| Monsters |
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Page 7 of 9 Henry was dancing with the boom box. No more routines; it was finally happening. Guns 'N Roses was cranked to the bughouse level. He cradled the noise to his chest, balanced it across his shoulders like an electronic hump, swung it in a straight-arm loop over his head. Someone was out to get Axl Rose but he wasn't going to take it. Neither was Henry, not as long as Slash was allowed to perform brain surgery with a guitar. Henry's underwear was not as white as a nurse's uniform. He had pulled one sock halfway off. The bathtub was filling up. He whirled into the bedroom, set the boom box on the nightstand and hurled himself at the unmade bed. He bounced up and sprang again. Again, three, five times, as if the mattress were the plane of sanity that he might crash through, if only he tried hard enough. The song ended, the next one was about drugs. Henry didn't need drugs; he was high on death. He punched the eject button, flung the tape across the room and carried the boom box to the shrine. The door was wide open. He slapped the Talking Heads into the player and snatched the Beretta off the altar. Wham! No more Louis Farrakhan. Wham! Die, Robert DeNiro. But pretending wasn't enough anymore. He wanted to flash like he had when Phil had put a hand on him. He wanted to feel the gun kick when he pulled the trigger. While David Byrne was quavering about psycho killers, Henry decided to show the Beretta the rest of their nasty little apartment. The boom box came along for the ride. They turned off the water in the bathtub and changed channels on the tv and straightened the picture of Henry and Dad at the lake. They were on their way to the kitchen to look behind the paper towels under the sink when the phone rang. Qu'est-ce que c'est? As soon as he turned off the music, he knew it was the hospital calling to tell him dad had died. Henry had let him down, hadn't given him what he wanted. It rang five times, six. A hand he wasn't quite in control of trembled over the phone but did not pick up. Ring. He was crying. Ring. "Hello," he said. "Henry? This is Celeste." Hail Mary, he thought, full of grace. "Yeah?" "Hey look, I'm sorry for what I said this afternoon. You know, about religion and all. It's my problem, okay? It has nothing to do with you." He dabbed at a tear running down his cheek. "Uh-huh." "Anyway, I've been driving around ever since then, thinking about what a jerk I was and I just looked at my watch and saw that it was six-thirty and realized I was hungry and I'm just around the block from Angelina's and I was wondering ... I was wondering if you liked pizza? Because I was thinking I'd spring for a large with pepperoni or mushroom or extra cheese or whatever you want and bring it over and we could split it and then maybe I could convince you to forgive me for being such an idiot. I mean, it's okay if you're busy but ..." "Mushroom," said the monster. Her squeal of delight made the speaker buzz. "Mushroom? All right! How about something to drink? Beer? Wine?" "Carlo Rossi Pink Chablis." "No problem. This is great, Henry. I knew you'd understand. This shouldn't take long; what if we say I'll be there around seven-fifteen. I mean if that's too soon, I can come later." "Seven-fifteen," it said. "You know where I live?" "Sure, 117 Queensberry, apartment 22. Jerry told me. See you then." The monster hung up the phone and glanced around. The apartment need some straightening up. Things needed to be put in their places. It stuck the gun in its belt and went out to the kitchen to check behind the paper towels.
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