The Juror by George Dawes Green Read Free Book Online Page B

it, and holds it up between thumb and forefinger, delicately.
     All its mustard-yellow insect legs running like hell, but it’s not getting anywhere.
    Rechaka
. He dismisses this vision.
    He breathes in. Another globe floats up.
    His mother, shrieking at the bathroom door, kicking it. The door flies open. His father is taking a shit, and he’s got an
     open volume of Thomas Aquinas on his knee. Says his mother, “So
now
what, Princessa?” His father gets up. A teardrop-shaped turd falls from his ass as he rises, and drops onto the toilet seat.
     With his pants wrapped around his ankles he steps forward. He tries to spit in her face, but he misses. He smiles at his son,
     and shuts the door.
    The Teacher, with his breath, arranges all three disks into a pyramid, two low and one high. He fusses with their alignment
     until the geometry seems immaculate, unassailable.
    Then he inhales them.
    He rises.
    He plays his messages. Sari. Sari again. Sari a third time.
    He goes to the console and summons up channel one, Annie’s kitchen. He listens. Her visitor, the doctor woman, is still there
     with her; they’re chatting away, and the Teacher’s schoolhouse is filled with their laughter. It’s good to be with them.
The Master travels all day without ever leaving his house
, says Lao Tsu.
    Annie and her doctor friend are talking about Zach Lyde.

    A NNIE ’s appalled. “The shirred? No. Not the shirred.”
    “Why not?” says Juliet. She’s still laughing. “That’s such a sexy number. You look so sexy—”
    “Juliet, will you stop it? I don’t want to look sexy. This man is my potential patron. He is
not
a potential…”
    “What?”
    “Boyfriend. Whatever.”
    “Oh no. No of course not, Annie. He’s only gorgeous, thoughtful, rich as Croesus. Doesn’t approach your standards. Though
     it is sweet of you to consent to this mercy-date with the poor—”
    “This is not a date!
Not. A. Date.
And besides you left out self-confident and funny and you didn’t say anything about his cheekbones.”
    “All right! That’s the way! You’re
wearing
that shirred thing, girl. And don’t be shy with him—”
    “I’m not shy.”
    “You are.”
    “I’m private.”
    “You clam up.”
    “I don’t babble to men, that’s all.”
    Juliet laughs. “Babble? You call it babbling?” She slurs the word
babble
. It’s evident to Annie that her friend is far past exhausted. She sits in the kitchen rocking chair, chattering and pushing
     Oliver’s Lorna Doones into her mouth—taking ratchety little rapid-fire bites. She’s overrevving. When she reaches for her
     cup of tea she lunges.
    “It’s not
babble
, Annie, it’s an
art
. First you say something to puff up his ego. Then you say something alluring, something to draw him close to you. Then with
     a sly little subtle stab you
puncture
his balloon. Then you stroke his silly ego again, then you push him back, pull push pull push pull push till you’ve got him,
     by this method, spinning in circles and dizzy and staggering and falling at your feet.”
    “And then what?”
    “Then tell him you’re sorry, you do admire him but he can never be more to you than your
patron
—and Annie, you have to let me listen in when you do this or I’ll kill you, my darling,” and Juliet breaks out into more gales
     of laughter.
    “Hey Jul?”
    “What?”
    “When’s the last time you slept?”
    This is a poser for Juliet. “You mean
sleep
sleep? Not just closing your eyes for a minute while you’re doing a tracheotomy? Well, I don’t know. What’s today?”
    “Wednesday.”
    “It is? No.”
    “Yeah.”
    “You sure?”
    “I’m sure.”
    “Well then, I know I slept for a few hours Monday night. Not so long ago.”
    “Jesus, what are you doing here? You’ve got to get to bed—”
    “No I had to come. When I got your message. I mean, Annie, what’s incredible is that you never stopped dreaming, you wanted
     to make art and you did it and you struggled, you kept