Denis Johnson - The Resuscitation of a Hanged Man

“Yeah.”

“Do you get the underlying meaning?”

“She’s a dyke.”

“Can you handle it that I told you that? Are we still buddies?”

“She’s just a friend,” English said, embarrassed. “But listen, I’m glad I ran into you.”

“I’m glad I ran into you, too, man. I been rooting for you. I know it’s tough in a new town.”

“What I wanted to ask you about,” English said, “you’re a ’Nam vet, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah — how’d you know?”

“You have that quality,” English said.

“What. I’m a little zoned, maybe?” Phil was concerned.

“No, no, it’s just, you know, that quality.”

“Yeah, I get it,” Phil assured him. “Right. Right.”

“I was wondering if you know this guy Wilkinson, I forget his first name. He’s head of ’Nam Vets for Cape Cod.”

“Wilkinson? Sure. Yeah. I know everybody, man.”

“What about the Truth Infantry?”

“Truth Infantry?”

“Yeah.”

“Truth Infantry? I don’t know. I’ll find out. Get back to me, okay?”

Leanna was stepping over to them, and so English wanted to change the subject. “Have you ever heard of the artist Gerald Twinbrook?” he asked Phil.

Phil seemed to think he was on the spot now. “Gerald — yes, I have. I have. I’m familiar with his work.”

“You know him? Do you have any impression of him maybe?”

“Gerald Twinbrook?”

“Twinbrook, yeah.”

“Twinbrook … No, I don’t.” Phil’s tone was that of a person being interviewed. “I, uh, it sounds vaguely familiar, that’s about it.”

“This is Leanna.”

“Hi, yeah, I know you,” Phil said.

“You know me?”

“Well, what I mean, you know — I don’t know you,” Phil said.

“Phil. That’s Phil.”

“Hi, Phil.”

“Get in touch with me, man. I’m in the book.”

“Good deal,” English said.

“I think we’re late. We’re going to the movies,” Leanna said.

“The Red Shoes,” Phil said. “See The Red Shoes immediately.”

“We are,” Leanna said. “That’s the one.”

“You’re gonna love it. I cried,” Phil told them.

“I’ll give you a call,” English said.

“I’ll answer,” Phil told him as they hurried off.

They were late for the film and had to go all the way down to the second row. English got very edgy sitting beside her and thinking only about the dark, and about sitting beside her. Within two minutes, the movie was embarrassing him. Was it too stupid? Was it possible she wasn’t enjoying herself?

Then he remembered that he still hadn’t talked to Ray Sands. “I need all the change you’ve got,” he said as softly as he could. “I have to call Provincetown.”

“Okay.” She gave him her coin purse out of her handbag.

“I was supposed to tell my boss something. I have to call him.”

“Okay.”

Halfway up the aisle he realized he could have asked her if she wanted any popcorn — they’d been in too much of a hurry coming in. But he couldn’t go back now. I’ll get popcorn, he thought. Buttered, medium-size. He pushed through the doors into a small panic of kids and patrons entering and leaving the other movies in this place. He felt much better here, where the pandemonium was outside him, than he did in there shoved up against Leanna’s warm breathing silhouette, where it was all in his heart. I am a grownup, he declared to himself, cutting in front of two little boys wearing paper 3-D glasses, who were about to use the pay phone by the ladies’ room.

“What’s the 3-D movie?” he asked them as he deposited seven quarters. But they were mad at him and wouldn’t say.

Grace answered.

“Mrs. Sands. It’s Lenny English. Is Mr. Sands awake by any chance? I think he was expecting me to tell him something, but he was asleep—”

“I don’t know,” she said. “It’s terrible!”

“Terrible,” English repeated.

“Bud’s sick! What am I gonna do!”

“He’ll be okay. Don’t worry—”

“Bud’s turning purple! He got vomit all over him!”

“Wait a minute. Hold on,” English said. “Is this for real?”

“Who are you! Why you did this to Bud!”

“Try and — wait. Wait a minute. Can I speak to Mr. Sands?”

“Bud fell over — he got a face like a beet !”

“I’ll talk to him tomorrow,” English said before he could think of anything else to say.

“Yeah! Okay! Tomorrow!”

Grace hung up, and so did English.

He dialed the radio station, because Sands lived nearby and maybe somebody could run over and check on him. His palms were slick with sweat because he felt he might be in a position to make a terrible mistake, something fatal. The line was busy.

Before I do anything, English thought, I’m going to get some popcorn. As he waited at the counter, another twelve-year-old wearing white paper 3-D glasses that were crooked on his face told him, “Hey, your jacket looks 3-D! It’s wild!”

“Shut up,” his sister said, grabbing the back of his neck. “God.” She looked up toward the heavens.

“It is 3-D,” English said. “This is 3-D.” He was annoyed, even frightened. “Real life is 3-D.” He got his popcorn and the lady laid his quarter change in a spot of melted butter on the glass. Before I do anything, he thought, I’m going to go to the bathroom and wash my hands. In the bathroom he splashed his face with water and forgot all about his popcorn, knocking it with his elbow and spilling half of it into the neighboring sink. He heard a man talking to his child in one of the stalls: “ … or I’ll take you home right now.” I have got to function, English told himself. “That’s the last time we try that,” the man’s voice proclaimed. Wiping his hands and face with paper towels, English heard them passing behind him toward the rows of sinks and mirrors and the exit. The faucet went on and he could hear the father saying, “That’s disgusting.” English asked himself, Why am I listening to this? I’ve got to think.

False alarm, English decided.

But he couldn’t let it pass. He wanted someone to reassure him, he wanted to feel at ease. He hurried back to the pay phone, clutching his half-empty bucket of greasy popcorn. The line at WPRD was still busy. And now Sands’s home phone only rang and rang and nobody picked it up.

I’m calling in a false alarm, he told himself, dialing the operator. “I don’t know how to say this,” he told her. “I think there’s an emergency in Provincetown, but I’m not completely sure about it. Could you get the police to check on it?”

“I don’t understand what you mean,” she said.

“I just—” Speech deserted him. He couldn’t explain. “Please connect me with the Provincetown police,” he said. “It’s an emergency.”

“I’ll connect you,” she said, and rang them.

Someone answered. “Whoever you are,” English said, “do you know Ray Sands?”

“Who am I talking to here?”

“I’m his assistant. Leonard English. I’m in Hyannis, I just talked to his wife, and she says he’s very sick. Could you check on him? Do you know him? He lives on Cutter Street. If he, you know, if he needs an ambulance—”

“Ray Sands? Sure, we’ll check it out.”

“Great. Unbelievable. Thanks.”

“You’re entirely welcome,” the person said.

English put the phone back: I’m done. It’s out of my hands. He left the bright lobby where nothing made sense.

In the darkness he found Leanna and handed her what was left of the popcorn. “I don’t want this,” she said. He hunched down in his seat and began eating it himself. “You make a lot of noise,” she whispered. “Don’t eat with your mouth open. Look at her outfit,” she said of the woman on the screen. “What a fox.”