still his best friend and could always cheer him up, even when hurling epithets his way.
"Hey, Robot," he said. "What's up?"
"Well, my boy, I'm glad you ask. What say you come around to my place and get in a few games of poker?"
"That sounds fun, but I told my dad I'd be home to mow the lawn."
"That old scab?" said Robot. "I think he can handle some grass on his own. Besides, what sounds more fun? Mowing lawns or hangin' with me? Don't answer 'cause we both know. Now come on."
"Alright, fuck it," said Jew.
Robot led him down a street he'd never been before. "Hey, Robot, I thought you lived near the park."
"Naw, naw," said Robot. "That was my old place. You ain't seen my new digs. In for a bit of a surprise, you are."
The houses on this street were maintained and cleaned better than in his neighborhood, and they seemed to keep getting bigger, fancier, as if adhering to a mathematical formula.
"Say, Robot, you 're not telling me you live out here!"
"Believe it, old sport," said Robot. "This is the place."
Robot pointed to a vast estate with a huge lawn enclosed in gated gridiron and a house on the crest of the property, multi-layered and white with a classical portico and a rocking chair on the deck.
"My God, Robot – it's… it's like the White House!"
"No, no. A little more tasteful, I hope."
Robot smiled at the guard at the front gate and the man admitted them. The lawn was flawlessly manicured and a pond and Zen sand garden cooed the eye. They went to the front of the house. Jew in a daze of envy and wonder. Each step he climbed to follow Robot added another brick to the riddle. There was something both beautiful and horrible about the sudden shift in Robot's dwelling-place. It voiced an irrational plasticity to the fabric of Jew's existence.
Jew simply said, "How? How, Robot?"
Robot ignored his question and said, "Come inside and have tea."
Inside it was even more fantastical. The furniture had a texture like sharp, clean knives. The floors were spotless, shiny gray and black marble. The furniture was Victorian with refurbished shine that had an elegance Jew never suspected in Robot Raccoon. From the ceiling in the living room hung a crystal chandelier that reminded Jew of a swan falling to the ground. At the end of the room was a grand piano. Robot Raccoon sat down and tapped a few keys. Nobody would call it music.
"I just started lessons," said Robot. "But even if I don't play, I think it adds a charm to the room. Yeah?"
"Robot, you—"
A woman entered the room and Jew stopped talking. She wore a black maid's uniform with a high dress and low neckline. She had to be under twenty. Jew couldn't take his eyes off her. Her black hair was in a bun at the back of her head. Her pink lips and rosy cheeks, blue eyes. Her legs—
"Stop staring," said Robot Raccoon.
"I wasn't—"
"Lygia," said Robot, ignoring Jew, "Get us some tea. Mint or something."
"Oui, monsieur." She smiled at Robot Raccoon and briefly made eye contact with Jew.
When she was gone, Jew said, "Whoever you sold your soul to, please refer them to me. She's amazing. I want her. I want," —he looked up at the high ceilings, the piano—"this. I want this, Robot."
"Well, she 's not for sale. You'll have to find your own. As for the rest…"
"Yes? How? You've got to tell me."
"Do I?" said Robot.
"Yes! Aren't we friends? Do you know I got beat up again today? Don't leave me hanging, man."
"Alright," said Robot. "What if I told you I won it playing blackjack? Would that satisfy you?"
" All of this? Is that the truth?"
"The truth? Hmm, I'm not sure. I'm not sure I even understand the question."
"It seems pretty simple ," said Jew. " How do you afford this ?"
"Ah, but often what seems simple is nothing of the sort. People are always looking for the magic bullet, the missing link, the trick up the magician's sleeve. Nobody wants to know the real answer, the years of practice and self-discipline."
"Blackjack ? You call that anything but
"Hey, Robot," he said. "What's up?"
"Well, my boy, I'm glad you ask. What say you come around to my place and get in a few games of poker?"
"That sounds fun, but I told my dad I'd be home to mow the lawn."
"That old scab?" said Robot. "I think he can handle some grass on his own. Besides, what sounds more fun? Mowing lawns or hangin' with me? Don't answer 'cause we both know. Now come on."
"Alright, fuck it," said Jew.
Robot led him down a street he'd never been before. "Hey, Robot, I thought you lived near the park."
"Naw, naw," said Robot. "That was my old place. You ain't seen my new digs. In for a bit of a surprise, you are."
The houses on this street were maintained and cleaned better than in his neighborhood, and they seemed to keep getting bigger, fancier, as if adhering to a mathematical formula.
"Say, Robot, you 're not telling me you live out here!"
"Believe it, old sport," said Robot. "This is the place."
Robot pointed to a vast estate with a huge lawn enclosed in gated gridiron and a house on the crest of the property, multi-layered and white with a classical portico and a rocking chair on the deck.
"My God, Robot – it's… it's like the White House!"
"No, no. A little more tasteful, I hope."
Robot smiled at the guard at the front gate and the man admitted them. The lawn was flawlessly manicured and a pond and Zen sand garden cooed the eye. They went to the front of the house. Jew in a daze of envy and wonder. Each step he climbed to follow Robot added another brick to the riddle. There was something both beautiful and horrible about the sudden shift in Robot's dwelling-place. It voiced an irrational plasticity to the fabric of Jew's existence.
Jew simply said, "How? How, Robot?"
Robot ignored his question and said, "Come inside and have tea."
Inside it was even more fantastical. The furniture had a texture like sharp, clean knives. The floors were spotless, shiny gray and black marble. The furniture was Victorian with refurbished shine that had an elegance Jew never suspected in Robot Raccoon. From the ceiling in the living room hung a crystal chandelier that reminded Jew of a swan falling to the ground. At the end of the room was a grand piano. Robot Raccoon sat down and tapped a few keys. Nobody would call it music.
"I just started lessons," said Robot. "But even if I don't play, I think it adds a charm to the room. Yeah?"
"Robot, you—"
A woman entered the room and Jew stopped talking. She wore a black maid's uniform with a high dress and low neckline. She had to be under twenty. Jew couldn't take his eyes off her. Her black hair was in a bun at the back of her head. Her pink lips and rosy cheeks, blue eyes. Her legs—
"Stop staring," said Robot Raccoon.
"I wasn't—"
"Lygia," said Robot, ignoring Jew, "Get us some tea. Mint or something."
"Oui, monsieur." She smiled at Robot Raccoon and briefly made eye contact with Jew.
When she was gone, Jew said, "Whoever you sold your soul to, please refer them to me. She's amazing. I want her. I want," —he looked up at the high ceilings, the piano—"this. I want this, Robot."
"Well, she 's not for sale. You'll have to find your own. As for the rest…"
"Yes? How? You've got to tell me."
"Do I?" said Robot.
"Yes! Aren't we friends? Do you know I got beat up again today? Don't leave me hanging, man."
"Alright," said Robot. "What if I told you I won it playing blackjack? Would that satisfy you?"
" All of this? Is that the truth?"
"The truth? Hmm, I'm not sure. I'm not sure I even understand the question."
"It seems pretty simple ," said Jew. " How do you afford this ?"
"Ah, but often what seems simple is nothing of the sort. People are always looking for the magic bullet, the missing link, the trick up the magician's sleeve. Nobody wants to know the real answer, the years of practice and self-discipline."
"Blackjack ? You call that anything but
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