Timothy Synclair
novella
THE SYNESTHETE
PART ONE
1
He wakes up. His eyes open; they open wide, as he stretches his legs with a stiff pointing of his toes and takes a deep breath, which slowly turns itself into a yawn. And then they close, welling up with an early morning dew, as he finishes that yawn of his with a fresh and hearty sigh, throwing his arms up and giving them a good stretching too.
«Goddamnit» he thinks.
He hates the fact that even on his days off he still wakes up early.
«God-mother-fucking-damnit»
He looks at the clock on his nightstand and can’t help but smile as a laugh claws its way out of his throat.
“It’s not even early,” he chuckles to himself.
It’s 1:13 in the afternoon.
And then with a smile and a simple shake of his head, all semblance of somnolence vanishes. He’s awake, and there’s no way he’s going back to sleep today.
He sits up, and wonders what to do.
«What does today have in store for me?»
—wonders what it is he’ll end up doing.
«Will today be the day I’ve been waiting for?»
He looks around the room—
The little end table he uses as a nightstand, the grain of the wood showing through the faded white paint. A long black desk, empty but for a small lamp, a monitor, a mouse, a keyboard collecting dust, and a notebook filled with empty pages. A chair before it, a little wastebasket below it, and a radiator peeking out from behind the side of it. A window, carved up by a fire escape. A bookcase. The kitchen. A television set, atop another little white table, a DVD-player on the floor below it. The bathroom. The front door. A bookshelf. And a mirror on the little jut of wall separating the head of the bed from the closet.
«What will I do with this day?»
His eyes return to the desk.
«Will today be the day?»
—however are soon drawn back down to the nightstand.
A book, a tissue box, and a few wadded tissues sit there next to the clock.
Catch-22.
For some reason, and he doesn’t even really know why, he didn’t think it’d be as good as it was. He didn’t even know what it was about. But if he was going to try to pinpoint at least one cause for his low expectations, it probably had something to do with the fact that the book had either spawned, or itself was spawned from, a cliché that was used rare enough for its locutor to still be imbued with notions of wit and originality. For a while he’d been wondering about the origin of the phrase. He knew what it meant, and had even managed to find out that it had actually come from the book and not the other way around, but he still didn’t know the origin. He knew when to use it—hopefully never—but he still didn’t know what it actually referred to. He had been tempted to look it up—for that was the obvious way to find out something he didn’t already know—but had stopped himself each time because he was aware of the possibility that such knowledge might prove to spoil the actual book for him. And so, quite similar to how he never read the forewords or introductions to books he was reading for the first time until after he had first finished the book itself, he had decided, time and time again, to hold off on pursuing any such investigations until after he had finally read the book—realizing, of course, that hopefully after reading it there wouldn’t really be a need to look it up anymore anyway.
He was excited when a couple of weeks ago he finally came upon the book—and in such an exquisite volume!—for he was finally going to be able to satisfy his curiosity in the matter. And he did. And now that he’s done with it, and likes it more than he thought he would, it’s going up on top of his bookcase to await further accreditation—joining a pretty decent stack of other worthy candidates.
He picks up the book, gives its pages a quick flip, takes a deep breath in, and then looks over at his bookcase: it’s filled to the brim—all four 4-foot shelves, much of it even stacked two deep. It’s the stacks on top, though, that he’s scanning.
«Nothing»
His eyes drop down to the actual shelves, scanning the spines, searching for a misplaced possibility, or even just a whim. His look goes down the case, shelf by shelf, and soon reaches the bottommost. —he catches himself, and stops.
«Really?»
He looks over at his shelf of favorites. The lone shelf on the opposite wall—a row of 13 books encased in a pair of matching bookends. He starts running through them, seeing if any will fit.
«The Fountainhead. The Idiot. Steppenwolf. Player Pian—o shut the fuck up»
A sardonic smile spreads itself across his face—listing this shit just to himself is making him feel the tinges of pretension. He catches his reflection in the mirror on the wall; he shakes his head, as his smirk lets out a little spark.
“What are you going to say next?” he asks himself.
«The Stranger?»
He doesn’t want to look at the shelf; he doesn’t want to see what that next book is. And that smile of his is growing. The thing of it is, he really does want to look, and he knows it—he’s just pretending to not want to. And that smile is spreading even further. He’s actually not even pretending—for by this time, all notions of pretense have left him—now, he’s just testing himself, seeing how long he can hold out. His smile is getting out of hand, and he knows that he can’t hold out much longer. He looks…
«The mother-fucking Stranger»
He laughs.
«Not today»
He gets out of bed.
“Not today.”
«Something new maybe»
He takes a piss. —and then heads to the kitchen, throwing a glance at both windows—living room, kitchen—confirming visually what he suspected aurally: they’re closed, silencing the world without.
A pang of hunger hits him just before he sets his first step into the room. His foot hits the floor. And instinctively, his eyes shoot right to the goddamn toaster—sitting there with that goddamn smug look on its stupid fucking face.
«Fuck you, you fucking bastard»
A wave of distress—ANXIETY!—washes over him, as the toaster sits there grinning at him with that shit-eating grin it likes so mother-fucking much.
«Son of a bitch»
To him, it’s the most arrogant and disagreeable thing in the entire apartment. But he knows he needs it. And what makes it so bad, is that he knows the toaster knows this too.
«You fucking love that, don’t you, you little shit»
He goes over to the fridge. And as he’s pulling the loaf of bread out, he can feel the goddamn toaster mocking him behind his back. Without even looking at it, he can picture its stupid fucking grin. So snooty. So snotty. So cheeky. So cocky.
«I fucking hate you so fucking much!»
He thinks of his pile of rocks, though, and smiles—an arrogant, satisfied smile. He takes a slice of bread out of the bag and puts the loaf back in the fridge.
«Nice duct-tape»
He shuts the refrigerator door and turns around—an eager, almost ravenous look in his eye.
“Not so fucking smart, are we?”
But despite how mangled the toaster is, it still works. Despite how much duct-tape it’s wearing, it does still work. And he knows that although every inch of duct-tape represents a wound he’s inflicted on the goddamn thing, every single inch is also a testament to how much he needs the fucker—for he is the one who put the thing back together with the utmost of care; he is the one who placed every inch of duct-tape on the thing in a capitulatory silence. And what wipes his confidant grin right off his face as he turns around away from the refrigerator is the fact, again, that he knows the toaster knows all this as well.
«I fucking hate you»
He swallows his pride, though, along with a trembling mouthful of ire, and puts the slice of bread into the god-awful thing—making sure to steady his hand before pressing the lever down.
«I’m better than you. I’m stronger than you»
He pulls a tub of butter out of the fridge as he waits in a resigned silence for the little son of a bitch to do what it does.
POP!
He holds back his excruciating rage as he pulls the piece of toast out of the bastard—almost losing it as he goes in to grab it. —coming so close to losing his shit that he has to condense his fury into a fist and hold it there, trembling, above the grinning demon for a number of seconds before he’s able to focusedly stretch it out again and grab the coveted treasure.
A knife. An opened tub of butter. And there on the plate in front of him, a perfect piece of toast.
He’s sitting at his kitchen table, holding his breath. The tiniest puff comes in through his mouth, but his nose is silenced—spoiling nothing.
«We’re going to do this right»
After he’s buttered the toast and cut it in half, diagonally, a deep breath comes in through his mouth, and warms his throat—but still he feels nothing, sees nothing, tastes nothing; he smiles—he can feel it coming.
«This is going to be the best one yet»
HE TAKES A BITE…
A flash of white…
A tingling wave…
Ascension…
«This is it»
It’s all so simultaneous.
He’s hit by a flash of white, he feels a quiver run through him, and, at the same time, he seems to be rising.
It’s the most golden white he’s ever seen. —or at least it would be if it weren’t so silvery at the same time.
Although his face flushes—and does so so thoroughly—the tremble still seems to start in his fingertips, for it’s there where he notices it first.
And as the tremble then climbs its way up his arms, he for the first time realizes that he’s been feeling himself rise up through what must be eternity.
«This is fucking it»
It’s the warmest and most inviting and enveloping white imaginable. —or at least it would be if it weren’t so cool and sleek all the same. Wrists, elbows, shoulders—that tingle then heads down his torso. He can almost see into heaven, he’s so high.
«O my god…»
As the pure whiteness draws him further up, he feels the tingling that’s descending through his body shoot right past what he knows is its ultimate destination. Hips, thighs, knees—somehow that quiver finds its way right back into his growing erection.
HE TAKES ANOTHER BITE…
The white keeps pulsating—cascading. The wave keeps tingling—scintillating. And infinity keeps bestowing its blessings and benedictions.
«O shit»
He’s rock hard.
HE TAKES ANOTHER BITE…
Existence is pulsating through him. Life. Love. Beauty. —he knows it all. The entire universe. Past. Present. Future. —he feels it all. Joy. Misery. Ecstasy. —all of it, everything, every single thing ever known to man, beast, or god, is screaming through his throbbing hard-on.
It’s aching to get out.
HE FINISHES THE PIECE…
«It’s perfect. …almost»
He feels the cool, smooth roundness of a rock in his moist, almost sticky hand. And it’s with the finesse of an expert marksman that he lets it fly at the puckish bastard.
CRASH!
And the deficit is filled with a benevolent smile.
HE PICKS UP THE SECOND PIECE…
And a realization dawns on him.
«O god…here it comes!»
Fate is here. Everything is as it has to be. —and it couldn’t possibly be any way else.
CRASH!
«Fuck yes!»
CRASH!
He’s hit by another notion—another truth—as he gasps for breath. CRASH! Through the blinding whiteness, he feels an eternal truth envelope him. CRASH! It’s god. —all of it. CRASH! It’s god that’s running through his veins. He now realizes it. CRASH! It’s god that’s guiding him up. It’s all so obvious. CRASH! It’s god that’s pulsating through the most massive erection he’s ever had. CRASH! And a lightheadedness overcomes him when he realizes this isn’t new—he’s known it forever. CRASH! It’s the almighty himself that’s screaming to get out. CRASH!
«And the thing of it is…»
QUIVER!
«…the almighty is me»
2
He rips a sheet of paper out of the notebook on his desk—wiping away, with a direct and naked acceptance, all the strife and failure that that simple act calls to mind. Openly acknowledging the reflexive desire to crumple it up and drop it into the wastebasket—as he has following each of his auctorial forays of the last year or so. —and certainly the last six months. He grabs a pen, and giving no attention to the lines on the paper—not an act of violence just a testament to his insouciance—he scribbles out the following in big, sharp letters:
To compel a man to furnish contributions of money for the propagation of opinions which he disbelieves and abhors, is sinful and tyrannical.
—Thomas Jefferson
The pen is dropped onto the table. The paper is folded into fourths.
«And so begins another squandered day»
He takes the stairs down to the lobby, slides the folded paper into the mailbox of apartment 714, and then heads out for the day.
His first stop is the liquor store. He has no real agenda, but imagines he’ll end up in Central Park—imagines it without even really thinking about it; it’s not even a feeling he has, it’s just what’s going to happen. He knows his apartment’s out of the picture. And on a cool, sunny Sunday afternoon, such as it is, where else would he end up.
But first, it’s the liquor store for a fruit-punch Gatorade and a little bottle of vodka.
After taking a few drinks of the Gatorade and then pouring a little more of the sticky red juice out into the gutter, he empties the bottle of vodka into it and gives it a good shaking; it froths up with a foaming of little bubbles.
«Well day, let’s see what the world has for us»
He takes a big gulp.
«That’s certainly a start»
His next stop—?
He thinks back to his bookcase—gravid with such impotence; just overflowing with such uselessness. A pity really. Most of the books, one-night stands. —and if more, then at best only a week’s worth of enjoyment before ennui set in. He wishes he were stronger. But then also at times honestly doesn’t see it as a weakness. He vacillates—
BACK AND FORTH.
—between the two. Wishing the world had something more substantial to offer besides this wavering notion of fictitious pleasure.
He walks by a large jasmine bush and instinctively takes a deep breath. He holds it, and then lets it out with a deep sigh and the sprout of a smile.
His mind then looks to his shelf of favorites. Some of the best books he’s ever read. Some—the poignant delineations of his trek into intellectual maturity. Others—succinct expressions of that ideal. Like girlfriends, he has a history with each of them. And—like girlfriends—there are a few in there that when you think about it, really don’t make much sense—what the fuck was he doing with her?
«Tropic of Cancer. Point Counter Point»
Or, more accurately—why the fuck does he keep going back to her? And this is where the girlfriend analogy falls short, for he does go back to them regularly—each and every one of them. —that’s why they’re on his shelf of favorites and not on the shelves of his bookcase. But his returns aren’t sad and pathetic, as they so often are with former girlfriends. Weak-willed disgust-filled surrenders. No, they’re always attended by the utmost of pleasantries. In this instance then, they’re much more like the remembrance of those past loves than necessarily the actual resurrection of them. He feels the love, the passion, the warmth, the comfort—without any of the anger, betrayal, or disgust.
Quite like a harem—idealized, without any jealousy or connivancy. An eclectic assortment of beauties, all at his beck and call. All attractive, in that most important of ways. But each with its own unique ornamentation—offering a literary flavor the others can’t match.
The squeal of tires as a car slams on its brakes cuts through his train of thought. And then there’s the stabbing annoyance of the shriek of the horn being laid into that almost immediately follows.
He winces, and is drawn back to his bookcase. On top, such hope—the buds of possible romances. But that’s not what he’s thinking of. No, he’s thinking of down below. —of the one-night stands. His mind drifts down past the top shelf, to the bottom three. The appellation really does fit so well. —for each is accompanied by that hollowness of personal disrespect. And none more so than the ones with which he didn’t even make it through dinner, so to speak.
But, again, he vacillates—BACK AND FORTH.
All of them were wrong for him. And he knew it with most from pretty early on. Some, even right from the beginning. But still, he couldn’t say no. He just couldn’t say no. He couldn’t deny himself.
As he tried to convince himself that it couldn’t be helped. —that it wasn’t his fault. —that it wasn’t that bad. —that not all surrenders are surrenders. —that sometimes having to deal with the shittiness of the world around him was a valid reason to treat himself to a nice, big, juicy piece of shit.
For some, he stuck through the entire date—straining and struggling—quite aware of how terrible she was, just so he could get the prize at the end of the night. And for others, again quite aware of how terrible they were, he couldn’t even make it through the date—the strain too much, the struggle too tough—and he seized the prize in a filthy men’s room stall as their half-eaten dinners got cold out on the table. …so to speak.
A familiar and cherished tune rains down on him from an opened fourth-floor window, about a Street Fighting Man, who goes by the name distur-r-r-rbance, he’ll shout, he’ll scream, he’ll even take out the king and take down all his ser-r-r-rvants…
It’s not the one-night stands he’s focusing on, though. It’s not the blemishes—no matter how many there are, nor how frequently they’ve occurred. It’s not the regrets he’s looking towards, but the encounters of pride. It’s that favorites’ shelf. —as well as those hopefuls up above the muck and the grime of most of the bookcase. And it’s with the hope of gaining another distinguished title that he now starts to fill.
His next stop—?
He takes a drink. —and notices he’s about half done with the imbibing beverage.
His next stop—Laurent’s Librairie.
But first…another liquor store.
The red of his Gatorade is diluted even further, and another empty little vodka bottle finds its way into a passing trash can.
He takes a big drink. Then another a few minutes later. And a third a minute or so after that, after which he pulls the cap out of his pocket and screws it on tight.
His visit to the used bookstore will turn out to be a quick one. —much quicker than usual. Going in, he’s a little drunk and is reveling in the anticipation becoming actualization—he’s in a ripe condition for picking out a good book, and he knows it.
As he opens the door and takes his first step into the shop, a bell right up above his head rings out and he’s hit by the overwhelming smell of old books: it almost topples him. He takes a deep breath…and smiles so pleasantly. He starts perusing the shelves, in what can only be described as quite nearly a trance of ecstasy.
It’s a pretty busy day for the used bookstore. In the few minutes he’s been in there, that bell above the door has been ringing for what to him feels pretty damn close to the whole damn time. It’s getting to be too much. He focuses, takes deep breaths in through his mouth, and tries to calm himself down.
A little smirk shoots through him, though, and flashes out on his face—as he realizes he’s about to throw himself back into it. He can’t help it. —and even if he could, why would he want to?
He takes a deep breath in through his nose, and as the delightful consequences of his indulgence manifest, he hears something he’s never heard before. And it sends his expected up into the realm of holy-fucking-shit! It’s something he’s wanted to hear for as long as he can remember. —something he’s dreamt about hearing, literally, metaphorically, literarily. Shit, it’s something he even thought he might have heard before. —or at least as close as was physically possible. Until now. Now he realizes that nothing he’s heard before is as close to that ideal as what he just now heard. This may not be the ultimate—obviously—but it’s fucking close enough. It’s doing more than he ever imagined it could. And it’s not stopping.
No.
It just keeps going.
And going.
And when a fat lady in stretch pants and a shirt two sizes too small then enters the store, and that bell above the door adds its two cents to the whole thing, he feels himself losing it. He’s losing his grasp. He’s not going to be able to hold out much longer, and he knows it.
If only he weren’t as intoxicated as he is—maybe. But he is—he’s primed for picking out a good book—and this unexpected addition is really doing a number on him.
«Get a fucking hold of yourself!»
But he can’t. He can’t take much more of this.
And it just keeps going.
And going.
It’s not stopping.
«Please just shut the fuck up…»
And it’s in a frenzied stupor that he then sniffs out an adequate book as quickly as he possibly can. His breath is held as he walks up to the counter. His breath is held as the cashier rings up his purchase. His breath is held as he pulls his wallet out of his back pocket and hands the kid a twenty. His breath is held as he waits for his change. His breath is held as he shoves the medley of coins and bills down into his pocket and heads out the door, right through the ringing of that goddamn bell, and throws himself out into the fresh air.
He gasps for breath. A deep breath. Then another. And another. And soon he’s caught his breath and is back on his way up to Central Park, which he has now consciously determined to be his next destination. A day in the park. Strolling around. Taking in the sights, the sounds, the smells. Sitting out by the lake. Resting up against a tree. Getting a little reading in, maybe.
He lifts the book up and looks at it—having, oddly enough, in the rush of the purchase, forgotten what he actually bought.
«Pride and Prejudice»
Had he had more time, he would surely have picked something with a little more promise.
«Son of a bitch»
But he’s never read it before.
«Who knows…»
He flips a few pages in.
«Published in 1980»
It’s over thirty years old—the edges of its pages already discolored.
«At least it’s got that going for it»
And so it’s with a resigned little truncated chuckle that he decides to give it a shot. And even if it is bad, it’s still a nice day out. The sights. The sounds. The smells. Not even a terrible book can spoil the park for him this time of year. The lakes. The trees. The skyline.
«O…that skyline»
The chill of the air. The warmth of the sun. He quickens his pace. —but almost immediately slows it back down again. There’s no need to rush it. Why not draw it out? Go slow. Let the anticipation build. It’s only going to make it that much better. And already, he’s dying to get there.
But first—another liquor store, to pink that half-filled Gatorade even lighter.
3
He wakes up. His head twittering with a throbbing ache… His stomach curling up inside itself… He must have forgotten to eat dinner last night. His mouth is parched, and tastes like a cat shit in it while he was sleeping… It seems he didn’t skimp out on the drinking, though.
He looks at the clock—11:28 a.m.
And there on the nightstand next to it, a big red cup. A big, glorious red cup. A big, glorious, hopefully-full-of-water red cup.
«Please…»
He picks it up. It’s not full, but it’s about halfway there.
He takes a big drink, and fully tastes the fresh moistness of that cat shit.
“Yum!”
His stomach writhes.
«No dinner—just kept drinking. Again. A piece of pizza up by the park for lunch—broccoli pizza»
He remembers how good it was, and is once again confronted by the lingering taste of cat shit.
«And before that, to start off the day…it was breakfast. To start off the day…it was toast»
A smile peaks out within him. Toast. Buttered just right.
“Sounds about perfect.”
And it’s with that thought dancing around in his head that he then takes another big drink. It’s with the thought of toast that he gets up and brushes the cat shit out of his mouth. It’s with the thought of toast that he empties the big, glorious, about-a-quarter-full-of-water red cup down his throat. And it’s with the thought of toast that he then goes walking into the kitchen.
It’s with the thought of toast that his first few steps into the room come to a halt.
It’s with the thought of toast that all fresh morning cheer is washed from his countenance.
It’s with the thought of toast that he can practically hear the bastard deriding him.
It’s with the thought of toast that his eyes first alight on the toaster.
«Son of a bitch!»
And the thought of it is:
«There isn’t going to be any toast this morning»
The toaster is smashed to shit.
The thing is shattered. It’s in pieces. Spikes of plastic. Contortions of metal. A ragged winding of duct-tape doing its best to hold the mess together. It doesn’t even resemble a toaster anymore. Shards all over the counter. On the floor. A decent little chunk under the table—of which the table is too concerned with its own appearance and social standing to even take any notice of. And another substantial chunk over by the microwave—which is scaring the shit out of the microwave, but what else is to be expected.
The toaster is smashed to shit.
Almost all its teeth have been knocked out. Its nose has been broken. Both its eyes have been gouged out. Shit!—its face is a bloody fucking pulp. Swollen. Gashed. Gnashed. Pulverized.
And still somehow the motherfucker manages a smile. A bloody, distorted, toothless fuck of a smile. And from the slit in the torn and distended eyelid over its ragged eyeless eye-socket, still it manages to send forth an arrogant little twinkle.
It’s struggling to breathe, wheezing, sputtering, gurgling. It’s choking on a frothy concoction of blood and mucus. It’s gasping spasmodically in a futile attempt to stave off the fast approaching end. And every single one of those enervatingly erratic, sporadic gasps is accompanied by the most horrifically condescending peal of laughter. A terrifying cachinnation erupting from the mangled machine—it sends a chill down his spine.
The bastard is defeated. It has lost. He’s beat it. He’s beat the shit out of it. But he understands now, oh so fully—as he always does when he finally finds himself in such situations—that tied to its defeat is his own as well. He’s forced to admit how dependent he is on the thing. And he hates it. He hates the fact that he knows he’s not just going to let the thing die. Not without a fight. Not without doing his best to save the ungrateful cocksucker. He knows he’s going to open up the cupboard above the fridge. He knows he’s going to take down the roll of duct-tape. And he knows he’s going to use the very utmost care when he sits there on the floor in the most degrading of capitulatory silences and tries to bring the thing back into some sort of working order. And what pisses him off more than anything and fills his thoughts with a murderous rage is the fact, once again, that he knows the toaster, even in its broken, mangled state, is well aware of all of this as well.
«Fuck it»
“Fuck it.”
He picks the son of a bitch up off the counter; pulls it away, yanking the plug from the wall; lifts it up above his head; and then with a quick, fluid snap, sends it hurtling towards the ground.
If it was smashed to shit before, it’s fucking demolished now. He smiles. And a wave of relief washes over him.
A quick shower. Throws on some clothes. Two shots of whiskey. Grabs the bulk of the toaster. Leaves the rest for later. Heads outside. Tosses it into the dumpster. And is then on his way.
And is soon then there.
When he walks into the thrift-store, it’s with a peaked annoyance. He doesn’t want to be there, and wishes he didn’t have to be. But he is there, and knows it’s necessary. —unfortunately.
He hopes for the best, but knows it’s not likely. If he can just get in and get out without getting hassled… If he can just find something that’s not too overly overtly disagreeable…
…but, again, he knows it’s not very likely.
And he hasn’t even been standing in front of the row of toasters for fifteen seconds when the young clerk approaches from behind with his grating curiosity.
“Back so soon, huh?”
He fights back a cringe.
“Do you see any you like?”
“Not a fucking one.”
And the kid lets out a sharp laugh—like a handful of red fucking nails on the goddamn chalkboard of the base of his fucking skull.
«FUCK!»
“We got a few new ones in recently.”
“Yeah, I saw.”
“Did you see that little pink one at the end? It’s different. —not your typical toaster. I thought you might like it.”
He shoots the kid a scoffing look of incredulity, as though that’s the stupidest thing he’s ever heard.
“You’ve gotta be kiddin’ me,” the kid defends, “you don’t like it? —not even a little?”
“She’s the fucking bitch of the bunch.”
He wishes he hadn’t destroyed his last toaster. He wishes he didn’t have to go through this bullshit again. He wishes someone would make a fucking toaster that isn’t a little piece of shit. He wishes this whole ordeal didn’t have to be so goddamn degrading. And he wishes this kid would just shut the fuck up.
“Jesus Christ!”
And the kid stops, looks at him…
«Shit—that probably wasn’t necessary»
…and then laughs through a smile of understanding.
“Well, which one’s it gonna be?”
It’s not the kid’s fault. He’s nice enough. He just has one of those very unpleasant voices. —one of those very irritating voices. —one of those very, very aggravating voices. He means well. It’s just that every time he says something, a very unpleasant crackling takes hold of the back of the neck. And every time a little cackle shoots up out of his mouth, that crackling intensifies with a stab. It’s not the kid’s fault. But it can only realistically be endured for a limited length of time.
«Shit. … Shit. … Shit»
“You’re gonna get the pink one aren’t you?”
«I’m not going to get the fucking pink one»
“I’m not going to get the pink one.”
“Then which one’re you gonna get?”
“I’m not getting any.”
“You’re not gettin’ any?”
«I’m not getting any»
“Shit. … Shit. … Shit.”
He walks out of the store.
…
