His vitreous pendant had chimed and blinked pinkly, as had my bangle, which also, though I couldn’t be sure, had seemed to vibrate. Our meals had arrived.
* * *
—
On the way down to the basement, I stopped in the first-floor bathroom to piss, and just as I began to relax into the process, I heard a voice saying, “Hey, what’s wrong?” and, startled, I flinched, sprayed the rim and the lid. “What is it?” the voice said.
To my bangle, I whispered, “Listen. Please don’t. Don’t make me ignore you. I can’t take you off.”
But it wasn’t the bangle, or any other inan.
“Belt doesn’t like me,” a second voice said. It was coming from the vent on the floor beside the toilet. This second voice was Trip’s; the first, of course, had been Fon’s.
She cleared her throat and said, “I very much doubt that.”
“He didn’t laugh at the Jesus joke.”
“He laughed,” Fon said.
“Politely,” Trip said. “When Burroughs told it to me and the Yachts the other day, he had us almost crying.”
“Well, it’s not exactly a new one, you know?”
“You think he heard it before?”
“I know I have,” she said. “But I liked how you told it. Your timing was great.”
“Anyway, it’s not just that. I think I bored him upstairs, going on about my binders. Plus I talked for way too long in the turret.”
“Well, I wasn’t upstairs, but I doubt that you bored him. And in the turret—in the turret, you were very articulate.”
“Well, I thought I was being articulate. I said everything I planned to say to him today—I did a really serious outline last night—but like he didn’t even notice the compliments I gave him. Sometimes he even looked like he was in pain a little. And that Labrador thing…”
“You were talking about a video he hadn’t seen. He must not have fully understood what you were saying.”
“But you haven’t seen it, either, Fon—I mean you haven’t seen any of it, and he saw some, and you didn’t seem confused or anything. So, if you understood, he must have understood. So I don’t think the faces were from not understanding.”
“I think you’re overthinking this, kiddo,” Fon said. “And I didn’t notice Belt making any faces, but, you know, like you said, you were kind of a runaway train in there, so—”
“A loudmouth, you mean. A blowhard.”
“No, no. An orator, more like. But you were very excited by what you were saying, and when you’re very excited about what you’re saying—and, you know, you’re just like your father when it comes to this—when you’re very excited by what you’re saying, it’s hard for anyone to get a word in edgewise.”
“I wasn’t letting you guys talk. I’m a dick.”
“You weren’t a dick. I just meant that, as you went on, Belt probably wanted to tell you that he hadn’t seen the video yet.”
“You know?” Trip said. “I think you’re probably right. Yeah. Those faces—those were probably like faces of, ‘Hey, I need to tell you something important.’ But the important thing—yeah, you’re right. The important thing wasn’t, ‘You sound like a dick,’ but more like, ‘Hey, Triple-J, I haven’t even seen the video yet, and you keep going on about it. You sure you want to do that?’ ”
“Probably something just like that,” Fondajane said.
“Okay. Yeah.”
“Feel better?”
“Much.”
“Good.”
“Man, I’m really hungry. What’s he doing in there? You think he’s—”
“Trip, please. We’re about to eat. I don’t want to picture that.”
I didn’t want her to, either.
* * *
—
“Burgers in the brunch style” turned out to mean three rashers of bacon and an overeasy egg on an unseasoned patty I’d put at six ounces, all sandwiched by lightly griddled slices of sourdough, and served with a side of outerly crispy and inwardly tender cheddar-cheesed hash browns (onion-free), a shot glass of pickled jalapeño relish Trip urged me to liberally apply to the potatoes (“I wouldn’t mess with the burger, though,” he said. “You want to taste this meat.”), a tiny steel cup of sliced red and green grapes, and a cold glass bottle of Coke with a straw.
We sat in the front row’s middle three chairs, Fon and I on either side of Trip, eating our meals off sturdy folding trays attached to the arms via in-built swivel mounts. I think the food was probably good, perhaps even great, but Trip had hit Play as soon as I was seated, and—desperate to finish before the Barker clip started—I scarfed it all down without really tasting it.
A couple or three times during the video, I’d think that I’d heard Fon gasping or laughing, maybe even sobbing, but the speakers were blaring, and I couldn’t be sure; she might have been coughing, or clearing her throat. I’d try leaning forward to see which it was, but I never found out. Because of the degree to which their chairs were reclined, I wasn’t able to see her past Trip.
* * *
At the end of A Fistful, Trip raised the remote, shutting the projector off, bringing the lights up. It happened too fast. I needed a minute. Or five. Or ten.
Trip turned to me, saying, “So what did you—hey. Oh man, are you crying? Fon, Belt’s crying.”
Fon, getting up from her chair, said my name.
I showed an open palm, then bolted up the stairs, into the bathroom, and chewed a hand towel behind the locked door to muffle whatever might attempt to escape me.
“…think I upset him,” I heard through the vent. “I think I screwed up, Fon.”
“Screwed up?” Fon said.
“I didn’t mean to surprise him like that. I mean, I hoped to surprise him, but in a good way. Like a ‘Hey, that’s me in this awesome collage’ way.”
“Why would your being in the collage upset him?”
“Not me. Him. That was Belt in the collage.”
“Who was Belt?” Fon said.
“In the final clip. The boy the swearing kid said the girl loved—the one he called ‘Suspendersed.’ The one who threw the punches.”