Savages

screaming one long note as they come together.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOO

83

Elena can’t sleep.

Thinking about the girl.

84

Chon on the difference between advertising and pornography:

Advertising gives beautiful names to ugly things.

Pornography gives ugly names to beautiful things.

85

Should be awkward (What did we do last night?!) in the morning but it isn’t.

It’s EZ.

Happy cool.

Chon rolls out first. Goes out on the deck and does his push-ups. Ben still sleepy-warm in the bed. He gets up a few minutes later, hears the shower running and O singing some tune off the radio.

They gather around the breakfast table.

Grapefruit, sliced mango, black coffee.

O smiling happily.

The boys quiet until Ben looks across the table at Chon, holds his thumb and index finger a millimeter apart, and says, “We’re that close to being gay.”

They laugh for half an hour.

Collective dicks.

86

On the radio some airwave jabber-jockey goes on and on about the new prez being a socialist while another mike-monkey “defends” him.

A fight as real and choreographed as a WWF match. The liberal in one corner, the conservative in the other —pick your villain, pick your hero.

Ben likes the new POTUS because the cat smoked weed, snorted crack, wrote about it, and got away with it.

Nobody said dick.

Not in the primaries, not in the campaign, not at all.

And you know why?

Because he was black.

And you have to love that.

No disrespect to Dr. King, Ben thinks, but the giddiest guy on Inauguration Day would have been Lenny Bruce.

Paqu was, like, appalled when Obama got elected.

Like, what’s next, a Mexican?

At least the White House lawn will look good, O comforted her.

87

“I hope he is a socialist,” Ben says. “Socialism works.”

Worked for Ben and Chonny’s, certainly.

Chon doesn’t believe in socialism

or communism or capitalism.

The only “ism” he believes in is

jism.

O, the sacramental vessel of his faith,

laughs.

“What about hedonism?” Ben asks, just enjoying the game because Chon is one of the least hedonistic people he knows. Chon likes his pleasure, no doubt, but he is also a disciplined daily self-torturer who runs miles of beach, swims miles of ocean, does a thousand push-ups and pull-ups and sit-ups and bangs his bare fist into a wooden post until it bleeds (the fist, not the post).

“Nope, not hedonism,” Chon answers. “In my world, there’s only

he do or he don’t ism

because when it comes down to a man getting it done, either

he do, or he don’t.”

O concurs.

Happy she has two he do’s.

“No, I’ve got it,” Ben says. “Nihilism.”

“Nihilism,” Chon says. “Now you might be onto something.”

Okay, that’s pretty funny, O thinks.

88

Then Ben sez—

“I think we should go on a little trip.”

He and Chon looking all conspirational. For two dope dealers, O thinks, they are amazingly transparent. She should have them teach her to play poker with them, take everything they own.

“We?” O asks. Like who is the we in “we”? The two of us—in which case, which us—or we three (kings of Orient are)?

“The three of us,” Ben clarifies. “New life, new beginning.”

“Are we going to Bolivia?” O asks.

“I’m thinking Indo.”

He knows this pretty little village on the ocean. The people are beautiful and friendly. Ben has put a clinic, a school, and a water treatment plant in this village. He has brought in cosmetic surgeons to heal children. The men of the village—small, slight men who wear skirts—carry long, curved blades and love Ben.

“Indo?” she asks.

“Indo,” Ben says.

“I’ll have to do more shopping.”

“Buy cool stuff.”

“I always buy cool stuff.”

“No, I mean cool stuff. For hot, humid weather,” Ben says. “And is your passport up to date?”