In the City of Shy Hunters Read Online Free
Author: Tom Spanbauer
the lip liner made the line.
Cool, Fiona said, puckered her lips.
You could understand so much by just how Fiona said cool.
Fiona snapped her compact closed.
I see that I am playing at being beautiful, Fiona said. She took a breath and pressed her red lipstick lips together.
I see, I said, That you are enjoying playing at being beautiful.
Fiona looked around the table, into Roseâs eyes. True Shotâs mirrors looked into my eyes.
Iâm twice her size, just as drunk.
The fates lead her who will, Fiona said, Who wonât they drag.
And just like that, we are laughing. Fiona and Rose and True Shot and I embraced, holding on to our drinks, our cigarettes, holding on for dear life, laughing so hard our gums showed, so hard that man and woman, white and Indian and black, gay and straight, all went away between us and there we were just four people laughing.
The moment that after youâre different.
The night Harry died, Fiona said. AIDS. I was on the couch. I woke up and Harry was sitting up in bed. Harry had a tube running up his arm that ran to his heart, and there was a pump that made a whirring sound that pumped medicine into Harryâs heart. Harryâs cat, Madonna, was sitting by the pump. The only light in the room was the amber night-light, the Christmas-tree-light kind you plug in the socket.
Fionaâs lips were rubber around the words. Harry told me, Fiona said, Iâm the luckiest man. Life is absolutely, mysteriously beautiful. Life has always been here all around me, in me, of me, has always been this fascinating mystery, but it wasnât until now that I have been present, been aware enough, to witness. I am here now in this room in this light with the sound of the pump and Madonna watching the pump and listening to the pump, and just now, Fiona, you were snoring and I realized I was alive and I was aware. When youâre thirsty, Harry said, Water is so beautiful.
I got up, Fiona said, Poured a glass of water, took the glass of water to Harry. I sat on the bed and helped Harry hold his head up. I put the glass to Harryâs lips. Harry took a sip. Harry said, Beautiful, just beautiful. And then all at once, Harry was staring at me; his eyes rolled up and Harry wasnât present, wasnât there with me anymore.
LENA HORNE â S âWhere or When.â Snot on Fionaâs broken lip. She wiped her nose, smeared the red. Her bird hand perched on my big farm hand,my bitten cuticles. Dogs barking. Then Fionaâs ear was at my chest, and Fionaâs heartbeat and my heartbeat were one heartbeat.
In all the world, our heartbeat the only thing.
THAT NIGHT IN Fish Bar, not one of us knew what we were really talking about. We were all just talking talking, playing at talking, and then we were talking about the one moment. The one moment that before it we were going this way and after it we were going that way.
Didnât know.
Personae.
True Shot, Rose, Fiona, me. None of us knew that when we started talking about the one moment, what we were talking about was death.
BUT IT â S NOT the truth. We were never all of us in Fish Bar together.
The way this all happened together was only in me.
BOOK ONE
CHAPTER
ONE
T he airplane landed at La Guardia, August 3, 1983. My first time ever in New York City, and in all the world, I was leaning up against a cement wall, an unrelenting fluorescent light above me, the bill of my red ball cap the only shade for miles. Exhaust fumes. I was minding my business, just outside the doors where you claim your baggage, waiting for the express bus to the city. My wallet was in my inside jacket pocket. Inside my chest, no room for breath. Sweat rolling from my pits. My duffel bag was against the wall next to me. On top of my duffel bag, my suitcase with the travel stickers on it, and on top of the suitcase, my backpack. I was rolling a cigarette with one hand like I can when I saw the van. A 1970 maroon Dodge van with hippie
Cool, Fiona said, puckered her lips.
You could understand so much by just how Fiona said cool.
Fiona snapped her compact closed.
I see that I am playing at being beautiful, Fiona said. She took a breath and pressed her red lipstick lips together.
I see, I said, That you are enjoying playing at being beautiful.
Fiona looked around the table, into Roseâs eyes. True Shotâs mirrors looked into my eyes.
Iâm twice her size, just as drunk.
The fates lead her who will, Fiona said, Who wonât they drag.
And just like that, we are laughing. Fiona and Rose and True Shot and I embraced, holding on to our drinks, our cigarettes, holding on for dear life, laughing so hard our gums showed, so hard that man and woman, white and Indian and black, gay and straight, all went away between us and there we were just four people laughing.
The moment that after youâre different.
The night Harry died, Fiona said. AIDS. I was on the couch. I woke up and Harry was sitting up in bed. Harry had a tube running up his arm that ran to his heart, and there was a pump that made a whirring sound that pumped medicine into Harryâs heart. Harryâs cat, Madonna, was sitting by the pump. The only light in the room was the amber night-light, the Christmas-tree-light kind you plug in the socket.
Fionaâs lips were rubber around the words. Harry told me, Fiona said, Iâm the luckiest man. Life is absolutely, mysteriously beautiful. Life has always been here all around me, in me, of me, has always been this fascinating mystery, but it wasnât until now that I have been present, been aware enough, to witness. I am here now in this room in this light with the sound of the pump and Madonna watching the pump and listening to the pump, and just now, Fiona, you were snoring and I realized I was alive and I was aware. When youâre thirsty, Harry said, Water is so beautiful.
I got up, Fiona said, Poured a glass of water, took the glass of water to Harry. I sat on the bed and helped Harry hold his head up. I put the glass to Harryâs lips. Harry took a sip. Harry said, Beautiful, just beautiful. And then all at once, Harry was staring at me; his eyes rolled up and Harry wasnât present, wasnât there with me anymore.
LENA HORNE â S âWhere or When.â Snot on Fionaâs broken lip. She wiped her nose, smeared the red. Her bird hand perched on my big farm hand,my bitten cuticles. Dogs barking. Then Fionaâs ear was at my chest, and Fionaâs heartbeat and my heartbeat were one heartbeat.
In all the world, our heartbeat the only thing.
THAT NIGHT IN Fish Bar, not one of us knew what we were really talking about. We were all just talking talking, playing at talking, and then we were talking about the one moment. The one moment that before it we were going this way and after it we were going that way.
Didnât know.
Personae.
True Shot, Rose, Fiona, me. None of us knew that when we started talking about the one moment, what we were talking about was death.
BUT IT â S NOT the truth. We were never all of us in Fish Bar together.
The way this all happened together was only in me.
BOOK ONE
CHAPTER
ONE
T he airplane landed at La Guardia, August 3, 1983. My first time ever in New York City, and in all the world, I was leaning up against a cement wall, an unrelenting fluorescent light above me, the bill of my red ball cap the only shade for miles. Exhaust fumes. I was minding my business, just outside the doors where you claim your baggage, waiting for the express bus to the city. My wallet was in my inside jacket pocket. Inside my chest, no room for breath. Sweat rolling from my pits. My duffel bag was against the wall next to me. On top of my duffel bag, my suitcase with the travel stickers on it, and on top of the suitcase, my backpack. I was rolling a cigarette with one hand like I can when I saw the van. A 1970 maroon Dodge van with hippie
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