How It Ended: New and Collected Stories - By Jay McInerney Page 0,4
ex cathedra riff coming down from the Vatican: Repent. There's still time. Your body is the temple of the Lord and you have defiled it. It is, after all, Sunday morning, and as long as you have any brain cells left a resonant, patriarchal bass will echo down the marble vaults of your church-going childhood to remind you that this is the Lord's day. What you need is another overpriced drink to drown it out. But a search of pockets yields only a dollar bill and change. You paid ten to get in here. Panic gains on you.
You spot a girl at the edge of the dance floor who looks like your last chance for earthly salvation against the creeping judgment of the Sabbath. You know for a fact that if you go out into the morning alone, without even your sunglasses, which you have forgotten (because who, after all, plans on these travesties), that the harsh, angling light will turn you to flesh and bone. Mortality will pierce you through the retina. But there she is in her pegged pants, a kind of doo-wop retro ponytail pulled off to the side, great lungs, as eligible a candidate as you could hope to find this late in the game. The sexual equivalent of fast food.
She shrugs and nods when you ask her to dance. You like the way she moves, half-tempo, the oiled ellipses of her hips and shoulders. You get a little hip-and-ass contact. After the second song she says she's tired. She's on the edge of bolting when you ask her if she needs a little pick-me-up.
“You've got some blow?” she says.
“Monster,” you say.
She takes your arm and leads you into the Ladies’. There's another guy in the stall beside yours so it's okay. After a couple of spoons she seems to like you just fine and you're feeling pretty likable yourself. A couple more. This girl is all nose. When she leans forward for the spoon, the front of her shirt falls open and you can't help wondering if this is her way of thanking you.
Oh yes.
“I love drugs,” she says, as you march toward the bar.
“It's something we have in common,” you say.
“Have you ever noticed how all the good words start with D? D and L.”
You try to think about this. You're not sure what she's driving at. The Bolivians are singing their marching song but you can't quite make out the words.
“You know? Drugs. Delight. Decadence.”
“Debauchery,” you say, catching the tune now.
“Dexedrine.”
“Delectable. Deranged. Debilitated.”
“And L. Lush and luscious.”
“Languorous.”
“Lazy.”
“Libidinous.”
“What's that?” she says.
“Horny.”
“Oh,” she says and casts a long, arching look over your shoulder. Her eyes glaze in a way that reminds you precisely of the closing of a sandblasted glass shower door. You can see that the game is over, though you're not sure which rule you broke. Possibly she finds H words offensive and is now scanning the dance floor for a man with a compatible vocabulary. You have more: down and depressed, lost and lonely. It's not that you are really going to miss this girl who thinks that decadence and Dexedrine are the high points of the language of the Kings James and Lear, but the touch of flesh, the sound of another human voice … You know that there is a special purgatory waiting out there for you, a desperate half-sleep which is like a grease fire in the brainpan.
The girl half waves as she disappears into the crowd. There is no sign of the other girl, the girl who would not be here. There is no sign of Tad Allagash. The Bolivians are mutinous. You can't stop the voices.
Here you are again.
All messed up and no place to go.
It is worse even than you expected, stepping out into the morning. The light is like a mother's reproach. The sidewalk sparkles cruelly. Visibility unlimited. The downtown warehouses look serene and rested in this beveled light. A taxi passes uptown and you start to wave, then realize you have no money. The car stops. You jog over and lean in the window.
“I guess I'll walk after all.”
“Asshole.” The cabbie leaves rubber.
You start north, holding your hand over your eyes. A bum is sleeping on the sidewalk, swathed in garbage bags, and he lifts his head as you pass. “God bless you and forgive your sins,” he says. You wait for the cadge, but that's all he says. You wish he hadn't said anything.