My Life Among the Apes Read Online Free PDF

I have. Even if you don’t come in for three months, I remember. Not that it’s going to do me any good, with the place shutting down.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    She slides the beer in front of me, a line of foam slipping down the cold glass. “Going to be a Valu-Mart here. Groceries and shit. For the new subdivision. And a halfmile down the road there’s going to be a mall with six movie screens. Hey!” she shouts to the band. “Why don’t you stop messing around with the damn mics and start playing?”
    But the band takes another few minutes. The lead singer does this weird snake motion while he sings and then their three songs are over and two women in suede vests are already coming up. One has a regular guitar, the other a Dobro, and they sing two Loretta Lynn songs and sound all right, like they’ve been playing in crummy Nashville honkytonks for years. Louder applause from the bikers. The bartender slides over to me.
    â€œYou’re on next, honey.”
    â€œBut I’m number eight.”
    â€œWell, number three has pussied out and number four is in the washroom so I’m slipping you in. You go and rock this place, tiger.”
    It takes a total refutation of all my instincts to get myself to pick up the guitar case and carry it across the room. It knocks against the arm of a biker who shoves me back hard. By the time I reach the stage I am shaking like a man pulled out of an icy river. I pull the macramé strap over my head, take the pick from my pocket, and perch on the stool. The glare from the small spotlight turns the audience dark and menacing, which they actually are.
    â€œGet the fuck on with it.”
    MY CELLPHONE IS CHIMING on the night table by the motel bed as I unlock the door. I take my time putting down my case, dropping the keys, walking over to pick up the phone. The numbers pulsing on the little screen are Candice’s. I stare at them as if I’m looking at the winning numbers of a lottery ticket that I’ve already thrown away.
    â€œHello?” I say tentatively.
    â€œMitch. I’ve been phoning all night.” I can hear the shakiness in her voice but also the annoyance. “I need to talk to you. Come over.”
    â€œIt’s midnight. I’m a forty-five minute drive away.”
    â€œIt’s kind of important, Mitch.”
    â€œIt’s over then, the new thing?”
    â€œI was an idiot. No, not an idiot. I mean I understand myself better now, what I had to put myself through.”
    â€œUs. Put us through.”
    â€œYes, us. I need you, Mitch.”
    â€œI just played a song,” I say.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œIn a bar. A biker bar, if you can believe it. I got up with a guitar and sang ‘Bird on the Wire.’ When I got down again the bartender, this older woman, she had tears in her eyes. She said to me, ‘Bob used to sing me that song.’”
    â€œMitch, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
    A TULIP BULB LOOKS LIKE a little onion, like you could bite into it. I put one into each of the small holes I’ve dug with a spoon and pat down the earth. It’s too late for them to bloom this year, but they’ll come up next spring.
    On the next lawn two young boys are tussling over a soccer ball. Their names are Daya and Rajif. Some older kids have made a ramp out of a sheet of plywood and some blocks left by the construction company and are taking turns jumping on their skateboards. It is an absolutely beautiful morning, like the sun has risen for the first time over the world.
    I hear my name and look up to see Mrs. Kankipati crossing the street with a plate in her hands. She is a handsome woman with greying hair and large brown eyes whose husband is an importer who flies to Kashmir every six weeks. Mrs. Kankipati says, “Mitch, I just made some pakoras. I think you will like them.”
    â€œOh, I love pakoras.”
    â€œBut in the