Free Home Land: A Novel by Sam Lipsyte Page A

Nearmont who’s going to maim a child with his pepper juices someday.
    But back to matters Rysonian and cruel. I’d just slipped off my Music Mania in-store headphones after subjecting myself to the bloated plaints of Spacklefinger—yes, Catamounts, I do mean that Spacklefinger, the one fronted by our very own Glave Wilkerson, pseudopoet of Eastern Valley, purveyor of arena rock in deserted clubs near a decade now, whose major label debut, Sporemonger, arrives not a moment too soon, as Glave, who might have been an okay dude in high school were he not such a monumental suckass and sister-pimper, is beginning to resemble the very dads his anthems of teen disaffection rebuke—when lo and/or behold, there was Stacy Ryson, strolling down the concourse in mutual butt-grope with a big goon in designer glasses.
    I cut them off near a potted fern.
    “Stacy,” I said.
    She turned, stood, unnerving in her yogic rectitude. I smiled,
gave big teeth. They’re not pretty, my teeth, kind of pointy, buttercolored, but then I hardly tend to them, not since Gwendolyn left. It’s tough brushing alone.
    “Do I know you?” said Stacy.
    Her goon struck a pose of high moral alert. His head was shaved, shaped like a cut dick, his eyes sealed in smug eyewear.
    Damn if it wasn’t Philly Douglas.
    “Friend?” he said to Stacy, laid his hand on her taut freckled arm.
    “Yes,” I said. “Friend. Old friend. Lewis Miner.”
    “Miner?” he said. “Lewis?”
    “Eastern Valley. Class of ’89.”
    “No shit.”
    “I saw you score three touchdowns against Edgefield.”
    “Three? Try four.”
    “I left early.”
    “Didn’t you sell me fake speed once?” said Philly.
    “That was my friend Gary.”
    “My dog died from it.”
    “I won’t ask.”
    “No, maybe it’s better if you don’t ask, Miner. Like maybe it’s better if I don’t ask about those updates Stacy showed me. Your homo shower fantasies starring me.”
    “Trust me,” I said. “You’re not the star.”
    “Phil,” said Stacy. “Please. That’s enough. Lewis, it’s nice to see you again.”
    “Nice to see you, Stace. You look fantastic.”
    “How she looks is none of your business,” said Philly.
    “I’ve got eyes,” I said. “They do business.”
    “I hope you weren’t too offended by my letter,” said Stacy.
    “No,” I said, “flattered is more like it. I’m excited about correspondence with someone of your caliber. So, do you still live around here?”
    “We’re in the city now. We were just in town visiting my folks. Philly and I are engaged.”

    “Congratulations. I should send you something, right? A card? Can I get your address?”
    “To be honest, Lewis, I thought of my letter as more of a onetime thing. I just wanted to explain my, or, rather, our, meaning women, or, some women, at least, the position we might take regarding your update, had we read it, or rather, had women other than myself read it.”
    “You did a wonderful job explaining. I was just thinking about your letter today while listening to the new Spacklefinger LP.”
    “That’s Glave’s band, right? I hear they’re getting big now.”
    “Spacklefinger rock,” said Philly Douglas.
    “They’re crap,” I said.
    “Come on, Phil, lets go,” said Stacy. “Good to see you, Lewis.”
    “His name is Teabag,” said Philly. “Don’t you know how he got that name?”
    “I’m sure Stacy knows,” I said.
    “What’s the story, Phil?”
    “Forget it,” he said.
    I guess Philly Douglas suddenly didn’t want to tell his fiancée how he’d ordered his buddies to hold me down in the shower room so he could mash his balls into my face. It hadn’t bothered me much at the time. I’d been under the impression it was some kind of a hazing ritual. What hurt was afterward, when I still didn’t belong. Funny, but years later I saw this boy on TV who’d also been teabagged contrary to his will. He had a suit against his school for millions. His spirit had died. He