Disintegration Read Free Page B

picture is from a party of some sort, a side shot. A big laugh and a shock of white hair. He looks like John Malkovich—if he was dying of AIDS.

Chapter 12
    After the van, there is the park. And it spirals into the darkness from there.
    The sun is going down, a dull ball of red phosphorous glowing at the edge of my vision, and I’m licking a vanilla ice cream cone. The world is having dinner, television sets buzzing in the background as I sit on a green wooden bench, the slats about ten minutes away from annoying. The park is ringed with trees, oak and maple, a green crown encircling this patch of grass and amusement. Two college stoners heave a Frisbee back and forth on the far side of the park, shirtless and tan—young and blessed with nothing but time. In a beaten and faded black polo and blue jeans, I consider joining them, but don’t. Boots. I’d last five minutes.
    Four days have passed since the BMW and nothing. Vlad took one look at the van, back at me, realized what a mess I was, and just shook his head.
    “Out of your paycheck, it comes.”
    “What paycheck?”
    “Exactly,” he says, pointing a trigger finger at me and firing.
    I’ve worn the same clothes for as long as I can remember now. The apartment has four things in it: the dining room table, the armoire, the dresser, and the bed. There are no dishes yet, not a glass or a fork. I have not been able to brave any store beyond Nik’s. I may need help.
    The suit is sitting across the baseball diamond from me, thirty feet tops. I lick the cone, and wish it was a woman. I wish it had a taut, pink nipple on top of it. I watch him because I have nothing else to do, and I’m trying to create a moment here. Trying to claw my way up. My skin itches and a ring of gnats circles my head. The peace is starting to slip away.
    “That’s what I said to her, the stupid bitch.”
    He yaps into his cellphone, and at his feet sits a sad-eyed beagle puppy. I can’t look at it or I’ll start to cry. I’m just that raw. It sits there and pants, glancing up now and then. It’s not his dog, not his new little friend, I can tell that much. He’s oblivious. When the pup whimpers, he just yanks the leash. She whimpers for the tenth time, then simply squats and pees. The pup, it turns out, is a girl. A look of large-eyed joy washes over her face. She must have been waiting a long time. When the puddle creeps over to his black wingtips he finally looks down.
    “Goddamnit, what the hell…” he yells. “Hold on, man, I gotta call you back. Dog just pissed on my brand new Ferragamos. Naw, man, it’s Heather’s. I know. Whipped.”
    He clicks the thin phone shut and slides it into his jacket pocket and bends over to look at the puppy, her tongue wagging, her furry little butt shaking back and forth, looking up at this pin-striped giant with nothing but love. He backhands her across the face. I drop my cone and her yelp echoes across the park.
    My stomach turns and I lick the top row of my teeth, glancing around. Clenching and unclenching my fists I adjust my seat. The puppy pops back up, head bowed, ambling over to him again—wanting to know what she did wrong, what she can do now to fix it.
    The phone chirps and he straightens back up. A plane roars overhead. O’Hare to someplace. I watch the silver beast move slowly and wish I was on it. Somebody is making a roast, garlic maybe, onions. It smells like nothing I’ve known for weeks. I could chew off my own arm right now. It’s a moment at a dinner table, all eyes on Mom, blessing said, hands clasped, a pause before the silverware clanks and scrapes across the plates.
    He rambles on, a laugh here and there, the sun going down now, the Frisbee players gone. We are alone except for a homeless guy at a trash can by the pavilion. Way too many layers for this kind of day. The occasional car drifts by, bass thumping, a flash of red light. I don’t think the suit knows I’m even here.
    “No, don’t,” I whisper.
    The