Arkansas Read Online Free PDF Page B

that world in which almost any boy that caught your eye could be had, joyously, for a few
lire,
and without fear of blackmail or arrest. And though they would eventually marry and father children, those boys, at least they had that quaint old Italian openness to pleasure. I’d thought Eric had it too. But now I saw that more likely, he viewed his body as something to be transacted. He knew what a paper was worth—and he knew what
he
was worth; what his freshness and frankness were worth, when compared with some limp piece of faggot cock from the Circus of Books; some tired-out, overworked piece of dick; the bitter flavor of latex. (Do I cause offense? I won’t apologize; it was what I felt.)
    And in the morning, I did not go to the library at all. Made not even the slightest pretense of behaving like a writer. Instead I spent the whole day wandering the city. (The low business in which I got myself involved need not be catalogued here.)
    Likewise the next day. And the next.
    Then Eric called me.
    At first, glancing at the Librax pad, I didn’t quite believe it. I thought perhaps it was another Eric—except that I recognized his number.
    â€œDave, my man!” he said when I phoned him back. “You have got the Midas touch!”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œAn A, man! A fucking A! And an A-on my econ project!” I heard him inhale.
    â€œThat’s great, Eric. Congratulations.”
    â€œThanks. So now that you’ve done your part, I’m ready to do mine.”
    â€œOh?”
    â€œWhat, you’re surprised?”
    â€œWell—”
    â€œDave, I’m disappointed in you! I mean, do you really think I’m the kind of guy who’d let you write his paper and then just, you know, blow you off?”
    â€œNo, of course not—”
    â€œOn the contrary. You’re the one who’s going to do the blowing. You just tell me when, man.”
    I blushed. “Well, tonight would be okay.”
    â€œBoth roommates away for the weekend. Plus I’ve got some great pot. I bought it to celebrate.”
    â€œFantastic. So—I’ll come over.”
    â€œCool. See you in a few.” He hung up.
    Feeling a little shaky, I took a shower and changed my clothes. By now the beige vest from Banana Republic had gotten stretched out, and the Calvin Klein shirt had a ketchup stain on it. Still, I put them on.
    â€œHey, Dave,” he said at his door half an hour later. And patted me on the shoulder. Eric was drinking a Corona; had put
Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band
on the stereo.
    â€œHey, Eric. You’re certainly looking good.” By which I meant he looked awake. He’d washed his hair, put on fresh clothes. On top of which he smelled soapy and young in that way that no cologne can replicate.
    â€œI feel good," Eric said. “Last night I slept fourteen hours. Before that, I hadn’t slept in a week.” He motioned me upstairs. “And you? What have you been up to? Hard at work on another bestseller?”
    â€œOh, in a manner of speaking.”
    We went into his room, where he shuffled through the pile of papers on his desk. “Here it is,” he said after a few seconds. “I thought you’d want to see this.” And he handed me my paper.
    On the back, in a very refined script, Mary Yearwood had written the following:
    Â 
Eric: I must confess that as I finish reading your paper, I find myself at something of a loss for words. It is really first-rate writing. Your analysis of both texts is graceful and subtle, in addition to which—and this is probably what impresses me most—you incorporate biographical and historical evidence into your argument in a manner that enriches the reader’s understanding of the novels (in my view
Daisy Miller
must be looked upon as a novel) without ever seeming to intrude on their integrity as works of art. Also, your handling of the (homo)sexual underpinnings in both