Empty Pockets by Dale Herd Read Free Book Online Page B

white blue, the patches green,jean blue, dark blue, wheat, black, solid over both knees and up the thighs, pants Gray thought of as part of Hansen’s new doper style (but not that, not style in the usual mode of unusual dress for gaining attention but a style pronounced by a girl at a recent party, saying, “Those are your soul pants, right?” “Yeah, right,” Hansen had said, liking her, liking that she had defined it for him, seeming to know that he had created the pants: had washed and sewed and ironed them; had ironed then sewed on each patch actually working on them everywhere in town; had slowly welded and pressed them into his psyche under a variety of mostly steam irons everywhere, Grandma’s, Mom’s, a girl’s, even Gray’s new place; with each new tear had ironed on patch after patch after patch until, simply, they weren’t cloth pants any longer but were flesh, his flesh), pants that didn’t fit with the athletic look of the hard, tan belly and chest and shoulders, pants that were one more bad omen for Hansen’s future, pants that matched the ruined, blood-reddened whites of Hansen’s eyes now looking into his; Gray thinking then, What a handsome guy, what a dumb fuck, why feel sorry for that; then looked at Hoefer sitting impassively in the armchair, running his hand through his beard, obviously not seeing that Hansen was simply fucked, Why, Gray thought, even bother talking with the guy? If he doesn’t care, he doesn’t care.
    â€œI’ll be down in a minute,” Hoefer said, seeing that Gray was asking him to leave.
    â€œOkay,” Gray said. He tossed the binoculars next to Hansen, glanced at a Day-Glo orange-and-pink-bordered black poster of a tall, skull grinning, white skeleton draped in a garland of roses announcing THE GRATEFUL DEAD, AVALON, SAN FRANCISCO, thought symbolically, That figures, and said:
    â€œSee you, Hans.”
    â€œOkay,” Hansen answered.
    As Gray turned and walked out the door, twisting to avoid the last scarf, looking ahead to the dark well of carpeted stairway going down to the street, sensing the age and decay of the house, remembering then not clearly the visual picture (theslowness of it, the absolute concentration, the pulling of the red into thin, clean glass then the gentle, steady, perfect push back) but thinking mostly of the shock he had felt when watching one of Hansen’s new buddies shoot tranks at a party a week ago, remembering how the kid (another guy who wasn’t surfing much anymore) had smiled afterward, softly, quietly, some kind of weirdly beautiful light in his eyes, not looking up at Gray, it seemed, although his eyes had been fixed on him, but seeming to be looking up at something else, someone else directly behind Gray, although there had been no one there, Hoefer sighed, and Gray, hearing him, thought, What the hell is Hoefer going to do? There’s nothing he can do.
    In a minute Gray was gone and Hansen, still grinning, shrugged and shook his head.
    â€œWell,” Hoefer said, “queers are a pretty strange trip, you know.”
    â€œAh, I was just jiving,” said Hansen. “What’s his problem anyway?”
    â€œI don’t know.”
    â€œHe really gets uptight sometimes,” Hansen said.
    â€œWell,” said Hoefer, “not that it’s any of my business but what’s the deal on that needle? You use that thing?”
    Hansen threw out his hands.
    â€œBad karma, man.”
    â€œYeah, you’re right.”
    â€œSure,” Hoefer said.
    Hansen grinned.
    â€œListen, you ass, why don’t you wait a couple of days? C’mon out to my place. We’ll ride Rincon tomorrow when the tide’s better.”
    â€œNo, I better not.”
    â€œI can dig it,” Hoefer said, deciding to leave. He stood up. “Seeing some country’ll be good for you.”
    â€œYeah,” Hansen said, “and save my ass,