Wasted Beauty by Eric Bogosian Read Free Book Online Page B

breath.
    The problem is Laura and I define love differently. I see it as something dramatic, urgent. She sees it as all the millions of molecules of daily life floating in between the big moments. Laura could care less about the big moments. For her, all that’s important is that we exist on earth together. That’s all she needs.
    Rick floats high in the sky and he sees them, way down below, living, happy. He thinks, from out here in outer space, I can only join you momentarily. After a while, it’s just too much. And so I, the Silver Surfer, must fling myself back out into the void. Bye!

IN THE CITY FARM-FRESH APPLES ARE SOLD UNTIL Christmas Day. After that the sweetness fades and the peel goes rubbery. This fall the days are bright and clear as Billy stuffs the five- and one-dollar bills in a paper bag. He has enlarged his assortment of country goods. On the collapsible metal table a jumble of dirty-blond squash and shaggy rubber-banded carrots lie next to a stack of kale. Behind the veggies he’s arranged the tins of maple syrup, each one affixed with a hand-lettered label. Behind them, the dark clover honey, a chunk of beeswax trapped in each jar.
    With arms folded across his chest, Billy lectures the city folk who dream of owning a country house themselves, a place where they can cultivate their own patch of brown loam. They prize their horticultural discussions with farmer Billy.
    Q: “How do you get your carrots so plump?”
    A: “Oh, well, you see, the secret is mixing some sand with the soil.”
    Q: “What about nematodes?”
    A: “Rotate your crops. Same thing with the squash vine maggot.”
    Q: “Is it ever too late to pick kale?”
    A: “Nope, you just brush off the frost and she’ll be all the sweeter for it.”
    Q: “Are these apples organic?”
    A: “Absolutely certified.”
    Billy lectures as Reba bags the produce. Then, as the satisfied customers wander off, he quips sideways out of his mouth, “Stupid sheep. If they thought about it for two minutes they’d figure out I’m full of shit. You know what their problem is? They’d go nuts if they didn’t think there was a better place besides this human septic tank. They’re not buying vegetables, they’re buying a fantasy.”
    Billy rarely eats an apple and can’t stomach kale. He hasn’t touched a spade or a pitchfork in years, eats his lunch out of a McDonald’s bag. He hates all veggies and hates all city people, calling them “kikes” and “spooks” and “queers” behind their backs. But he’s a businessman, and his business plan includes making a good impression. So he lectures. He knows people are attracted by Reba’s wholesome quality, so he insists she wear her dowdiest cotton dresses every Saturday.
    Reba keeps an eye on the passing parade, wishing she could ask these alien folk about their interesting haircuts and tattoos, their pierced noses and lips and tongues, their glossy black shoes and the books they carry under their arms. How do you make a living? Where are you going? Are you students? Artists? Actors, maybe? A young man wanders by with his girl, who wears a jacket the likes of which Reba has seen only in magazines. They make a big show of how in love they are, hands stuck in each other’s back pockets. The boy sneaks a look at Reba as they pass.
    One Saturday while Billy is back sorting the van, a young guy comes up to the table, picks out an apple, lifts it to his nose and sniffs. He lobs the fruit back into the basket, picks out another and methodically feels and squeezes the thing like a pitcher warming up. On his chin, a barely visible wisp of a beard, like blond cotton candy. He nails Reba with his sky blue eyes, “You grow these?”
    “Yes.” Before she can stop herself, Reba pushes a lock of her hair behind an ear.
    “Where?” Such an easy smile.
    “Upstate.” Reba fusses with the maple syrup, lining up all the tins in the same direction.
    He picks up another and says, “Wow.”
    “ ‘Wow’?”