How It Ended: New and Collected Stories Read Free

shoulder.
    “Dance?”
    She looks at you as if you had just suggested instrumental rape. “I do not speak English,” she says, after you ask again.
    “Français?”
    She shakes her head. Why is she looking at you that way, like there are tarantulas nesting in your eye sockets?
    “You are by any chance from Bolivia? Or Peru?”
    She is looking around for help now. Remembering a recent encounter with a young heiress's bodyguard at Danceteria—or was it New Berlin?—you back off, hands raised over your head.
    The Bolivian soldiers are still on their feet, but they have stopped singing their marching song. You realize that we are at a crucial juncture with regard to morale. What we need is a good pep talk from Tad Allagash, who is nowhere to be found. You try to imagine what he would say. Back on the horse. Now we're really going to have some fun . Something like that. You suddenly realize that he has already slipped out with some rich hose queen. He is back at her place on Fifth Ave., and they are doing some of her off-the-boat-quality drugs. They are scooping it out of tall Ming vases and snorting it off of each other's naked bodies. You hate Tad Allagash.
    Go home. Cut your losses .
    Stay. Go for it .
    You are a republic of voices tonight. Unfortunately, the republic is Italy. All these voices are waving their arms and screaming at one another. There's an ex cathedra riff coming down from the Vatican: Repent. There's still time. Your body is the temple of the Lord and you have defiled it . It is, after all, Sunday morning, and as long as you have any brain cells left a resonant, patriarchal bass will echo down the marble vaults of your church-going childhood to remind you that this is the Lord's day. What you need is another overpriced drink to drown it out. But a search of pockets yields only a dollar bill and change. You paid ten to get in here. Panic gains on you.
    You spot a girl at the edge of the dance floor who looks like your last chance for earthly salvation against the creeping judgment of the Sabbath. You know for a fact that if you go out into the morning alone, without even your sunglasses, which you have forgotten (because who, after all, plans on these travesties), that the harsh, angling light will turn you to flesh and bone. Mortality will pierce you through the retina. But there she is in her pegged pants, a kind of doo-wop retro ponytail pulled off to the side, great lungs, as eligible a candidate as you could hope to find this late in the game. The sexual equivalent of fast food.
    She shrugs and nods when you ask her to dance. You like the way she moves, half-tempo, the oiled ellipses of her hips and shoulders. You get a little hip-and-ass contact. After the second song she says she's tired. She's on the edge of bolting when you ask her if she needs a little pick-me-up.
    “You've got some blow?” she says.
    “Monster,” you say.
    She takes your arm and leads you into the Ladies’. There's another guy in the stall beside yours so it's okay. After a couple of spoons she seems to like you just fine and you're feeling pretty likable yourself. A couple more. This girl is all nose. When she leans forward for the spoon, the front of her shirt falls open and you can't help wondering if this is her way of thanking you.
    Oh yes.
    “I love drugs,” she says, as you march toward the bar.
    “It's something we have in common,” you say.
    “Have you ever noticed how all the good words start with D ? D and L .”
    You try to think about this. You're not sure what she's driving at. The Bolivians are singing their marching song but you can't quite make out the words.
    “You know? Drugs. Delight. Decadence.”
    “Debauchery,” you say, catching the tune now.
    “Dexedrine.”
    “Delectable. Deranged. Debilitated.”
    “And L . Lush and luscious.”
    “Languorous.”
    “Lazy.”
    “Libidinous.”
    “What's that?” she says.
    “Horny.”
    “Oh,” she says and casts a long, arching look over your