Man Gone Down by Michael Thomas Read Free Book Online

theorist who can’t paint? The penis is perfect.
    â€œI’m ignorant,” I say. “I’m not very good at articulating my responses to art.”
    â€œBullshit. You don’t like them. It’s cool.” She smiles a fake smile and squints her eyes. I wait for her skull to morph. It doesn’t.
    â€œShow’s over. Let’s get wasted.”
    We walk south, deeper into the neighborhood. She sets the pace, walking easily through the crowds. People smile at her. She smiles back. They smile at us, as if there is an us. Sometimes people smile when I’m with Claire. I wonder if liberal white people smile at each other, pass out happy approval of each other’s mates—
I approve. You may pass.
    She stops outside of what I remember to have been a sheet-metal fabricator’s place. It’s now a bar. In place of the steel roll-down door is a glass-paneled one. It’s halfway up—as though it got stuck when they opened for the day.
    â€œI’ve never been here before, but I hear it’s kind of cute.”
    She gestures for me to go in first, but I extend my arm as if to say, “No, after you.” She shakes her head. “You’re funny.” The music is loud—some girl band. There’s a round bar in the center and large Eames-like common tables throughout the room. Along the walls are banquettes with bullet-shaped tables. All the surfaces are clad in periwinkle Formica. Except for the bartender, waiter, and ten or so scattered patrons it’s empty.
    There are large television monitors up in each corner and four more above the bar. All of them are playing videos. On one a troop of astronaut dancing girls are in outer space. It takes a moment for me to realize that they’re all the same out-of-sync video and a bit more time to figure out that the music booming out of the many speakers is linked with only one of the monitors, the one above the bar, facing the door. There’s about a second delay between eachmonitor. They must have spent about three weeks’ take on this A/V system. They’re not going to make it. Somewhere an old tin-knocker is laughing. The cat-suited astro-girls do a kick-ball-change in the intense gravity and poisonous atmosphere of Saturn. It’s amazing that they haven’t suffered any casualties on this unique mission to the stars.
    She chooses a banquette. It’s blue-painted plywood with orange vinyl cushions. The back isn’t sloped, so it’s uncomfortable to sit in unless I slouch. The waiter comes over, bored stupid by the lack of business. He’s skinny and young and his posture is terrible.
    â€œStoli martini—dirty.”
    â€œMay I please have a Coke? Thank you.”
    He calculates his potential tip from us and decides it’s not worth straightening up or smiling. She looks at me.
    â€œThat’s all you want?”
    â€œYes, thanks.”
    â€œI’m buying.”
    â€œThat’s fine, thank you.” He trudges back to the bar, far too heavily for his slight build.
    â€œDo you not drink?”
    â€œI do not drink.”
    She slouches and squeezes her pigtails. She’s quite lovely, but she’s tiny, as though she’s another species. She can’t weigh much more than a hundred pounds. One martini will probably stupefy her.
    â€œHow’s Claire?”
    â€œShe’s well. Thanks.”
    She shakes her head, closing her eyes as she does. “You’re so—formal?” She laughs and drums the table. I can see why she’s prone to smiling. Her teeth are straight and white and beautiful against her dark lips.
    â€œWhere is she?”
    â€œShe’s at her mother’s.” She stares at me, toothy and amused. Perhaps I’m still too formal.
    â€œOh.” She closes her eyes. “At the beach for the summer.”
    â€œWhere are your people?”
    â€œUpstate. Greg took Toby up to see Nana and