A wasteland of strangers Read Online Free PDF

wasn't even sure I wanted to keep on being with him, whether or not I had his damn baby.

    Douglas Kent
    STORM'S EYES WERE all over the strange beast as soon as it lumbered into Gunderson's Lounge. When it settled its hairy bulk at the other end of the bar, she shifted slightly on her stool so she could keep watching it without turning her head. Large, the way she liked 'em. Large and unsightly and endowed, no doubt, with no more than two active brain cells. What did she talk to them about afterward? Or were her postcoital conversations limited to contented sighs on her part, satisfied animal grunts and purrs on theirs?
    You'll never know, Kent.
    No Stormy nights for you, bucko—past, present, or future.
    I lit a weed and studied my glass through the smoke. One more swallow to savor and on to the next. Dry martinis, the universal salve. The good folks at AA tell you that if you can't imagine a world without booze, you're a major-league alcoholic. I couldn't imagine a universe without booze. So what did that make me?
    I knew what it made me, yes indeedy. My own brain cells pickled and expiring in daily droves. Ah, but there were still plenty left—too many, as a matter of fact. And the too many too active.
    "How about another?" I asked Storm.
    "No, I don't think so." Still staring at the Incredible Hulk who had wandered in out of the cold. "You go ahead, Doug."
    "Don't mind if I do."
    I took the last swallow and signaled to Mike for a refill. He brought it dutifully and quickly; Mike and I have an understanding based on mutual need. His, of course, being filthy lucre.
    When I had it cozily in hand and a third of the salve working its warm way into the Kent depths I said, "Bigfoot lives."
    "What?"
    "Him. Humongous, isn't he?"
    "Mmm. He came into the bank today while I was there."
    "Did he now."
    "I wonder who he is."
    "Why don't you go ask him?"
    Out came the tongue to slick her lips. The tip of it stayed out at one corner. I knew that gesture and the sultry expression that went with it; I'd seen them aimed at a dozen different men in the past three years. Never at me, however. The gesture and expression I knew well, but the moist lips and tongue themselves I didn't know at all and never would. Kent the deprived.
    "I'll bet he's hung like a horse," I said.
    "Don't be vulgar."
    I applied more salve. "Sure you won't have another, pal?"
    "I'm sure." Then, delayed reaction: "Why did you say that?"
    "Say what?"
    "Call me pal."
    "Why not? We're drinking buddies, aren't we?"
    "I suppose we are." Eyes on the fresh meat again.
    "Aloof drinking buddies," I said. "Martinis and chaste good-night handshakes."
    No answer this time. She wasn't even listening.
    I gave my glass closer scrutiny, holding it up so the back-bar lights reflected in tiny distorted glints off the salve's oily surface. Time once again to ponder the oft-pondered question: Was I in love with Storm Carey, or was she just another whip-hard unit in the Kent bag of sticks? Tonight I felt more philosophical than usual. Tonight I decided it was a mixture of the two. Long ago I'd come to the conclusion that I was incapable of real love, the selfless, giving kind; but I was capable of a pallid, selfish version and within its boundaries, yes, I loved her. Ah, but was it Storm the woman that I loved pallidly and selfishly, or was it the insoluble mystery of her, her hidden eye that I couldn't reach or ever possess? A little of both, I decided again. Which was what made the stick that was Storm whip hard, the pain more exquisite when it was applied to the tender portions of the Kent psyche.
    Not a new insight, but a sharper one than usual. Very good. I rewarded myself with more salve.
    How long has it been that I've been gathering sticks for the old bag? Long time. Long, long time. The first few had been picked up in the bosom of Pa Kent's dysfunctional family. One or two more in Philly, fresh out of Penn State's redoubtable journalism school, suffering through graveyard shifts on