Jernigan Read Online Free PDF Page B

that it was the little moments that counted. A drop of sweat from the end of my nose splatted on the cement: was that splat, too, an event to be cherished? Fact was, the only moment that I really gave a shit about justthen was the moment I could feel that first gulp of cold beer in my mouth, my throat, all down inside. So I went on into the kitchen, letting the screen door slam behind me, and a few seconds later I heard Danny’s door close, way down the hall. Then I realized I didn’t hear the guitar going. So he was probably in there reading. (Little joke.) Then I remembered: headphones. I got a beer out of the refrigerator. I had thought there were four left, but there were only three in there now. Well, so Danny was sneaking beers: okay, could be worse. Probably was worse. At any rate, I didn’t feel like confronting him about a God damn bottle of beer, especially when I wasn’t absolutely sure there was one missing in the first place. Be wrong just once about something like that and your kid would never trust you again.
    The Yankee game ought to be just about getting started. I turned on the tv and the image gave a little twist as it jerked into focus: green grass, brown earth, white lines. No wonder my father had loved to watch baseball. Assuming it was the shapes and colors that appealed to him rather than the idea of himself preferring baseball to, say, an opera. (This would have been a typical Francis Jernigan move, like the way he used to make the argument that Peyton Place was greater than Madame Bovary , I forget exactly why anymore.) Me, I just used baseball to numb myself. You know, like everything else. Overhead shot of the infield from behind the plate. Cut to the pitcher, seen from center field, leaning in for the sign. Cut to batter (right-handed), catcher and umpire, seen from field level, near the dugout. Catcher in white, batter in gray. Therefore still the top of the first: imagine knowing this. So the next couple of hours were taken care of. The batter swung and missed, the catcher bobbled the ball, tagged the batter and tossed the ball away and everybody trotted off and they went to the first commercial, for Chevrolet, the Heartbeat of America. I liked the little tune they had in this one, and I also liked knowing that I wasn’t so easily worked on as to want to go out and buy a new Chevrolet just on the strength of some fucking little tune. My shitheap of a Datsun would do fine, and when it stopped doing fine I’d get some other shitheap to get me to and from the station. So at least this was one vanity with which I didn’t have to tax myself.
    Then I realized that I was beginning to smell something, if Iwasn’t just imagining it. Smelled like pot, except now I didn’t smell it anymore. Then I smelled it again. Fuck, now this really did have to be checked out. I put my beer down on the floor (God damn carpeting in here so thick a bottle wouldn’t stay standing on it) and now I saw I’d tracked grass clippings all over the fucking place. Well, so who was going to come in and be scandalized.
    I knocked on Danny’s door. You could definitely smell smoke, boy. “Yeah?” he said.
    “I come in a second?”
    Pause. “Okay,” he said. “If you want to.”
    I opened the door and he was sitting, as before, on his bed, guitar in his lap, headphones around his neck like a dog collar, the padded earpieces touching at his throat. Now that I could really smell it, I could tell it was just tobacco. Impaled on the snipped-off end of one of the guitar strings, a filter cigarette smoldered away. At least he hadn’t humiliated himself by trying to hide it.
    “How long have you been doing this?” I said, pointing.
    He looked at his feet, shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said. “A year. Am I going to get in trouble?”
    “I guess not,” I said. “I mean, not from me . It’s not a moral issue.” Which might have been true, but I didn’t really think so. I found something indecently sexual about a