The Throwback Special Read Online Free Page B

that was it. We had dinner, we went home and had sex in the bathtub, and the next day she said she thought it would be best if I would leave.”
    George groaned into the seat, and Andy could feel it in his chest. George kept a tight grip on the tops of Andy’s arms. “That is rough, man,” he said.
    Andy nodded. With the windows fogged, he could not see cars or men or hotel.
    “But hey, listen, I think you probably know,” George said, “that the problems had been building up for a long, long time before that night in February.”
    Andy stared at the dust on his dashboard. How does a car get so dusty? “That is true,” he said. He put his hand on top of the Redskins helmet, which was sitting obediently in the passenger seat. It seemed like a pet, an animate thing, stolid and content and loyal. He wished he were wearing it on his head.
    “Andy, I’ve got some of my homemade stuff in a flask,” George said. “You want some firewater?”
    Andy said yes, realizing too late that George would have to release his grip on Andy’s upper arms to retrieve his flask. Ungripped, Andy felt suddenly insubstantial, incoherent. He took a big drink from the flask. Whatever it was, was horrible, but he was grateful for it. When hehanded the flask to the backseat, he looked into the mirror and watched George drink. Andy noticed that George’s thin gray hair, wet from the rain, was short and spiky on top. It was not pulled back.
    “Hey,” Andy said, “did you get your ponytail cut off?”
    George nodded while drinking. Then he coughed into the back of his hand. “A couple of months ago, I saw a picture of myself on the library blog,” he said. “It was taken from behind. And the next day I cut that thing off myself. It was time, man.”
    PETER TYPICALLY PARKED in the small lot at the side of the hotel. He had done it once as a mistake years ago, and now he maintained the practice out of his unarticulated sense that continuity was of a higher priority than convenience. A yellow sports car crouched dormant at one end of the nearly empty lot, far from the side entrance. The car was parked directly over a painted line, so as to take two full spots, proving once again to Peter that there are basically two types of people in the world. Though stationary and driverless, the car seemed contemptuous and reckless, with a wide, powerful backside. It seemed to want to break laws. It somehow gleamed without sunlight. In much the same way that he worried that his legs would fling his body from observation decks or scenic overlooks, Peter worried now that he would accelerate his Accord into the lean flankof the yellow sports car. He parked on the opposite side of the lot, pulling the emergency brake.
    Since Peter used a side entrance, the men who had entered the lobby—even Robert in his stuffed chair—did not notice him. The woman at the front desk looked up and smiled at Peter as he passed, but he did not acknowledge her. He walked to the dining area, where he filled a cup with water at the juice dispenser. Upon opening the microwave he was momentarily stunned by the miasma of irradiated popcorn. He blinked his eyes against the vapors, steadied his legs. The interior of the microwave, like the interiors of all public microwaves, resembled the scene of a double homicide. He put the cup inside, closed the door, and programmed the oven to heat the water on high for one minute and fifty-six seconds. The start button was concave with history, like the stone steps of an ancient cathedral. The microwave rattled and popped. A dim interior bulb cast a faint yellow glow on the revolving cup and the spattered walls. A sign on top of the microwave, framed like the photograph of a family pet, asked that microwave users please demonstrate a respectful attitude toward fellow users. The clip art image on the sign, inexplicably, was of a guitar. Peter paced as the green digital numbers descended toward zero. He touched the new mouthguard in his pocket. On