Ben Neihart Hey, Joe (v1.0) (epub)

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.This book made available by the Internet Archive.ACKNOWLEDGMENTSI am especially grateful to Sloan Harris,Sarah Pinckney, and Eric Steel.forSharyn RosenblumHEY,JOEA Late-SummerFriday Afternoon3:30 p.m.Joe was newly sixteen.He had the rosy aspect, and the swagger, and the skinny arms, and the bad reputation.He was a brooder, a magazine reader, a swaying dancer at mellow, jazzy rap parties.He kept his hair cut short like the other smoked-out newbies at Metairie Park Country Day, and the only shoes he wore were black suede Pumas.School had just let out for the Labor Day weekend, so Joe was home, changing clothes, in a hurry to be gone before his mother returned from work.He hated to leave her alone on a Friday night with her books and the cell phone.He hated the actual leave-taking most of all— her quick kiss, the sound of the front door's bolt lock when he closed it behind him.He wished she didn't spend so much time by herself.Why didn't she hang with her old friends? She was always working—at Tulane Medical Center, in the fund-raising office, asking doctors and scientists and presidents of Corporation Whatever for money."It's gonna suck the life right out of me," she sometimes joked.Joe hated her saying that because he could see that it was true; in the past year, it seemed, skin and muscle hung more loosely on her frame, and on her face, even though she did exercises in the high-ceilinged ballroom of the New Orleans Athletic Center, downtown.He wandered about the living room, looking for his glasses, which he wore only at home.They were hidden somewhere beneath the spoils of his mom's latest shopping spree.On the floor were neat piles of new compact discs, hardcover novels by Eurowomen with killer black hairdos, and shoe boxes.Slung over the furniture were silk blouses, palazzo pants in four shades of cream, and bras and panties, all of them with price tags still attached."And the value of this showcase is.," Joe said, and then he hurried down the hall to the bathroom.In his underwear, he crouched over the bathroom sink.It was his pond, shell shaped, with separate faucets for hot and cold water.The mirror was steamproof, and flattering; it put your face at a remove, so you weren't right on top of yourself as you did your routine.He squirted some Dial onto a washcloth and worked up a lather to freshen his underarms.He rubbed on some deodorant next, then washed his face and brushed his teeth.He went into his mom's bedroom.As always, it was neatly set up for when she would come home this evening.The king-size bed was made; a pair of jeans and an immaculate white T-shirt and fresh panties lay on the pillow; the blinds were closed to keep the room cool in the late-summer sunlight.Joe liked the feel of the wood floor under his bare feet.He hopped onto the doctor's office scale beside the dresser.One hundred twenty pounds.Good, he told himself, you're keeping your shit lean and portable.He pulled his mom's door shut on his way to his own bedroom, the smallest room of the house—even smaller than the bathroom.He liked the fact that when he lay down to sleep he could touch the walls on either side of his bed.On weekend mornings, his mom would come into the room to wake him up early so they could spend the morning together in the backyard, sitting on the stone benches in her little rock garden.Between them, they'd drink a pitcher of orange juice, and then Joe would go inside to fix enormous tumblers of iced tea, to clear the thickness from their throats.It was as if they hadn't missed each other in the comings and goings of the week.Long, contented silences; bare feet stretching in the dewy grass; the sun pumping higher into the sky.Now Joe pulled the front off one of his waist-high Sony speakers, which had been hollowed out to hold his business, the top-shelf weed he imported from Gainesville and sold to his friends.He unrolled a Ziploc freezer bag and took a deep breath of the sweet, fearsome herb.He took a pinch to roll a quick joint.Time to give fashion, he thought.He lit up and collapsed onto his bed.He didn't have to turn on his stereo; music presented itself, as if it had lain dormant in the joint: "Nickel bag, a nickel bag."As he got stoned, he looked at his hands, which were covered with scars.His legs and feet were, too.Each scar was the proof of a mountain-bike tumble or, in one case, a skid across the coral beach on Fitzroy Island in the Great Barrier Reef, where they had gone last Christmas—Joe, his mom, and his dad, just before his dad died.They had pushed Daddy's wheelchair to the edge of the Coral Sea."A sea like green milk," Daddy had said [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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