body odor. Ira looked at Jonathan, his long, fan-shaped back, his nonexistent butt, his wiggly, knobbly legs, and the effect on Ira was bland, neutral as if the body were invisible. A perfect relationship, except for one thing.
Ira went over to see how Jonathan was doing.
As he approached, Jonathan seemed to flicker sideways somehow, and he flipped the microfilm forward.
'You really don't want me to see what this is all about, do you?' Ira chuckled.
'I wanted you to look at this,' said Jonathan, oblivious with enthusiasm. A headline in quaint serif type said: STERLING RINEAR TALKS TO KIWANIS ABOUT EISTEDDFOD.
The Eisteddfod was the Welsh bardic festival-another one of Jonathan's enthusiasms.
'It just all connects,' said Jonathan.
Like electricity. Even Ira felt the jolt, but only through Jonathan.
'Look at this. And look at this,' said Jonathan, showing him ads for Safeways and banks.
'I mean the Bank of Italy. What was it doing here? Except that it became the Bank of America.' He paused. 'You bored?'
'A bit,' admitted Ira.
Jonathan rubbed his forehead and looked helplessly at the unending trail of stories, advertisements. 'Yeah. Okay. I just wish I could photograph the whole thing.'
It was impossible to catch the past. 'You know, someday they'll do a computer model of every town every ten years. The shops, the cars, the parks, the houses. The people in them, the clothes, everything. And you'll put on your electronic glasses, and your earplugs, and you'll walk through it. You'll say hello to women in cloche hats and brown silk stockings and they'll say hello back.' He paused, and Ira saw that he was almost near tears. 'In very slightly tinny voices.'
It was Ira's private conviction that he had married a genius. Ira never said anything about this to anyone, especially to Jonathan. But Ira had seen Jonathan act Shakespeare and had heard him talk. No one else knew what Jonathan was. The TV shows, the horror movies in which Jonathan appeared, were rubbish. This only made it more poignant for Ira, so Ira joked.
'Wouldn't you bump into them if you had electronic specs?'
'This isn't some dumb joke, Ira.' Jonathan's face had suddenly gone solemn, and slightly ill-looking.
'No,' said Ira gently. 'No, it isn't.' Ira kept watch over Jonathan. There was a downside to the hyperactivity that glittered in Jonathan's eyes.
Suddenly the downside was dispelled or, rather, cast out. 'Get out of here!' said Jonathan, bullish again, and he stood up with a kind of whiplash smartness to his spine. He tossed the microfilm up into the air and caught it effortlessly. He was strangely put together, too long in the back, but top-heavy, with small thin legs. He had wonderful coordination and he always beat Ira at everything. Ira had to try hard at everything. Jonathan tried hard at nothing. Ira was the success.
'On,' said Jonathan, 'to Cedar Street.'
'What's there?' Ira asked.
'A house,' said Jonathan, with another secret smile.
'If this is some dumb movie-star pilgrimage…' Ira threatened. He had been the kind of kid who preferred Mozart to Kiss. And Bach to Mozart.
'You'll do what?' Jonathan asked.
'I'll tell everyone you're a John Wayne fan.'
'Well, he's from Lancaster.'
'I know! Listen, it's not John Wayne, is it? Please. Tell me it's not John Wayne.'
'It's not John Wayne,' said Jonathan, still smiling with his secret.
The house was on Cedar Street, on a corner, by what had once been the grammar school. 'That's it, it must be it, two-story!'
'You want to stop?' Ira asked.
'No, no, keep going,' said Jonathan, ducking down.
'Are you or are you not the world's only photo-realist actor?'
'I'm embarrassed,' said Jonathan, and the words were like lead. 'That's someone's house. I can't just go up and start snapping pictures. Go on, go on!'
There was a hum as the car accelerated. 'I'll tell you one thing,' said Ira, 'you'll never be a photo-realist journalist.'
'Drive round the block,' said Jonathan. He switched baseball hats.
'Hey, master of disguise. Do you really think they won't recognize you in a different baseball hat?'
'You're a lawyer,' accused Jonathan.
'Whenever I think straight, you tell me that.'
Jonathan looked afraid. Ira chuckled and slapped his leg. 'You're nuts,' he said.
'I know,' said Jonathan very seriously.
The fake-Spanish bungalows, the tiny 1920s frame houses with porches and tile roofs, slipped past.
