Headless Read Online Free Page B

flushing I charged out of the bathroom like a hunted animal. Everyone in the restaurant knew that I’d paid a short visit to hell.
    “Don’t go in there,” I said to a bearded stranger walking toward me.
    “Why?”
    “Because it’s alive, and it’s coming this way.”
    Clare and I hadn’t seen each other in several years. She was still thin and muscly with bright orange hair. We threw our arms around each other for the big reunion. Then she turned to Heather.
    “Hi, I’m Clear,”
    “Hi Clear,” Heather said, in observance of Clare’s new name. They shook hands.
    We all sat down at a table. Heather and I held giant menus in front our faces, big laminated shields. Clare knew what she wanted to order. I wasn’t against her new name; I just couldn’t bring myself to say it.
    “Nice ring,” Clare said. “Your wedding ring. Very nice,”
    We both dropped our menus.
    “Thank you,” Heather said, genuinely touched by the compliment.
    “How come you don’t have a ring, sailor?” Clare asked.
    “Because I have ugly fingers.”
    “What? No you don’t!” Clare and Heather said in unison, and demanded proof.
    Both beauticians spent 20 seconds extolling the virtues of my fingers (Heather inspecting my right hand, Clare doting on the left), how each digit was either gentle, masculine, or both, each with the proper amount of hair, wrinkles, et cetera. Fascinating stuff.
    While the girls poked their way through delicate lentil salads with endive, goat cheese, and tomato, I lowered my jaw down to the table and swallowed my usual gargantuan portion of three over-easy eggs, home fries, kielbasa, sauerkraut pierogi with apple sauce and sour cream, toast, juice, and coffee. I wanted to show my appreciation for being alive by eating a lot.
    We walked several heroic blocks through the big macho city, striding across the concrete, focused and determined, like the other speed-walkers, with a specific goal in mind, a bookstore. In Manhattan if you don’t walk swiftly, aggressive pedestrians bump you from the left and right, and once you’ve fallen to the ground you are trampled underfoot, and robbed. Another secret to this East Coast streetwalking thing, never doubt your path. Plow straight ahead, do not falter. Once you hesitate you are on the ground, bleeding, a waffle print on your face. Clare, Heather, and I marched up Second Avenue. There was no attempt at conversation. I take that back. The girls spoke but I was oblivious to the content. I had the responsibility of protecting everybody. I concentrated on the ebb and flow of civilians. Clare led us to this gigantic used bookstore called The Strand that had an oniony mildew smell with a little dead body thrown in. I’d never seen so many people in a bookstore at the same time. Every aisle had multiple bodies in it. New Yorkers bought books more aggressively than desperate people in bread lines demanding a loaf. A pile of heavily clothed bodies entered The Strand, checking bags and backpacks, while an exiting dozen were lined up by the register throwing down big bills for armloads of books. Three minutes in, Clare hit me with the question.
    “I have to ask you something inappropriate.” She looked like she’d just peed on a Bible and wanted to do it again for the cameras. Her chin was tucked down and her eyes half rolled back. She smiled like a murderous clown.
    “Really? What?”
    “Never mind.” We were standing between Art History and Holocaust Studies. “I’ll talk to you about it later,” she said. “On the phone. Maybe in a letter. Maybe never.”
    “Tell me now.” Hitler’s Willing Executioners was inches from my blue-ribbon fingers. “You can’t build up to this and then say some other time.”
    “Yes I can.” She liked that she had me.
    I scanned the store for my beloved. A gloomy, disheveled-looking male employee crept through an aisle, pushing a cart of books. Miss Yellopey was out of ear- or eyeshot, hunting for books on gardening. I wanted