Down Don't Bother Me (9780062362209) Read Free Page A

that’s just the way of things.
    O rders received, we went inside with Anci. The YouTubes weren’t bad, but the reality shows were a terror. Some of them were basically singing and dancing contests, and those were okay, I guess, but the worst seemed to pit people of bad character against one another for no other reason than to raise serious doubts about the value of the human race. I hate to be like that—I hated when my parents yelled at me about the Rolling Stones—but some things just get to you. Every one of these shows was the same: Young folks spinning webs of deceit and treachery that Dante himself wouldpass over as unrealistically mean-spirited. Anci asked me if I liked them and—it being her birthday—I said I did, but secretly I wanted to find the responsible parties and show them images of earthly suffering until they devoted their lives to something less heinous.
    After basically a million years of these terrible things, Anci stood up and yawned and stretched and said, “I think I’m calling that a birthday.”
    â€œYou’re giving out already?” I said. “I thought we’d be watching until midnight at least.”
    â€œI’ve decided to give you a break,” she said. “I know that look you get.”
    â€œWhat look?”
    â€œThe look you’re wearing right now. One like you want to kick a hole in the baby Moses.”
    â€œI thought I was hiding it better than that.”
    â€œWell, you’re not,” she said. “Besides, my guess is you’ll want to get on to complaining about your taxes or how bad your back aches or whatever it is old folks talk about when the young people aren’t around.”
    â€œI have this whole thing planned about my arthritis,” I said. “There are pictures and everything.”
    She looked at Peggy.
    â€œYou’re good to put up with him.”
    â€œDon’t I know it.”
    â€œI hate it when you two team up,” I said. “I can barely keep up with one of you. A team-up just isn’t fair.”
    â€œYou mean like state fair?”
    â€œGo to bed.”
    She hefted her book—it was as big as a cinder block—and thanked us for her presents and cake and hugged Peggyaround the neck one last time and went up to her room, singing.
    When we were alone, we sat there quietly a moment or two with our thoughts. I switched off the TV, and the terrible people went away. At last, I said to Peggy, “Well, that was a party now.”
    â€œIt was. Shame they only come once a year.”
    â€œStrongly agree. I’ll tell you, I got the post-party blues.”
    â€œMe, too.”
    â€œDo you want to hear my presentation on arthritis now?”
    â€œNo. No, I do not.”
    â€œWell, what do you want to do then?” I asked.
    â€œDarling, I want to fuck.”
    â€œBless you.”
    And that’s what we did. It was nice, playful and playfully rough and fun. Mostly fun. Afterward, we lay in bed, laughing and licking our wounds and feeling content. Peggy had some grass. I rolled a joint, and we shared it back and forth.
    I said, “Well, that wasn’t half bad.”
    â€œHoney, I’m only getting old.” She hit me gently with her pillow. “I figure I got another fifteen years or so of screwing the gray out of your beard.”
    â€œPossibly I should get a dye job, give you a run for your money. What do you think?”
    â€œI think middle-aged men who color their hair look like serial killers, TV ministers, or porno producers, but whatever keeps you motivated, love.”
    â€œIt’s a deal then,” I said. “Speaking of which . . .”
    â€œYeah?”
    â€œHave you thought any more about my offer?”
    â€œAbout moving in here with the two of you?”
    â€œNo, about my come-to-Jesus pitch. Of course about moving in here.”
    â€œI’m thinking about it, Slim. I really am.”
    â€œBeen a