The Autobiography of Red Read Online Free

neck
     
    from behind and pull tight. Cuts off the windpipe. Quick but painful death.
     
    No noise no blood
     
    no bulge in your pocket. Murderers on trains use them.
     
    Geryon’s brother was regarding her with one eye closed his mode of total attention.
     
    What about you Geryon
     
    what’s your favorite weapon? Cage,
said Geryon from behind his knees.
     
    Cage?
said his brother.
     
    You idiot a cage isn’t a weapon. It has to do something to be a weapon.
     
    Has to destroy the enemy.
     
    Just then there was a loud noise downstairs. Inside Geryon something burst into flame.
     
    He hit the floor running.
Mom!
     
     

IV. TUESDAY
     
    Click here for original version
     
    Tuesdays were best.
     
     
    ————
     
    Every second Tuesday in winter Geryon’s father and brother went to hockey practice.
     
    Geryon and his mother had supper alone.
     
    They grinned at each other as night climbed ashore. Turned on all the lights
     
    even in rooms they weren’t using.
     
    Geryon’s mother made their favorite meal, cling peaches from the can and toast
     
    cut into fingers for dipping.
     
    Lots of butter on the toast so a little oil slick floats out on top of the peach juice.
     
    They took supper trays into the living room.
     
    Geryon’s mother sat on the rug with magazines, cigarettes, and telephone.
     
    Geryon worked beside her under the lamp.
     
    He was gluing a cigarette to a tomato.
Don’t pick your lip Geryon let it heal.
     
    She blew smoke out her nose
     
    as she dialed.
Maria? It’s me can you talk? What did he say?
     
    . . . .
     
    Just like that?
     
    . . . .
     
    Bastard
     
    . . . .
     
    That’s not freedom it’s indifference
     
    . . . .
     
    Some kind of addict
     
    . . . .
     
    I’d throw the bum out
     
    . . . .
     
    That’s melodrama
—she stubbed her cigarette hard—
why not have a nice bath
     
    . . . .
     
    Yes dear I know it doesn’t matter now
     
    . . . .
     
    Geryon? fine he’s right here working on his autobiography
     
    . . . .
     
    No it’s a sculpture he doesn’t know how to write yet
     
    . . . .
     
    Oh this and that stuff he finds outside Geryon’s always finding things
     
    aren’t you Geryon?
     
    She winked at him over the telephone. He winked back using both eyes
     
    and returned to work.
     
    He had ripped up some pieces of crispy paper he found in her purse to use for hair
     
    and was gluing these to the top of the tomato.
     
    Outside the house a black January wind came flattening down from the top of the sky
     
    and hit the windows hard.
     
    The lamp flared.
It’s beautiful Geryon,
she said hanging up the telephone.
     
    It’s a beautiful sculpture.
     
    She put her hand on top of his small luminous skull as she studied the tomato.
     
    And bending she kissed him once on each eye
     
    then picked up her bowl of peaches from the tray and handed Geryon his.
     
    Maybe next time you could
     
    use a one-dollar bill instead of a ten for the hair,
she said as they began to eat.
     
     

V. SCREENDOOR
     
    Click here for original version
     
    His mother stood at the ironing board lighting a cigarette and regarding Geryon.
     
     
    ————
     
    Outside the dark pink air
     
    was already hot and alive with cries.
Time to go to school,
she said for the third time.
     
    Her cool voice floated
     
    over a pile of fresh tea towels and across the shadowy kitchen to where Geryon stood
     
    at the screen door.
     
    He would remember when he was past forty the dusty almost medieval smell
     
    of the screen itself as it
     
    pressed its grid onto his face. She was behind him now.
This would be hard
     
    for you if you were weak
     
    but you’re not weak,
she said and neatened his little red wings and pushed him
     
    out the door.
     
     

VI. IDEAS
     
    Click here for original version
     
    Eventually Geryon learned to write.
     
     
    ————
     
    His mother’s friend Maria gave him a beautiful notebook from Japan
     
    with