Drink for the Thirst to Come by Lawrence Santoro Read Free Book Online Page A

too, too high on this particular shitpile. Boss’d hinted; Boss said: good trade. And he touched him, gave him a name. Cripes. Luck. Maybe he was lucky.
    He eased into the sack, slipped off boots, slipped off socks—tucked them in his pockets, one each side. Careful. Jacket off, shirt, there he was, not looking forward but here he was with a night to go, facing them: the living of his dreams.
    The bunk above was empty, the One-Eyed Kid from Nowhere was nowhere. That’s the way. No point thinking about. Whitey’d been his name.
    It had been?
    He thought about darkness for a little. Darkness was close. From the walls around came the chatter of the ’pedes, the roaches’ crackle. At least his bunk wasn’t by the wall.
    It hadn’t been a bad couple days! Been to the Wet and back. Seen the bong-bongs . He’d met that girl and did what he had to, his job. She said her name, but it did not bother him. No. Had a job and he’d done it: brought the box. She’d not be in his living nights, there to kick his dreams. No. Let someone in, that’s someone there to lose. He’d told her all, given his hiddens. Now she’s gone, and the Boss had touched him! Invited him to grunts tomorrow! Cripes, worth-up. And smokes! Holy Cripes, that’s how Goddamn good the days had been: he scored suck and hadn’t remembered. Luck. Still, he wished: Wish I could have gotten that tick-tock watch. Would have been…
    Wouldn’t have been right. Señor Temoco’s by rights. Shit, he’d wanted to tell her about the jack stamp on the Walk; always wanted to tell someone but hell that was just an old folk’s tale. Sometimes you had to step back a little, see how much one thing or another… something to think on later when you couldn’t do nothing else. And maybe someday when he was old, he’d find that hole, the Big Hole where were lights and movies and…
    He was slipping, now. In his sleep, he fingered the cell. Keyed the number, the number. Home. What would he ask? If someone answered? What should… He almost couldn’t keep the days, the times he’d had, in mind—and he wanted to! No! Christ. That’s the thing. Close it all! Pray, maybe. The dead cell, the silence of home filled him. He held on. If he could remember something else about how he’d spent… He’d seen the Wet. Seen the Hollows… Seen Walkin’ Will… No, no. He jHeHust told of him. And he’d had a choice? Not so good that… He’d had a job. He’d said what? Old Will’d said, “Drink! Drink for the thirst to come!” What the hey? There was something else that could’ve meant! No, he thought, no. Don’t sleep. You sleep, you’ll dream. Those dreams of the living, of Dolph Station and Jaycee Dogton, Tex, Marty, the others, the living. By then, day had bled away and Chris Harp of Johnny’s Icehouse slept. The dream-day was bright blue and gold and went on, oh God, forever, a summer day and mild, mild weather, a day like no other…
     

ROOT SOUP, WINTER SOUP
     
     
     
    Cordelia and trees. She saw in the still water of the pond her silly old face and no one else. That funny old face smiled up. She wiggled her finger in the cold water and Cordelia was alone, excepting the trees. Leaves floated lazy, half on top, half under the water, hardly drifting. Afternoon air was cool, heading to cold. Cold nights were coming.
    Soon them leaves’ll be cotched up and froze-in, she knew. Cotched good. The pond would be an ice sheet, then covered with fallen things, leaves, acorns and little branches, more leaves and other goods as fell. A person don’t know it’s there might could fall right in , she thought . Well, she knew it was there. The critters that wandered there for a drink knew it too. They would have to tap, tap by hoof or claw on the icy shell to water there. Soon after they’d eat snow or perish to the thirst. She knew that.
    The pond water stilled and there was that old Cordelia face again, minnows swimming through. Why, there she was. Couldn’t see the