Shuck Read Online Free PDF Page A

coffees, lattes, and Nanaimo bars with some kind of insane shit in them, either speed or Drano.
    The incessant whine of the coffee grinder isn’t what bothers me, and it’s not the horrible décor: decrepit sofas in puke yellow and blister red, lamps with torn velvet shades. It’s not even the conspiracy nuts, swapping theories over deafening laptop key clatter, who drive me crazy. They talk about the Internet as if it’ll still be around in five years.
    It’s the actors, the ones so slick that gum doesn’t even stick to their shoes, who make me want to retch.
    A Colgate smile flashed in front of my face.

    â€œHey, I’m Chase, and a school bus crushed my legs.”
    They looked intact to me.
    â€œ Terror Firmer by Troma Films.”
    â€œExcuse me?”
    â€œHe’s an actor and he’s almost famous,” an earthy girl beside him said. “Famous people are allowed to speak in incomplete sentences. I’m Forest.”
    â€œOh.”
    â€œThey had a school bus crush my legs.”
    â€œBrilliant,” I said.
    â€œHe is,” Forest said from under her beige Stevie Nicks shawl.
    â€œAre you famous, too?” I said.
    She smiled like she had eaten a lemon.
    â€œSo what do you do, dude?” Chase asked me.
    That shock of conditioner-soaked hair.
    â€œI enjoy life.”
    He and Forest laughed in measured staccato notes like they had rehearsed this before. I was playing my part exceptionally well, considering this was my first run-through.
    â€œYou have to do something ,” she said. “You can’t not do anything. This is New York .”
    â€œI’m a writer.”
    â€œRock the Casbah,” Chase said.
    â€œWait—are you published?” Forest said.
    â€œNot yet.”
    â€œSo then what do you really do? Don’t be ashamed of how you spend your life.”
    â€œDude, he said that he’s a writer. He’s cool.”
    Chase checked out the café, I’m guessing to see who was admiring
his hair, and Forest took my hand in hers in a creepy way.
    â€œI can feel that you’re a communicator.” Her eyes shot wide open. “A great one. Unpublished writers have so much potential. You’re bursting, aren’t you? I can ... mmm ... feel it.”
    â€œI told you he was a writer,” Chase said, and slapped me on the back.

    I know I’m going to sound like a snob, but it needs to be said—if you don’t have Fiorucci sneakers like mine, your life will be shit, and I can prove it.
    Do you think blisters are the way to happiness? If you’re not wearing calfskin uppers, you’re going to need a lifetime supply of Band-Aids. Hacks like Salvatore Ferragamo think they can get away with rubber soles when they should be leather, while cheapskates like Bruno Magli use proper leather soles but make them too thin. They either want you to destroy your arches or puncture yourself with city sharps.
    I wonder how Manolo Blahnik expects to build a fashion brand around glue. Even people who cripple themselves with mediocre footwear know that sewn construction is the only way to keep a shoe together. It’s common sense.

    I should work the clubs, Derek told me, if I wanted to get a less violent clientele. That was nice of him. He went so far as to suggest the club, this Derek. This uninspired painter who needed my bruises.

    It’s an unseasonably hot winter night. March came early this year—a spring hijacking.
    Stinking, rotting meat. Lamb’s blood putrefying on the sidewalk, and it isn’t even Passover. Entrails that lazy meat handlers couldn’t be bothered to pick up. Chicken gizzards, or giblets, or whatever the hell they’re called. The snow has melted and mixed with the blood, and this pinkish liquid is running over the curb.
    I love the Meatpacking District.
    It’s a Disneyland of death, shoe stores, and clubs. I pass The Lure, a club that I heard still has the