Hanging Loose Read Free Page A

the house. For some reason, seeing him like that always made me think of foodstuff: his skin of honey, his nipples of caramel. I blinked that thought away.
    “Yes,” I replied at last, with that flustered brevity I do so well, and held a random DVD case in front of me. Ah, show-and-tell.
    “ Singin’ in the Rain . That’s a good one. Wanna watch it?”
    “Okay.” I really did have a way with words. “Oh, where is the VW?” I asked as my composure crept out of hiding.
    “At the shop. Needs a little mending.”
    “It needs replacing,” I snorted.
    “Hey, you don’t throw things away just because they’re old,” Jez replied, turning toward the kitchen.
    He grabbed a couple of beers for us, and we settled in front of the TV. We were watching the scene where Debbie Reynolds pops out of a cake and, along with a group of chorus girls, bursts into a catchy song and dance routine, when Jez pointed at the screen and exclaimed, “That’s her!”
    “Who?” I asked, nonplussed.
    “Adelle.”
    Jez paused the film and pointed out the fetching brunette in the chorus.
    “I didn’t know she was an actress.”
    “Actress, singer, dancer,” he corrected me. He sounded proud.
    “So that’s why you have so many old films?” It started to make sense now.
    “Yeah, we used to watch them together when I was a kid. I got into them.” He restarted the movie. “She’s in a bunch of them, though you’d never know. She never made it big, but she always worked. All the way till she got sick.”
    “Oh,” I said, while onscreen, Debbie and Gene Kelly squabbled. “What was wrong with her?”
    “Many things. Mostly old age. That’s when I moved back in. That was two, no…three years ago.”
    “You took care of her?”
    “She’d rather have died than move into a nursing home, but couldn’t live alone anymore.”
    “That was cool of you.” I wanted to say “noble,” but it would’ve sounded melodramatic.
    “Nah. You take care of the people you love, right?”
    “And now you’re taking care of Arthur.”
    “Somebody has to. And you’re helping too.” Jez said that like I was some damn hero for getting groceries for an old guy or dropping by to make sure he hadn’t slipped in the shower and broke his hips yet.
    “She must have been an interesting person,” I said, to steer the conversation away from me.
    “Oh, that’s an understatement.”
    Three beers later, both Donald O’Connor and I were flat on our backs on a sofa. For him it was a momentary situation—for me it was a matter of comfort. Jez was sitting up, or rather slouching, his bare feet on the coffee table. One of mine had found its way into his lap, where he absently kneaded it. That was nice. I had an unwelcome Pulp Fiction flashback—something about the intimacy of foot rubs. I shoved it to the bottom of the ignore pile and turned my attention back to Donnie.

Chapter Three
     
    Sandy was giddy with excitement. She landed a part in an episode of an HBO series. She was to be naked mostly but also had several lines. I couldn’t vouch for her talent, but she had a great rack, all natural to boot. They were perfectly round and bouncy, with small nipples that tended to get perky for no discernible reason. I could’ve traced them through the cotton of her T-shirts when they did. I offered to help her “rehearse” for the role, but she just slapped my arm and laughed.
    The result of her thespian success was that I was filling in for her on what had to be the busiest Friday night of the summer. It was three or four in the morning by the time I staggered home and fell into bed. I slept late into the morning and was awakened by the tease of sweet smells. Jez had to have returned from his latest jaunt, then. Either that, or somebody broke into our kitchen to bake cookies.
    I shuffled into the kitchen, still groggy and sleep ruffled. Jez’s gaze swept over me. He grinned and turned back to the counter. I had to grin too; he looked comical wearing