bare feet. The grass felt wet, but it was only cold. I put the bag at the curb. It looked like a widower’s trash.
I went back inside and smoked in my bedroll. Marie had told me she was making the film of Sidney because every day she forgot more and more about him. I didn’t know how making a movie was going to stop her from forgetting.
The next morning I looked out the window to see if my trash had been taken away.
Fuck me. I was becoming part of the order of things.
I BIKED OVER to Spunt’s because I’d just wiped my ass with a coffee filter James had been using as a makeshift container for trim nails. It was a pleasant ride. Either I was creeping toward improved physical fitness or the bike was.
“Hey, Pay Phone,” the kid with the pomegranate head said.
“Hey, Spunt.”
He laughed like a three-year-old who thinks you think his name really is Tiger or Kiddo. “I’m no Spunt,” he said.
“You sure look like one.” I was in a good mood. I made myself a Coke Slurpee, then started tossing shit into a basket.
“Pay Phone, know what rhymes with Spunt? ”
“I think so,” I said over the Frito-Lay rack.
“Runt.” He laughed. “Guess what else?”
“Well,” I looked around. I couldn’t resist. “There’s cunt.”
“That’s what I was going to say.” He cracked up. “Cunt rhymes with Spunt.”
I heard a toilet flush. Tommy the cop walked out of the bathroom wearing street clothes, holding an Auto Trader magazine. He was a good cop. He made me instantly.
“Hey, hey, hey. It’s the bike nut.”
“Only on the side roads,” I added.
“That’s what we like to hear.” Spunt had the hiccups from laughing. “What I miss?” Tommy asked as he put the magazine back on the rack. “Must have been a good one.”
“Nothing,” I said.
“This guy”—Spunt pointed to me—“this is a funny guy.”
“Funny’s good. Everybody likes a funny guy.” Tommy grabbed two rival microwave burritos—one in each hand—and compared their weights. He flipped the loser back in the refrigerated case.
“Hey, Tommy?” Spunt broke into a football fight song: “Let’s go Titans. Right? ”
“I hear that, Ricky.” Tommy opened the microwave door. It looked like a cat puked in it. “Big game Saturday.” He pressed the start button and turned to me. “You going?”
“Where?”
“East Falmouth-Barnstable game.”
“Hockey?”
“No,” he whinnied. “Football.”
“Yeah, I’m not much of a sports fan.” I liked baseball and hockey, but only at the pro level. I’d rather watch two rutting bucks fight over a salt lick than a high school sport.
“Celts, Sox, Bs, Pats,” Ricky raised a finger for each of Boston’s major sports teams. “They are all awesome.”
“Preview of the Cape Cod Conference Finals, you know,” Tommy said, trying to sweeten the deal for me.
“Tommy, you see Bourque’s goal last night?”
“Eff yeah, I did.” Tommy turned back to me. “You’ll be missing a primo game.”
“Where’s it at?” I asked.
“East Falmouth High. Less than a click from here.” Tommy pointed out the window, as if East Falmouth High School were right there on the other side of his yellow Datsun B210 pickup.
“I don’t know,” I said, and took a pull off my Slurpee. “Maybe I’ll check it out.”
“We got this kid,” Tommy said, “Whitman, a running back. Can move the football. Runs like, whew.” He slapped his hands together and sent the top one off like a shot. “Full boat to Notre Dame.”
“Full boat,” I said. “Good for him.” I pictured this Whitman kid ten years down the road, divorced, two kids, installing urinating cherubs in the backyards of tacky Cape Cod Guinzos.
Tommy checked on his burrito, then keyed in some more time. “Deserves it, too. He’s a good kid.” He lowered his voice. “Black kid. Couple of them on the team. He’s by far the best one. Don’t get me wrong. I don’t care if he’s green.”
“Tommy, Bird would have been the best ever—better than Dr. J and Magic—if it wasn’t for his back, wouldn’t he?”
“Not would have been.”
“What do you mean?”
Tommy spelled it out for him. “Larry is the best of all time.”
“I knew it,” Ricky said. He could now scuttle off and settle a dispute. “What about the parade after they beat the Sixers?” Ricky asked. “Moses eats Bird shit,” he chanted. “Moses eats Bird shit.”
The microwave sounded. Tommy checked his burrito. “You got to do something about this oven.” He went to straighten his cop utility belt, but he was wearing fleece sweats. They were maroon with gold piping. They looked so comfortable.
MARIE’S LIVING ROOM was almost