Boulevard by Jim Grimsley Read Free Book Online Page B

looked about Newell’s age, and Newell wondered how someone so forlorn-looking had ever landed a swell job like this one. But by then he had found the copy of
Brute Hombre
, the hairy-chested man on the cover, the harsh block letters of the title slashing him through the forehead. Shoulders like a span of bridge. Newell gripped the magazine, wrapped in plastic and sealed with tape, as though it were some sacred object. On the back another picture of this man, Rod Hardigan,this time wearing only a pair of leather chaps and some kind of skimpy underwear, his thighs bulging, his body managing to look as if it were bursting out of itself, Newell found himself staring and wondered how long he had been standing there holding the magazine.
    At the moment only a couple of other people were shopping in the store. Newell took a deep breath and walked to the cash register where Louis—the name came to him now—Louis, with a spray of acne across his nose and cheeks, and long hair that could have used a washing, a hook nose, and nearly absent lips, where Louis took the magazine from him and stared at it as if trying to remember what he was supposed to do. Louis gave Newell a slack smile as the cash register shook and spit out a price, including sales tax. Newell accepted his change and the brown bag. Louis tried to count the money into Newell’s hand but kept getting lost, started over twice, finally shoved the money at Newell and said, “Here.”
    From the back of the store walked the old man, Mac, whose hair appeared darker today, and Newell guessed he had probably put a rinse in it, like Flora did to her hair. “Howdy,” Mac said, “pleasant day, ain’t it?”
    The job had left Newell feeling friendly and even a little confident, so he spoke up. “Yes sir. But it looks like rain tonight.”
    â€œYou think so?”
    â€œYes sir. Later on.”
    â€œWell, then, you better run your little tail on home,”Mac said, pulling a pack of Camel cigarettes out of his pocket. “Before you get wet. What did you buy?”
    Newell handed him the magazine in the paper bag without thinking. Some quality of Mac disarmed him, caused him to believe the request was good-intentioned. Mac looked at the cover and rubbed his jaw, scratchy with beard-shadow. “You got good taste. That one is high quality.”
    â€œIt sure cost enough.”
    â€œYou’re buying quality, son. You pay the price for color printing and good paper stock.”
    Newell took the bag again. Mac turned to Louis, blew smoke in Louis’s face. “Hey, you pimple-face son of a bitch, did you bag up them new magazines yet?”
    â€œI ain’t had time.”
    â€œWell, you better get time. We’re going to have some customers in here after a while.”
    Newell dipped his head to say good-bye, and Mac did the same, and Newell carried the magazine out of the store with a better feeling about himself, a less furtive way of thinking about the fact that he had bought a book with pictures of naked men in it. Quality, it was. He hurried down St. Ann to Decatur Street and walked straight down to Barracks. For the first time since he had come here he hardly noticed the city at all. He had rolled up the magazine in its bag and carried it in his hand like a brown baton. Forward with a brisk stride he walked, and arrived at the door to the long, dark passageway, walked through it into the loggia and up the stairs to his room.
    He sat in the chair by the door to the gallery and held the bag in his lap. He slipped out the plastic bag, unfastened the tape, and pulled the slick magazine out of its wrapper.
    Finding himself watching the eyes of the man in the photograph, between brown and hazel, with a translucence that created the illusion of depth, as if the man were actually seeing, as if someone were inside the photograph. The man with his heavy beard and shaggy chest, the tip of his tongue visible, touching