ought to be servin’ us dinner and shit.”
The Korean looked at McGinnes out of the corner of his eyes and cracked a peanut shell between two thick fingers.
“Johnny, keep it down.”
“What,” McGinnes said, nodding to the deaf kid, “am I bothering him or somethin’?”
“Listen,” I said, changing the subject. “I’ve got something going on tomorrow, an acting job, for {tinem' widt you and a buddy, if you’re interested.”
“Oh yeah? What’s it about?”
After I briefed him, I said, “How about your boy Donny? Think he can handle it?”
“That guy is an actor. Sure, it gets on my nerves, I got to listen to him run his cocksucker all day long. But he’s all right. Good salesman, too.”
“Set it up, then,” I said.
McGinnes nodded, then stared sadly at the hot-pretzel man, who was moving our way once again.
“If you want one,” I said, “just get one.”
“No, that’s okay.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
McGinnes said, “I put too much mustard on my half smoke, too.”
McDowell retired the side, three up, three down. We left in the eighth, when the stadium stopped selling booze.
At a liquor store outside the Yards, we stopped for another six, then drank it on the drive back to D.C. McGinnes talked about his girlfriend, Carmelita, and about his “spot” of TB and how the doctors had treated it with INH, which he had taken every morning for a year. Then McGinnes told a very funny joke about an Indian named Two Dogs Fucking, and about that time we killed our last beer and crossed over into PG County. I dropped him at his car in Beltsville, then drove to my apartment, where I fed the cat and paced around listening to records, too drunk to have the sense to go to bed but not drunk enough to pass out. I called Lyla, but she wasn’t in, so I left a message on her machine. I thought of Joe Martinson, rang him up.
“Hello.”
“Hey, Joe-‘Where you goin’ with that gun in your hand?’ ”
“Nick!”
“Thought you might be up for some music.”
“I might.”
“Snake Pit?”
“Sounds good.”
“Meet you in there in a half hour or so.”
“Who’s playing?”
“What difference does it make, right?”
The Mekons were playing, and the place was jammed. The band had been around forever, but it had still managed to retain its indie status, so the crowd was a mixture of young introductees and veterans like Joe and I. I grabbed two Buds at the door bar and pushed my way back to the right corner of the stage, my usual spot. Joe found me in midset, guitars flailing against the saw of a fiddle, the band just pushing it all the way out, and that’s where we stayed until the end of the first show. The Snake Pit can be a drag with its put-on attitude, but on hot summer nights, when the acts are really c {ars gooking and the place is drowned in music and sweat, there’s still nothing better in D.C.
Out on F, I stumbled into the alley a few doors down from the club to urinate, Martinson filing in behind me, laughing. A lighted office building rose out of the darkness ahead, cutting the symmetry of the brick walls running at my side. I looked into the alley, where rats moved about in the shadows of several green Dumpsters. The picture was odd but strangely beautiful. A smile of relief spread across my face as I stood there, peeing on the stones, and I thought, You know, I really do love this fucking town.
Joe and I got into my Dodge and headed west. Joe found some pot in my glove box and dropped a bud onto the hot end of the lighter from my dash. We took turns snorting the smoke. I pushed a Stereolab tape into the deck and boosted the bass, and we tripped on that as we made our way across town, drinking a couple of beers we had smuggled out of the club. I found a place to park on U at 16 th-had to piss again. Did it right on the street.
“Hey, ladies,” Joe screamed at some women passing by. “This here is my friend, Nick Stefanos.”
Black.
I sat at the full bar at Rio Loco’s, Joe Martinson on the stool to my right. There was a bottle of beer in front of me, a shot of bourbon next to that, and a cigarette burning in the ashtray. I sampled all three. A floor waitress I knew, on the heavy side, real sweet, with missile tits and a plain-Elaine face, came by and smiled, and we exchanged a few smart sentences. She drifted, and Joe tapped his bottle against mine.
“I thinks she digs you, man,” Joe said.
“Yeah, sure.”
“I know she does. What’s her name?”
“I think it’s Lynn,” I said. Or was it Linda?
Joe swigged from his beer. “One thing about you, Stefanos. I wanna get fucked up, I can hook up with you anytime. I know you’re never gonna disappoint me, man. With you, it’s like it’s still 1980. One thing’s for sure, I couldn’t run with you all the time.”
“Yep.”
“Okay, so…” Martinson leaned in. “Best tracks, 1990s.”
“Best tracks, huh?” I tried to concentrate against the bar noise and the zydeco jump coming from the juke.
“I’ll start,” Martinson said. “ ‘Get Me’-Dinosaur Jr.”
I hit my cigarette. “Dinosaur Jr.? Who does he think he is, Frank Marino or somethin’? You smoke too much weed, Joe.”
“Listen to it some time-the kid Mascis can really fuckin’ play.”
“Okay,” I said. “ ‘Summer Babe.’ Pavement.”
Joe smiled. “ ‘Chapel Hill.’ Sonic Youth.”
{onth='27“ ‘Instrument,’ ” I said. “Fugazi.” On that one, Martinson slapped me five.
“Desert island LP,” said Joe. “If you had to pick one, what would it be?”
“ ‘Let It Be,’ ” I said without hesitation.
“The Beatles?” he said, screwing up his face.
“Fuck the Beatles!” I said. “I’m talkin’ ’bout the Replacements!”
Joe laughed. I reached for my drink. A lot of time passed, or maybe it did not. I looked to my right, and Martinson was gone. A couple of white boys wearing baseball caps were sitting a few stools down. One of them was looking at me and laughing.
Black.
I sat at a deuce under the harsh lights of last call. Lynn or was it Linda? sat in the chair across the table. She raised her shot glass, tapped it against mine, and smiled. I closed my eyes and drank my goddamned whiskey.
Black.
The sound of an engine turning over, streetlights and laughter and double white lines.
Black.
I was standing in an unfamiliar apartment.
“Where are we?” I said.
“My place,” said Lynn or was it Linda? “Adams Morgan.”
“What about my car?”
“Out on Belmont,” she said with a laugh. “And by the way, you drove great.”
I stood in a living room, where a long-haired girl and a long-haired guy were sitting on a couch, cleaning pot in the lid of a shoe box. A singer wailed over some very druggy guitar.
“So what are we listenin’ to?” I said to the guy.
“Smashin’ Pumpkins,” the guy said.
“I want to listen to this kinda shit, I’ll dig out some old Sabbath albums. ‘Masters of Reality’ maybe.”
