Vineland Read Online Free PDF Page B

house, with more and also less temporary love partners and sex companions, jealousy and revenge always goin’ on, plus substance dealers and their go-betweens, and narcs who thought they were undercover trying to pop them, couple-three politicals fleein’ from different jurisdictions, good deal of comin’ and goin’ ’s what it was, not to mention you actin’ like it was your own personal snitch Safeway, just drop in, we’re open 24 hours.”
    They were sitting at a table in the rear of the restaurant at Vineland Lanes, Zoyd after a lot of lost sleep having decided to show up after all. He ordered the Health Food Enchilada Special and Hector had the soup of the day, cream of zucchini, and the vegetarian tostada, which upon its arrival he began to take apart piece by piece and reassemble as something else Zoyd could not identify but which seemed to hold meaning for Hector.
    â€œLookit that, lookit your food, Hector, what have you done?”
    â€œAt least I’m not droppín it all over the place, includín my shirt, like I was out in some parkín lot.” Yes, a certain emphasis there for sure, and this after their having shared, maybe not many, but still a parking lot or two, even some adventures therein. Zoyd guessed that at some point since their last get-together Hector, as if against a storm approaching over his life’s horizon, had begun to bring everything indoors. Stuck out in the field at GS-13 for years because of his attitude, he had sworn—Zoyd thought—he’d go out the gate early before he’d ever be some
cagatintas
, a bureaucrat who shits ink. But he must have cut some deal, maybe it got too cold for him—time to say goodbye to all those eyeswept parking lots back out under the elements and the laws of chance, and hello GS-14, leaving the world outside the office to folks earlier in their careers, who could appreciate it more. Too bad. For Zoyd, a creature of attitude himself, this long defiance had been Hector’s most persuasive selling point.
    What the federal computers this morning had not brought to Hector’s attention was that the alleys today were scheduled for junior regional semifinals. Kids were in town from all over the northern counties to compete on these intricately mortised masterpiece alleys, dating back to the high tide of the logging business in these parts, when the big houses framed all in redwood had gone up and legendary carpenters had appeared descending from rain-slick stagecoaches, geniuses with wood who could build you anything from a bowling alley to a Carpenter Gothic outhouse. Balls struck pins, pins struck wood, echoes of collision came thundering in from next door along with herds of kids in different bowling jackets, each carrying at least one ball in a bag plus precarious stacks of sodas and food, each squeaking open the screen door between lanes and restaurant, letting it squeak shut into the next kid, who’d squeak it open again. Didn’t take many of these repetitions to have an effect on Zoyd’s lunch companion, whose eyes were flicking back and forth as he hummed a tune that not till sixteen bars in did Zoyd recognize as “Meet the Flintstones,” from the well-known TV cartoon show. Hector finished the tune and looked sourly at Zoyd. “Any of these yours?”
    Here it was. OK, “What are you sayin’, Hector?”
    â€œYou know what I’m sayín, asshole.”
    Zoyd couldn’t see a thing in his eyes. “Who you been talking to?”
    â€œYour wife.”
    Zoyd began stabbing and restabbing his enchiladas with a fork while Hector waited him out. “Uh, well how’s she doing?”
    Hector’s eyes were moist, and popping out some. “Not too good, li’l buddy.”
    â€œTryin’ to tell me what, she’s in trouble?”
    â€œYou catch on fast for an ol’ doper, now try this one, you ever heard of defunding? Maybe you