pzb.lostsouls-第37部分

按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！


　　
　　Steve　shoved　his　guitar　into　its　case；　snapped　the　catches　shut；　and　headed　for　the　bar。　He　was　already　half…drunk；　and　he　registered　that　this　was　not　Kinsey　Hummingbird　handing　him　his　beer。　This　bartender　was　even　taller　and　paler；　and　a　hell　of　a　lot　weirder…looking；　but　Steve　didn't　remember　seeing　the　guy　before。　A　vague　impression　of　a　black　hat　and　sunglasses　flashed　into　his　mind。　It　didn't　mean　anything　to　him；　and　he　forgot　it。
　　Ghost　had　wandered　off　into　the　crowd。　At　the　bar　Steve　saw　a　curly　head　wrapped　in　a　tie…dyed　bandanna：　Terry　Buckett；　who　owned　the　Whirling　Disc　record　store　where　Steve　worked；　who　played　drums　on　their　tape　and　sat　in　on　their　shows　sometimes。　Terry　had　been　out　of　town　recently。　When　he　saw　Steve；　he　signalled　the　bartender　for　two　more　beers；　The　bartender　took　two　bottles　of　National　Bohemian　out　of　the　cooler。　Natty　Bohos；　Terry　called　them。　Steve　called　them　possum　piss；　himself；　but　Terry　was　buying。
　　〃What's　up？〃　Steve　asked　after　a　long　and　panionable　swig。
　　〃Been　tripping　for　two　weeks；　man。　Hey；　no　shit…bike　tripping。　You　know　I　rode　down　to　New　Orleans？〃　Steve　knew；　had　in　fact　discussed　it　with　Terry　at　work；　but　Terry　talked　to　so　many　people　that　he　often　forgot　who　had　heard　what。　〃They　got　a　bar　in　the　French　Quarter〃…Terry　was　just　about　drooling　at　the　memory…〃serves　twenty…five…cent　draft　every　Thursday　night。　And　they　play　these　same　two　Tom　Waits　albums　over　and　over　all　night。　Blue　Valentine　and　Heart　Attack　and　Vine　。　。　。〃
　　Steve　imagined　the　place。　The　floor　would　be　sticky；　the　walls　slicked　with　blue　light　from　an　old　beer　sign。　The　records　would　get　scratchier　every　Thursday　night；　as　if　Tom　had　progressive　cancer　of　the　larynx。　He　wished　he　were　there；　sucking　the　foam　off　his　fifth　or　sixth　draft；　forgetting　all　about　Missing　Mile　and　the　Sacred　Yew。　（Those　aren't　the　things　you　really　want　to　forget；　said　a　small　demon…voice　in　his　head。　It　was　quiet　enough　to　be　ignored；　but　a　couple　more　beers　would　drown　it　for　sure。）　Terry's　bar　sounded　pretty　good。　Maybe　he　and　Ghost　could　take　the　T…bird　on　a　road　trip　one　of　these　days。
　　〃Man；　you　can　get　some　heavy　shit　down　there　in　the　Quarter；〃　Terry　said。　The　new　bartender　was　turned　away；　filling　plastic　cups；　but　his　back　had　an　attitude　of　listening。　〃I　got　an　ounce　of　this　stuff　called　Popacatepetl　Purple。　Couple　bong　hits　of　that'll　give　you　some　heavy　mind　groove…〃　
　　〃Did　somebody　mention　bong　hits？〃　R。J。　Miller　boosted　himself　onto　a　bar　stool　on　Terry's　other　side。　He　had　grown　up　from　a　skinny　hyperspace…machine…building　kid　into　a　skinny　young　man　who　could　play　a　bass　line　like　the　thunder　of　God；　but　right　now　he　was　having　trouble　holding　onto　his　beer。　He　swayed　against　the　bar；　then　managed　to　prop　himself　up　on　his　elbows。　His　glasses　were　crooked。　He　pushed　them　up　with　his　forefinger。　〃Hey；　Steve。　Awesome　show；　man。〃
　　Terry　considered　him　gravely。　〃How　many　beers　have　you　had？〃
　　〃Three；〃　said　R。J。；　and　burst　into　sudden　laughter。　〃Seriously；　you　guys；　what　about　those　bong　hits？　You　wanna　go　outside　or　what？〃
　　〃You're　not　old　enough　to　smoke；〃　Terry　told　him。　Under　the　bar；　Terry　nudged　Steve's　knee。　Steve　looked　down。　Terry　was　holding　a　pack　of　Camels。　From　the　pack　protruded　the　end　of　a　joint；　fat　and　twisted。　Steve　palmed　the　joint　and　slipped　it　into　the　pocket　of　his　jeans。
　　〃Popacatepetl　Purple；〃　Terry　said　softly。　〃You　look　like　you　could　use　some　heavy　mind　groove。〃
　　Absurdly；　Steve　felt　tears　start　in　his　eyes。　His　friends　loved　him。　Girls　might　fuck　you　over；　but　you　could　always　count　on　your　friends。　〃I　gotta　find　Ghost；〃　he　told　Terry。　〃I　want　to　smoke　this　with　him。〃
　　〃Sure；〃　said　Terry。　〃Enjoy　it；　huh？〃　He　turned　to　R。J。　and　started　talking　about　the　strip　clubs　on　Bourbon　Street。　R。J。　had　gone　to　sleep　on　the　bar；　his　head　cradled　in　his　arms；　his　face　smooth　and　blameless　as　a　child's。　His　fourth　Natty　Boho　sat　in　front　of　him；　untouched。
　　Steve　pushed　his　way　through　the　crowd；　still　carrying　his　half…finished　beer；　smelling　clove　smoke　and　the　dusty　musk　of　thrill…shop　clothes；　searching　for　the　streamered　beacon　of　Ghost's　hat。　He　saw　black　berets；　bright　dyed　hair；　pale　scalp　showing　through　buzz　cuts。　Ghost　was　nowhere　to　be　found。　〃Fuck　it；〃　Steve　muttered　finally；　heading　for　the　men's　room。　He　couldn't　carry　the　joint　around　all　night。　He　guessed　he　would　just　have　to　smoke　the　whole　thing　himself。　Life　was　rough。
　　He　locked　the　door　behind　him　and　dug　in　his　pocket　for　matches。　FINISH　HIGH　SCHOOL　FOR　50！　the　matchbook　cover　exhorted　him。　His　first　drag　filled　his　lungs　with　bitter；　delicious　smoke。
　　By　the　time　half　the　joint　was　gone；　Steve　had　decided　he　was　in　dire　need　of　a　tattoo。　It　would　be　a　grinning　skull　with　black　bat　wings　veined　bloodred；　and　it　would　have　a　rose　clenched　in　its　teeth；　and　in　the　center　of　the　petals　the　name　ANN　would　be　etched　in　flaming　letters。　He　would　show　it　to　the　bitch　next　time　he　ran　into　her。　Then　she　would　know　how　he　really　felt　about　her；　and　she　would　die　of　guilt。
　　Maybe　there　was　time　to　drive　to　Fayetteville　tonight。　That　was　where　the　tattoo　parlors　were。　Steve　stashed　the　joint　in　his　pocket　and　started　out　of　the　restroom。　He　raised　his　beer　to　his　mouth　and　scanned　the　crowd；　looking　for　Ghost；　meaning　to　get　their　equipment　loaded　up　and　start　for　Fayetteville。　Instead　he　saw　a　girl　standing　at　the　bar　talking　to　Terry；　a　girl　with　long　gold…red　hair　beneath　her　vintage　1940s　mourning　hat；　with　a　tough；　pretty　face。　A　girl　who　shaped　her　words　with　her　hands；　whose　hands　were　paint…stained　and　delicately　ugly。　Between　the　forefinger　and　mid…die　finger　of　her　right　hand；　a　Camel　cigarette　burned。
　　On　the　third　finger　of　that　same　hand　Steve　saw　the　dull　gleam　of　a　ring。　He　couldn't　make　out　the　design；　but　he　knew　what　it　was。　A　pair　of　hearts；　wrought　in　silver　and　turquoise；　interlocked。　He　had　given　her　that　ring；　and　she　still　wore　it。
　　Ann　had　e　to　see　him　play　tonight。
　　Steve　started　to　duck　back　into　the　men's　room　in　case　she　turned　around。　But　then　she　lifted　her　arm　in　a　gesture　he　remembered　well；　lifting　her　heavy　hank　of　hair　off　the　back　of　her　neck　for　a　moment。　The　lapel　of　her　black　suit　jacket　folded　back。　Beneath　it　she　wore　a　lace　tank　top；　also　black。　Steve　saw　the　sideswell　of　her　breast；　and　above　that　the　dark　auburn　tuft　of　her　armpit　hair。
　　That　had　surprised　him　when　he'd　first　started　going　out　with　her；　back　in　their　senior　year　of　high　school　when　she　was　still　just　Ann　Bransby…Smith；　the　cute　redhead　in　his　psychology　class。　He　had　never　before　gotten　laid　with　a　girl　who　had　armpit　hair。　It　was　sort　of　weird；　but　it　seemed　somehow　to　go　with　the　black　turtleneck　sweaters　she　wore　and　the　beret　she　pulled　down　over　her　ears　sometimes。
　　〃Artsy　chicks　who　paint　aren't　allowed　to　shave　their　pits；〃　she'd　told　him　that　night。　Steve　had　only　looked　up　at　her…she　was　haft…straddling　him　on　the　couch；　her　jeans　still　zipped　up　but　her　shirt　off　and　her　hair　hanging　in　her　face。　He　wasn't　sure　whether　she　was　kidding；　and　he　didn't　especially　care；　since　his　hand　had　slipped　inside　the　filmy　cup　of　her　bra　and　her　nipple　was　as　hard　as　a　piece　of　candy　beneath　his　fingers。　A　few　minutes　later　he　discovered　that　she　perfumed　the　hair　under　her　arms；　and　from　that　moment　on；　those　tufts　had　not　disturbed　him　in　the　slightest。
　　Until　now。　That　fleeting　sight　filled　him　with　such　a　miserable　surge　of　desire　and　loneliness　that　he　almost　spit　out　his　mouthful　of　beer。　He　thought　about　how　fucked　up　the　past　month　had　seemed　without　her。　Playing　wasn't　fun　anymore；　she　got　into　all　the　songs　somehow。　Even　drinking　wasn't　fun　often　as　not　he　got　hung　up　in　a　jag　of　serf…pity；　cursing　her　name；　crying　in　his　beer；　hurling　things　she　had　given　him　against　the　walls　of　his　room。　He　was　sick　of　working　at　the　Whirling　Disc；　sick　of　reading；　sick　of　his　dreams。　Only　spending　time　with　Ghost　seemed　to　help；　but　even　Ghost　couldn't　be　there　all　the　rime；　though　Ghost　often　came　padding　into　Steve's　room　and　sat　in　the　dark　with　him　when　Steve　couldn't　sleep　at　two　in　the　morning。　Ghost　did　that；　but　he　couldn't　do　everything。　He　couldn't　be　Ann；　with　her　smell　of　paint　and　tea…rose　perfume　and　Camel　smoke；　with　her　weling　body。
　　Steve　circled　around　the　bar　and　approached　Ann　from　behind　（From　behind；　the　demon　in　his　mind　said　wickedly；　yeah；　I　remember　that　one　pretty　good；　but　there　were　lots　of　other　positions　too；　and　he　told　it　to　shut　up）。　She　was　saying　something　to　Terry；　who　nodded　sagely　and　glanced　past　her　at　Steve。　Terry　raised　one　quizzical　eyebrow。　Steve　shrugged　and　reached　out　to　touch　Ann's　shoulder。
　　At　the　same　moment；　R。J。　raised　his　head　and　regarded　them　all　with　bleary　good　humor。　〃Hey；　Ann！〃　he　exclaimed。　〃Hey；　Steve！　You　guys　getting　back　together　or　what？〃
　　Ann's　back　stiffened。　Her　head　whipped　around；　and　a　red…gold　strand　lashed　across　Steve's　face。　Her　eyes　met　Steve's　and　seemed　to　crack　a　little。　Out　of　that　fault　line　spilled　all　the　nights；　all　their　nights。　The　wild　sweat…slicked　ones　when　nothing　short　of　devouring　each　other　would　satiate　their　hunger。　The　quiet　beery　nights　on　the　front　porch　of　the　house；　sitting　with　Ghost；　who　always　knew　when　to　stay　up　talking　past　midnight　and　when　to　go　to　bed　early。　The　nights　lying　across　Steve's　bed　in　the　half…darkness　of　the　moonlit　window；　before　the　Penthouse　centerfold　went　up；　watching　life　go　by　and　not　needing　to　chase　it　because　they　were　together　and　that　was　enough。
　　Those　nights；　and　the　psychobloody　ones　when　they　said　things　that　could　not　be　taken　back；　when　they　didn't　care　what　they　said。　〃I　just　can't　pete　with　alcohol；　can　I？〃　she　had　asked　one　bitter　night；　and　he　had　responded；　〃Fuck　no…you're　not　that　good。〃
　　But　that　was　nothing。
　　That　was　nothing　pared　to　the　night；　the　one　he　couldn't　bear　to　remember；　the　one　he　couldn't　help　remembering　in　every　gory　detail。
　　When　he　had　thrown　Ann　on　the　bed　and　unzipped　his　pants；　he　had　ceased　to　be　Steve　Finn。　Maybe　that　was　a　cop…out；　but　that　was　how　it　had　felt。　His　sense　of　selfness　had　deserted　him。　The　feeling　of　Ann's　body　beneath　him；　bucking