Eastern Standard Tribe

privilege of being a Canadian citizen and hence perennially under suspicion of smuggling goods from the tax havens of the US into the country-and leaving Linda in their little Pullman cabin.

When Art popped free of the bureaucracy, his life thoroughly peered into, he found Linda standing on the platform, leaning against a pillar, back arched, one foot flat against the bricks, corresponding dimpled knee exposed to the restless winds of the trainyard. From Art's point of view, she was a gleaming vision skewered on a beam of late day sunlight that made her hair gleam like licorice. Her long and lazy jaw caught and lost the sun as she talked animatedly down her comm, and Art was struck with a sudden need to sneak up behind her and run his tongue down the line that began with the knob of her mandible under her ear and ran down to the tiny half-dimple in her chin, to skate it on the soft pouch of flesh under her chin, to end with a tasting of her soft lips.

Thought became deed. He crept up on her, smelling her new-car hair products on the breeze that wafted back from her, and was about to begin his tonguing when she barked, 'Fuck off! Stop calling me!' and closed her comm and stormed off trainwards, leaving Art standing on the opposite side of the pillar with a thoroughly wilted romantic urge.

More carefully, he followed her into the train, back to their little cabin, and reached for the palm-pad to open the door when he heard her agitated comm voice. 'No, goddamnit, no. Not yet. Keep calling me and not ever, do you understand?'

Art opened the door. Linda was composed and neat and sweet in her plush seat, shoulders back, smile winning. 'Hey honey, did the bad Customs man finally let you go?'

'He did! That sounded like a doozy of a phone conversation, though. What's wrong?'

'You don't want to know,' she said.

'All right,' Art said, sitting down opposite her, knee-to-knee, bending forward to plant a kiss on the top of her exposed thigh. 'I don't.'

'Good.'

He continued to kiss his way up her thigh. 'Only...'

'Yes?'

'I think I probably do. Curiosity is one of my worst failings of character.'

'Really?'

'Quite so,' he said. He'd slid her sundress right up to the waistband of her cotton drawers, and now he worried one of the pubic hairs that poked out from the elastic with his teeth.

She shrieked and pushed him away. 'Someone will see!' she said. 'This is a border crossing, not a bordello!'

He sat back, but inserted a finger in the elastic before Linda straightened out her dress, so that his fingertip rested in the crease at the top of her groin.

'You are naughty,' she said.

'And curious,' Art agreed, giving his fingertip a playful wiggle.

'I give up. That was my fucking ex,' she said. 'That is how I will refer to him henceforth. 'My fucking ex.' My fucking, pain-in-the-ass, touchy-feely ex. My fucking ex, who wants to have the Talk, even though it's been months and months. He's figured out that I'm stateside from my calling times, and he's offering to come out to meet me and really Work Things Out, Once And For All.'

'Oh, my,' Art said.

'That boy's got too much LA in him for his own good. There's no problem that can't be resolved through sufficient dialog.'

'We never really talked about him,' Art said.

'Nope, we sure didn't.'

'Did you want to talk about him now, Linda?'

''Did you want to talk about him now, Linda?' Why yes, Art, I would. How perceptive of you.' She pushed his hand away and crossed her arms and legs simultaneously.

'Wait, I'm confused,' Art said. 'Does that mean you want to talk about him, or that you don't?'

'Fine, we'll talk about him. What do you want to know about my fucking ex?'

Art resisted a terrible urge to fan her fires, to return the vitriol that dripped from her voice. 'Look, you don't want to talk about him, we won't talk about him,' he managed.

'No, let's talk about my fucking ex, by all means.' She adopted a singsong tone and started ticking off points on her fingers. 'His name is Toby, he's half-Japanese, half-white. He's about your height. Your dick is bigger, but he's better in bed. He's a user-experience designer at Lucas-SGI, in Studio City. He never fucking shuts up about what's wrong with this or that. We dated for two years, lived together for one year, and broke up just before you and I met. I broke it off with him: He was making me goddamned crazy and he wanted me to come back from London and live with him. I wanted to stay out the year in England and go back to my own apartment and possibly a different boyfriend, and he made me choose, so I chose. Is that enough of a briefing for you, Arthur?'

'That was fine,' Art said. Linda's face had gone rabid purple, madly pinched, spittle flecking off of her lips as she spat out the words. 'Thank you.'

She took his hands and kissed the knuckles of his thumbs. 'Look, I don't like to talk about it-it's painful. I'm sorry he's ruining our holiday. I just won't take his calls anymore, how about that?'

'I don't care, Linda, Honestly, I don't give a rat's ass if you want to chat with your ex. I just saw how upset you were and I thought it might help if you could talk it over with me.'

'I know, baby, I know. But I just need to work some things out all on my own. Maybe I will take a quick trip out west and talk things over with him. You could come if you want-there are some wicked bars in West Hollywood.'

'That's OK,' Art said, whipsawed by Linda's incomprehensible mood shifts. 'But if you need to go, go. I've got plenty of old pals to hang out with in Toronto.'

'You're so understanding,' she cooed. 'Tell me about your grandmother again-you're sure she'll like me?'

'She'll love you. She loves anything that's female, of childbearing years, and in my company. She has great and unrealistic hopes of great-grandchildren.'

'Cluck.'

'Cluck?'

'Just practicing my brood-hen.'

21.

Doc Szandor's a good egg. He's keeping the shrinks at bay, spending more time with me than is strictly necessary. I hope he isn't neglecting his patients, but it's been so long since I had a normal conversation, I just can't bear to give it up. Besides, I get the impression that Szandor's in a similar pit of bad conversation with psychopaths and psychotherapists and is relieved to have a bit of a natter with someone who isn't either having hallucinations or attempting to prevent them in others.

'How the hell do you become a user-experience guy?'

'Sheer orneriness,' I say, grinning. 'I was just in the right place at the right time. I had a pal in New York who was working for a biotech company that had made this artificial erectile tissue.'

'Erectile tissue?'

'Yeah. Synthetic turtle penis. Small and pliable and capable of going large and rigid very quickly.'

'Sounds delightful.'

'Oh, it was actually pretty cool. You know the joke about the circumcisionist's wallet made from foreskins?'

'Sure, I heard it premed-he rubs it and it becomes a suitcase, right?'

'That's the one. So these guys were thinking about making drawbridges, temporary shelters, that kind of thing out of it. They even had a cute name for it: 'Ardorite.''

'Ho ho ho.'

'Yeah. So they weren't shipping a whole lot of product, to put it mildly. Then I spent a couple of weeks in