even Leonard looked happy that the class was almost over. I handed in my paper, and told him that I wouldn’t be in class the following week.
Leonard glanced at the title page. “‘T. S. Eliot, Father of the Blues?’“ He raised a coarse-haired eyebrow. “Is this a spoof?”
“Certainly not,” I reassured him. “Dead serious.”
“This isn’t what you titled your presentation,” he reminded me.
“I realized my mistake, that’s all,” I replied. “As you’ve said so many times yourself, Eliot’s prosody was remarkably influential.” Behind me, Mark McKinley was having trouble breathing.
“I warn you, Smith,” Leonard said to me, “I don’t like spoofs.”
“No spoof,” I promised. “Just facts.”
When class was over at ten, I made a relieved beeline for Casey’s. A few minutes later, after L. D. came to her relief, old Vi poured herself a drink and came to sit with me. The first thing she did was ask me about my arm.
“Got a sliver in it, Vi,” I told her. “They’re going to pull it out next week.”
“Must be a helluva sliver.” She inclined her hennaed head and lowered her voice. “You was in that nasty fuckin’ war over there, wasn’t you, son.”
“Up to my ears, Vi,” I said quietly.
“I can see it on you,” she said. “Well, it’s a man’s world, Jonas. If it was up to us women, there wouldn’t be these wars. Only job you men’d have is get a little plowin’ done and make us some babies.”
“You got any kids, Vi?”
“Oh, who knows,” she said crossly. “I s’pose I do. Yeah, seems like I remember two or three of the little turds, grabbin’ at my knees and wantin’ a Band-Aid. Let’s see, Joe’s in Seattle now, an attorney—fuckin’ lawyers, how I hate ‘em—Susie’s in Philadelphia, and Ann’s in California. They’re a pretty good bunch of kids; they send me checks every month and call me on my birthday. What about you, you got any?”
“Not me. I’ve never even been close to getting married.”
“No little slant-eyed Jonases runnin’ around over there in Korea?”
“Viet Nam, Vi. Nope, I didn’t leave any of my chromosomes behind.”
“That’s good,” she said. “I’ve been married five times, myself. And I’d do it again, too.” She winked. “Any time you’re ready.”
“I won’t marry you, Vi,” I said, “but you can get me another beer.”
“Well, now,” she said, “ain’t that just like a husband.”
“Always wanting a beer, you mean?” I asked.
“Bossy,” she said. “Always bein’ bossy. I suppose you want it with salt and lemon, and a little plate of crackers on the side.”
“Just a plain draft,” I said. “No crackers.”
“You want a dish of herring? A pickle? A boiled egg?”
“Just a draft, Vi,” I said.
She sighed and hoisted herself to her feet. “Bossy,” she said. “Too damn bossy.”
While Vi and I were talking, Julia Stein came in, passing up our booth for one deeper in the room. After Vi got up, I went on back to find her. She was sitting with Jerome Weld, owner and manager of the X-Cell Bookstore.
“All right if I sit here?” I asked them. “I’m not intruding?”
“Of course not,” Julia said. “Have you two met?”
“We have.” I grinned at Weld. “How’s business?”
“Getting better,” he said sourly. “I expect an exponential increase. Right now it’s at the bottom of the curve, but sales will pick up before Valentine’s Day. Have you been in? I don’t remember seeing you.”
“Not yet,” I said.
“People should realize,” he said, “that if they want to keep an erotic bookstore in Lincoln, they’ll have to support it. I can’t go on offering my wares as a public service.”
“One of these days,” I said encouragingly. “My mother’s birthday is coming up.”
“Jonas!” Julia said.
“Only kidding,” I said. “I like pornography. I guess I’ve just been kind of busy lately.”
I ordered a basket of fries, which Weld appropriated; I ordered another, and Julia and I talked about Leonard’s class until closing. When the time approached, I offered them rides to Don and Millie’s, an after-hours cafe. After they accepted, I remembered that I hadn’t brought my truck; I excused myself and walked the few blocks home, then came back in my pickup to get them. We shared an amicable meal—Weld allowed Julia to buy his oatmeal and toast—and I took them home, Weld to his room above the bookstore, Julia to her downtown apartment building. I arrived at my own lonely basement at 3 a.m., set my alarm, propped myself on the couch, and got my usual three and a half hours’ sleep.
|