Strauss Light Man

1. Auflage 2021
ISBN: 978-0-9838180-4-5
Verlag: BookBaby
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: PC/MAC/eReader/Tablet/DL/kein Kopierschutz

E-Book, Englisch, 272 Seiten

Al's a veteran who survived a VC toe popper but can't seem to avoid the emotional landmines of a relationship with the only woman who's ever loved him. Mike's a spotlight operator who can repair your TV or toaster but can't fix his broken son. Together they forge a volatile friendship and slouch toward manhood and enlightenment, fighting their own obsolescence. With 'passion, authenticity, and insight' (David Evanier, Strauss's Now's the Time), along with wild humor and relentless humanity, Light Man captures the grim ironies of NYC, 1973, and shines as bright a bulb on all the lost souls currently careening toward self-destruction.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Strauss, Larry

Leseproben

When I Can’t Sleep When I get home Trudy’s working in the bed. She keeps the books for Fun City Camera & Audio, which is who I work for, and she also keeps the books for a newsstand down the street and a guy who cleans carpet. She’s sitting against the headboard with a ledger book on one knee. Her other knee is flat, and the dog’s got his chin on it. She used to work at the table next to the stove, but it kind of wobbles now, and anyway, Trudy’s got a bad back lately and says it’s more comfortable in the bed. She doesn’t look up when I come in, but she nods so I know she knows I’m there. It’s a small apartment. One room and a bathroom and a kitchen area, so mostly we’re in the same room. I empty the change out of my pockets and put it on the table next to my side of the bed, then I set my keys down in the same pile. I go into the bathroom and splash water on my face, then wash my hands. The soap is so small I keep rubbing till it disappears and then rinse the suds down into the drain. We always keep the stopper on the drain ever since a couple roaches crawled up out of it one night while Trudy was brushing her teeth. She was pretty shook up about it. Now we just let the water stand until we’re finished and then drain it quick and cover it again. When I can’t sleep I think about those roaches. The ones that scared Trudy and the millions and billions behind them. I start thinking they are going to figure out how to put their tiny legs together and get enough momentum to pop off that drain stopper and charge into the apartment and try to eat us alive. They’d do it if they could, I know they would. Trudy’s really concentrating on those numbers in the boxes. She puts the pencil in her mouth, then writes more numbers in more boxes. She’s really good at concentrating. I guess you have to be for that stuff. She’s tried to explain it to me a few times, and I kind of understand. It’s what you’ve got and what it cost you. It’s what’s in your pocket and what you owe. Add it up and subtract. I never really like to figure things out like that but I guess for a business, it has to be done. “I seen something pretty interesting just now,” I say. “In Riverside Park.” She tilts her eyes above the tops of her glasses. Her eyes are a color you can’t really ever see. If you think they’re blue then you realize they’re green but if you think they’re green they start to look blue. When the light changes she looks like a whole different person, more beautiful than you thought. It’ll get you. Right out of nowhere, she looks so damn pretty that it hurts. “You was in Riverside Park?” she says. “There was this boy,” I say. “Two boys. Brothers, I think. And their father. One of the boys had something wrong with him. I don’t know what you call it. Retarded or mental in some way. He was really having a time out there trying to be a kid on the playground, but he had his brother looking after him and the father, like I said, he was nearby, too, and so when he gets a conniption fit, they’re on it like it’s the usual.” All the time I’m telling Trudy, I’m watching her to see what she thinks, but I can tell I’m just not doing a good job of telling her. “I guess maybe you had to be there to appreciate, but the father, he’s got this hat. A special hat. Not for him. It’s for the boy having a conniption. It’s got all these tiny pieces of glass hanging off the sides, so when the boy looks at it, he sees little pieces of sunlight and sky and I don’t know what, but all I know is when the father put it on that kid’s head, the kid calms down. Not right away but soon enough, and the father and the other boy just kept saying things to make him calm till it all kicked in. I mean, the crazy thing about it was we was all—I mean everyone else in the park—at first we was all just staring at this, thinkin’ where’s the lousy father of this kid? But by the end of it, we’re all of us watching something really beautiful. You don’t just see love like that every day. Not in Riverside Park or anywhere else in this damn city. A lot of guys out there thinkin’ if that was me, could I do what that guy was doing? People all over this city have conniptions all the time, and nobody ever gives a shit. And all of those people having conniptions got mothers and fathers somewhere. But this guy—this guy, now he was doing it like you’re supposed to do it.” Trudy’s nodding now like maybe she gets it, and I’m nodding with her like I get it even more now because she gets it. “I mean it was really beautiful,” I say, “how the father took care of things and had the little brother helping too.” “It must have been really something,” she says, but I can’t tell if I’m really getting through to her about this. “Every father oughta be like that with his kids,” I say, and she reaches over with her hand and pulls me onto the bed and kisses me, and now I know I’m not getting through. Not saying I don’t appreciate the kiss. She can kiss me any time any place. But this isn’t about me and my pop. Then she gets sad, and I realize she could also think I’m talking about her and her pop. I can’t believe I did that and just ruined everything, but that’s how it is for me. I don’t know what I’m saying. I think I know what I’m saying and then come to find out, I have no idea. “That’s the kind of father I want to be,” I say, still trying to make her understand I wasn’t trying to make her sad, but I think what I just said makes her even sadder. She nods. “That’s nice,” she says. “What?” I say. “Did I say something wrong?” “No,” she says and takes a deep breath and pets the dog. I’m thinking what it would be like if we had a kid. I know it’s stupid to think that. What do I know about being a father? And Trudy, I don’t think she’s thinking about being a mother. We never talk about stuff like that. Mostly, we just try to get through each day to the next. But I don’t know. Maybe having a kid is something she thinks about too. Maybe she even thinks about us having a kid. The thing is I’m still not used to having someone care about me. A woman especially. I’m what you call funny looking. My eyes are too close together, and sometimes if I’m looking in the wrong direction, it’s like I have no chin. I’m short too. I know Trudy wouldn’t be with me if it wasn’t for how we met and how I helped her. I don’t mean to say she’s not a good person. I don’t mean she only cares about the looks of a person. I don’t mean that at all. But still, I just know it. Not her fault. She can’t help it I’m ugly. That mutt’s looking up at me like he knows I’m ugly as hell, too, and like I must be the biggest idiot in the world for getting her sad, which he can tell she is. I can tell it too. I think talking about fathers makes her sad. Me too, come to think of it. The dog is half growling at me. And shaking. He gets the shakes, and sometimes he seems to be growling at ghosts in his head, but I think he might be faking it. He’s getting old, which could explain some of it but I think he’s faking it too. “I’ll take him for a walk,” I say. Trudy says “No, I’ll do it.” I think she feels bad that I take him for all the nighttime walks, and he doesn’t even seem to like me but I like that I walk him at night. She shouldn’t be walking at night. Not in this damn city. Not even with a dog. So it’s something she needs me for regardless. Mostly, I think she doesn’t need anyone except Percy, that’s the dog’s name. Trudy’s little sister named him when she was alive. I don’t know what she died of. All Trudy ever told me is she died, and she doesn’t like to talk about it. She named him that, the sister I mean, because he was a pup, and their mom brought him home in her purse. It’s kind of funny. Percy doesn’t get up when I call him. He never does. His ears don’t even move. I’ve got his leash in my back pocket and reach down for him. He makes me put my left hand under his ass and lift him right off of Trudy. He jerks his paw and scratches her arm, leaves a long red mark along the skin, then looks at me like I’m the one just scratched her. I’ve got the dog cradled in both arms. It’s how you’re supposed to carry a dog so you don’t hurt him—even if you hurt yourself doing it. Sometimes, when I’ve got him all gathered up like this, he goes right ahead and shits on my forearm. It’s three flights down, so he’s got time for revenge. See, the shits are his revenge for Trudy loving me too. He hasn’t shit on me for a while. Maybe he figures...