The Cormorant Read Online Free PDF Page B

practically.
    One of them, a shaggy-haired scarecrow in dark hipster glasses. Next to him, a super-skinny black guy with hair so blond it looks like pollen gathering on a bee’s butt. The third is a pooch-bellied pot-smoker type, hair so ratty with resin you could probably break off a hank and stick it in a bong.
    “You really a psychic?” the black one asks.
    “We want to know how we die,” the hipster scarecrow says.
    “Because holy shit,” the stoner says. “How awesome.”
    “I’m off-duty,” she says.
    “We got money,” Black Daffodil says. He elbows Hipster Scarecrow, who in turn elbows Bongwater. They each pull out a ten-dollar bill.
    Miriam looks at the money suspiciously. Eyes flitting. “You do know that ‘psychic’ is not code for ‘blowjobs in a diner bathroom.’”
    Black Daffodil’s eyebrows lift so high, she wonders if they’ll levitate off his head and fly back to their homeworld. “You ain’t my type.”
    “Skinny heroin-chic type?” she asks.
    “Vagina type,” he says.
    “Ah. You like dong.”
    “I like it better when you don’t call it ‘dong.’”
    “Fine,” she says, snatching up each ten-dollar bill with a thumb-and-forefinger pincer like she’s plucking butterflies out of the air. “Let’s start with you, Daffodil; chop-chop, put your hand in mine.”
    She puts her hand out. Tilts the palm up.
    The guys all look to each other and she can feel their excitement.
    Black Daffodil reaches out–
    He sits on a curb outside an Exxon in the middle of the city, traffic on Broad Street, flecks of flurry-speck snow landing in his hair and melting; he’s humming a little tune as he plunges his hands in and out of a Funyuns bag. Crunch, crunch, crunch . Head bobbing along. Doo-doo-doo.
    The other two yahoos come out, Scarecrow and Bongwater. Scarecrow’s got a granola bar and Bongwater has five granola bars, some blue-colored Mountain Dew variant, and a gas station hot dog (which is half shoved in his mouth) and he’s trying to talk and Scarecrow’s laughing and he might be high, too.
    They cross the parking lot.
    Someone else makes a perpendicular toward them.
    Santa Claus. Not the real Santa, if there is such a thing. This is a drunk, dirty Santa. Droopy, stubbly cheeks. A Karl Malden nose bursting with broken blood vessels. Pear-shaped body waddling along in a red Santa coat that’s surprisingly clean despite his grimy face. Santa hat askew on his lumpy head.
    He’s got a six-pack of beer. Bottle in his hand. Open. He takes a pull.
    “Yo,” he yells, waving, wiping his mouth, looking over his shoulder to see if anybody’s looking. One car sits at a far pump, but that’s it. “Hey, I got five left in this sixer. Sell yous each one for fie-dollas a pop.”
    Daffodil yoinks his head up. Purses his lips. “We can buy our own beer, elf. Go on back to your igloo now.”
    “Horseshit,” the guy bellows, sloppy smile on his face. “If yous kids are twenty-one, then I’m the goddamn Easter Bunny.”
    “I’m in,” Bongwater says, veering toward the drunken Santa. Despite the epic snackload in his hands, he’s somehow already got a five-spot waving like a little flag. Scarecrow nods, hurries over with a ten, buys one for Daffodil too.
    “Natty Ice,” Santa says, taking a pull. “S’good.”
    “It’s shit but we’ll drink it,” Bongwater says.
    “I gotta go baffroom,” Santa says, and it seems for a second like maybe he’s just standing there pissing in his pants but then he jerks like someone just tugged on his ear and he makes a beeline for the Exxon.
    Scarecrow tosses a bottle to Daffodil. They pull out Bongwater’s snacks, use the bags to hide the beers, and then they’re all eating and drinking and talking shit. Something-something Christmas break. Something-something Professor So-and-So is a real ballbuster. Blah blah Tumblr, Twitter, Batman, Kanye West.
    It’s Daffodil who gets it first. A line of blood crawls out of his nose. He doesn’t notice.