Arthur Bradford Turtleface

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.The author and publisher have provided this e-book to you for your personal use only.You may not make this e-book publicly available in any way.Copyright infringement is against the law.If you believe the copy of this e-book you are reading infringes on the author’s copyright, please notify the publisher at: us.macmillanusa.com/piracy.To Maggie ViningCONTENTSTITLE PAGECOPYRIGHT NOTICEDEDICATIONEPIGRAPHTURTLEFACECOLD FEETLOST LIMBSORDERLYTRAVELS WITH PAULTHE BOXSNAKEBITEWENDY, MORT, AND ITHE LSD AND THE BABYBUILD IT UP, KNOCK IT DOWNRESORT TIK TOK217-POUND DOGACKNOWLEDGMENTSALSO BY ARTHUR BRADFORDA NOTE ABOUT THE AUTHORCOPYRIGHTOh! Why I want to seeevery leaf on every tree.Who put all this burden on me?—HOLCOMBE WALLER, “ATLAS”TURTLEFACEWe were paddling our canoes down a remote, slow-moving river, a full day’s travel in either direction from the nearest road, when Otto decided to do something spectacular and stupid.Around a bend we encountered a sandy cliff rising up out of the water.Otto announced he would climb the cliff and then run down its steep face.We could all take pictures as he descended in long Olympian strides.At the end of his run, as he neared the base, Otto explained, he would launch himself into the river, a downhill running dive.It was late in the afternoon and we had all been drinking beer and whiskey.Otto and I paddled to the cliff’s base and he got out.Then he climbed.It was tough going due to all that loose sand.“How’s this?” he shouted down.He was about halfway up.“Higher!” I shouted back.I was excited about the stunt and reasoned that greater height would maximize the effect.I was feeling envious as well.Sheila and Maria were in the other canoe, watching intently.They wore cutoff blue jeans shorts over their swimsuits.Sheila was a photographer.She pointed her large-lensed camera up at Otto.Maria, my girlfriend, was a nurse and on the verge of dumping me for a number of legitimate reasons.At that moment I wished I possessed Otto’s imagination and daring.There was one other person with us, a cousin of Sheila’s, named Tom.He was a large fellow who had joined the trip at the last minute.He couldn’t, or wouldn’t, paddle because he had broken his thumb.Instead, he declared he would be in charge of doling out the beer, and he spent the day sprawled in the center of the women’s canoe doing just that.His skin had turned from pale white to dark crimson over the course of our journey.Maria had warned him about the dangers of exposure to the sun but he dismissed her advice with a wave of his cast-bound hand.“I’ll be fine,” said Tom.Otto reached a point on the cliff where he could climb no higher.The terrain above him was too steep.He was perhaps a hundred feet above the river now, clinging to exposed tree roots for support.Clods of dirt tumbled down the slope and bounced into the water in front of us.“Do it!” shouted Tom.He threw a half-full can of beer toward the cliff, where it landed without a sound in the sand.“Are you going to pick that up?” asked Maria.“Nope,” said Tom.“I’ll pick it up,” I said.I paddled my canoe back toward the cliff.“Are you ready?” shouted Otto.“Yes!” I shouted back.“Where should I dive?” asked Otto.I could see that Otto was having second thoughts.But the cliff shot straight into the river and the water below it was dark and deep.It all seemed fine to me.“Go to my left!” I shouted back, pointing to a general area.“My steps are going to be so long, man!” shouted Otto.“Watch this!”Otto gave a halfhearted whoop and leaped into the air.He took one huge stride, and then another.He was right about those long steps.He covered a tremendous amount of ground with each leap, such was the pitch of the terrain.The sun shone down and sand kicked up behind him, creating an impressive, superhuman image.Sheila clicked away with her camera and said, “Oh wow.” Maria nodded appreciatively.Admiration and envy swelled within me.I should have come up with this, I thought, or at least climbed up there and done it with him, a tandem performance.We could have shared the glory.The women would have rubbed our backs around the campfire that night while recounting our heroics.Otto’s body pitched forward as he neared the river’s edge.He was losing control, legs scrambling, barely able to keep up with his downhill momentum.“Ahhh!” he cried.He dove forward, flying out toward the water, and hit the surface with a smack.Ouch, I thought.“Whoa, fuck!” said Tom, slapping his knee with his one good hand.“Damn!”The women were silent, unsure whether to laugh or be concerned.I moved closer to where Otto had landed.His body floated up in an awkward manner, facedown, arms splayed out from his sides.“Turn over, Otto,” I said out loud.Maria yelled at me, “Get him, Georgie!”I swam out and flipped Otto’s body over.His nose was smashed.Something was wrong with his lip too.Otto took a huge gasp of air.He was alive, a good sign.I recall thinking, Oh, this isn’t so bad.“He’s okay!” I called to the others.“He’s all right.”“No, he’s not,” said Sheila.Blood began to spill from Otto’s nose and mouth.Sheila was right.I had been too optimistic.He wasn’t okay at all.Where was this blood coming from? What was wrong with his face? It was punched in.Jesus, how did that happen? It was just water.We hoisted Otto on board Sheila and Maria’s canoe.Tom got out begrudgingly to make room in the center.He stood next to me in the river while Maria, the nurse, attended to Otto’s face.Sheila kept saying, “Oh Lord.Oh my Lord.”Tom opened a new beer and together we scanned the water where Otto had landed, looking for the rock or tree limb that must have caused the damage.Eventually Tom said, “There’s your culprit [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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