Green Hell Read Online Free PDF Page B

force after a horrendous accident, dropped the dime on me. To Jack!
    It is biologically impossible for a human being to remain conscious in the face of such a potent weapon of narcolepsy as a modern . . . politician. Boring, snoring, Rachel Reeves isn’t the only dull MP.
    (Stephen Pollard, editor of The Jewish Chronicle )
    Even if you’re a brain surgeon, you’re allowed to
    be interested in your appearance.
    (Alexandra Shulman, editor in chief of British Vogue, reassures women that it’s all right to be clever and talk about frocks)
    When I’d ventured to Jack my idea of writing about him, he said,
    â€œJesus, get a fuckin life.”
    Undeterred, I continued and carefully (very), I’d ask him questions. He snapped,
    â€œI don’t do sharing.”
    But somewhere in there, he wasn’t entirely resistant. Sometime later, he said,
    â€œPerhaps you could do a Tom Waits.”
    Lost me.
    I said,
    â€œLost me.”
    He sighed, said,
    â€œFor a young guy, part of the most sophisticated techno-savvy generation, you are pig ignorant of the things that matter.”
    Annoyed, I tried,
    â€œAnd like . . . Tom . . . whoever . . . matters?”
    He was shaking his head.
    â€œFuck me, that’s like asking if the Clash are relevant.”
    I sat down, waited, then got,
    â€œTom Waits said,
    â€˜Shall I tell you the truth or just string
    You along?’”
    Getting no comment from me, he went on,
    â€œI like the idea of the unreliable narrator.”
    Why was I not surprised?
    That evening a book dropped through my mailbox.
    Patricia Highsmith, Edith’s Diary .
    A note enclosed:
    Kid,
    About the best unreliable narrator you could read. Maybe pick up a few pointers.
    J.T.
    Was he asking/telling me a lie?
    After my visit to Superintendent Clancy—I’m not going to lie to you—I felt bad, real shitty. I’d not only done a pretty dubious act but damn, it had blown up in my face. Clancy had not only dismissed me but oh, Lord, effectively called me a rat, a fink.
    I took the Jack solution, I went to a bar, Jury’s, and who knows, maybe I thought I might run into the South American specter. The bar was pretty much empty, mirroring accurately how I felt.
    Two young women were at a corner table poring over a magazine. I ordered a 7 and 7 and got a look from the bar guy.
    â€œSeagram’s 7 and 7-Up.”
    His look said . . . “Then, that’s what you should have said.”
    Day just kept giving!
    I was considering a second one when a voice said,
    â€œOh, go on, live a bit.”
    One of the girls ordering wine spritzers. I noticed how pretty she was, verging on seriously hot.
    Because I’d been around Jack his, shall I say, “terseness” rather than “blunt rudeness” had rubbed off.
    I snapped,
    â€œHow would it be if you minded your own business.”
    A beat.
    Then,
    She laughed out loud, said,
    â€œA guy with balls. You’re a rare breed.”
    I sank back into my funk. Twenty dire minutes later, I finished the drink and, if anything, it had deepened my despair. Asked myself if it was too late to get back on my Beckett or cut my literary loss, head stateside. On the way to the door, the girl blocked my path. And her looks? She could be a ringer for Meadow, Tony Soprano’s daughter and, in my fragmented book, that was solid. She asked,
    â€œAre you some kind of mature student?”
    Mature was imbued with a weight of scorn.
    I tried for Jack’s “wipe the floor” with her but I had nothing. Her face, just truly lovely, had unnerved me. She stood there for a moment assessing me.
    Man, there are few analyses like that of an Irishwoman. It’s not even so much what you are as
    â€œwhat they might make of you.”
    Scary shit.
    She asked,
    â€œIf I marry you will I get a green card?”
    I spluttered,
    â€œWhat the . . .”
    She gave a radiant smile, said,
    â€œBut let’s play by the