The Table, Part 7
Read Part 1,
then Read Part
2, then Read Part 3,
then Read Part 4,
then Read Part 5,
then Read Part
6!
I opened Neighbor Man's book. The tanned leather cover stuck to the
first page, so I carefully pried it from a clear plastic photo sheet
containing four pictures. It looked like some kind of kitschy art
project, perhaps "Polaroid Mercedes in Suburbia." Each page featured
various shots of Noreen's car resting in the driveway, turning into the
road in front of her house, racing down the street, backing into the
drive. I turned the page. More Mercedes photos. Page after page after
page of Noreen's busy Mercedes, and I noticed the slight change of
Southern California seasons as the collage continued - a blooming
jacaranda here indicating early May, a cloudy drizzle day of the type
only seen in January - every photograph taken from the same location -
Neighbor Man's front porch.
"Wow. Looks like you've got an obsession. I'm surprised Noreen
hasn't called the cops." I kept looking at the pages as I spoke. A
fresh-faced woman in a sheer black blouse and elegant pony-tail covered
her face with her hands. "Hey! This looks like Gwyneth Paltrow!" I
tried figure out whether her bulging stomach indicated pregnancy or one
too many burritos.
"Yeah, I thought so, too, Bird Dude. Turn to the third page, dude,
check out the bottom two pictures." Neighbor Man guzzled the rest of
his beer in one gulp. He wiped his face with the back of his left hand
and swallowed a burp. I turned the pages back, one by one, found the
third page.
"Oh. My. God." I couldn't believe my eyes. No way! A famous author
known for his high society loving ways stared straight into the lens,
one large hand grabbing the head rest in front of him. His hand held
the soft leather in a vice grip. I could make out the individual veins
running along his wrist.
"Yeah, dude. See what I mean?" Neighbor Man rose, walked to the
kitchen, and I heard him retrieve another beer.
Hmmmmmmm. I kept staring at the famous author, at his white shock of
fluffy hair, into his eyes lined with fatigue and surprise, and
wondered what the hell these people were doing in my coyote corner of
the universe. I tried to guess the occupants of the car in the pictures
above the author. A slender young woman in a baby blue poncho with
delicate tassels turned away from the camera, her long blonde hair
caught in the ear-holder edge of her silver-rimmed sunglasses. Neighbor
Man pointed to an old instant camera hanging from a vinyl strap off the
edge of the window drapes.
"I keep it close, dude. I've got your movie stars, your book
writers, your politicians, you name it. Took me nearly a fucking half a
year to start taking those pics. Wish I thought of it earlier. I think
I just missed getting one of J-Lo getting into the car. Can you
imagine? What an ass shot that would have been. I would have fucking
had that one blown up and framed, if you know what I'm sayin'." He
groaned, tilted back his head and drank, and I matched him, angle for
angle, picturing that fine Latin backside melting into a sun-baked
celebrity driving machine. Neighbor Man's room grew warm, familiar, as
I finished my beer. I stopped staring at the celebrity photos and
started reading the names of the books lining his shelves. Aristotle. A
book on human anatomy. Two books by Noam Chomsky. The collected works
of Poe. Six books on film studies. 1984 by George Orwell. I couldn't
match the fixation on J-Lo's butt with his reading list. He's just a
man, I told myself, a man who likes a good ass. But damn. An ass man
with a brain. No wonder that head was so huge.
"Oh. Sure. I would have taken a picture of J-Lo's butt, too. Sure.
Blown it up and everything." I laughed, tried to sound funny, hip, but
my words sounded so mom-like, so ridiculous that even Neighbor Man
noticed, glanced at me from the side of his big head and changed the
subject.
"So Bird Dude. Anyway. Like I said, that table belongs to Oscar
Wilde. Do you know who he was?" Neighbor Man didn't ask that question
as if he thought I were uneducated. He sounded like a good teacher,
some kind of surf man philosopher. I didn't know how to answer. I was
embarrassed to admit my ignorance, but I plowed ahead, clunked my
bottle on the floor and gulped.
"I don't really know much about him other than he was a famous
writer or something. In the past. Sorry. I didn't go to college or
anything." I shrugged my shoulders and looked out the window so he
wouldn't see me blush. A sand flea jumped onto my right leg, and I
concentrated on swiping him off as if it were the most important job in
the world. I tried to remember something - anything - about Oscar Wilde
but drew a big fat blank. Damn. Damn. Gotta visit the library more
often, I thought.
"You got a few minutes? This might take a while. Let me get you
another drink." Neigbor Man lifted my empty bottle from the floor and
walked away from me. His feet landed in a straight line in front of
him, almost a model's cat walk saunter, and I wondered if he thought
about J-Lo's Mercedes dip on lonely surf excursions.
"So. Bird Dude. Oscar Wilde loved his wine and food and good
conversation, you know? He fucking loved to fuck with people's minds,
too. And Noreen? She loves Wilde. She loves money, too. It's a deadly
combination."
To Be Continued.....the next installment is the LAST!!
OK?!?!?!?
5:56:52 PM 
|
