Free Bucky F*cking Dent by David Duchovny Page B

gutter with the tip of his cane, like a highly specialized, obsessive-compulsive sanitation worker. And a very dapper Tango Sam, who reminded you of Burt Lancaster grown old and who seemed to dance everywhere rather than walk. When they got to within shouting distance of the kiosk, Tango Sam spoke up: “Marty—you big macha you, the retired one of twelve vice presidents of the seventh-largest advertising firm on the East Coast, you look tremendous—loan me fifty.”
    Marty cast a thumb at Ted. “You remember my ungrateful progeny? This is my adopted son, Lord Fenway, the peanut man from Yankee Stadium.”
    All the men lowed, like a gray herd of grazing cattle. Benny spoke from behind the magazine rack of the kiosk, his face barely visible, he was so short. “Oy vey. Teddy. The little splinter, I haven’t seen you since you were yay big.” He held his hand an inch or two above his own head, because even yay big was a touch taller than he was. Benny always seemed on the verge of bittersweet tears. “I have Sports Illustrated for you. And the Post. You like girls? I have Playboy .”
    â€œThe jury’s out on that one,” Marty said.
    Benny continued, “Shut up, Marty, I’m talking to a person who is still alive. I also have Oui and Club if you like less mystery. You hungry? Want some Goldenberg Chews? They have peanuts in them. Healthy. Protein.”
    â€œQuite the amuse bouche they are, the Goldenbergs,” added Schtikker.
    â€œNo thanks, Benny, but thank you.”
    Responding to some mystical prompt inside his own head, Ivan offered, “You see where Sweden banned the aerosol can?”
    Tango Sam stepped forward and grasped Ted’s hand in both of his. “Teddy, you look tremendous, loan me fifty.”
    â€œHi, Tango Sam. Hi, Ivan.”
    Ivan looked up from caning a cigarette butt to the gutter and said, “The Sox don’t have enough black players.”
    All the men groaned together on cue. Schtikker piped up, “You can have that schvartze Reggie Jackson. He’s a cancer. And you’re not black anyway, Ivan, there is no black man named Ivan. It’s an impossibility. Like a unicorn. Or the Second Avenue subway. Hey, Marty, come over here, I read in Time magazine where you can guess a man’s age by sticking a thumb up his ass.”
    â€œThat was in Time magazine?” Ted asked.
    Benny said, “I just feel bad for the rest of the Wallenda family.” As if he were in the middle of a conversation no one else could hear. But nothing, no matter how far off topic, could stop the crazy flow of these men; the lack of flow was, in fact, their flow.
    â€œOr Newsweek ,” Schtikker continued. “Mighta been Scientific American .”
    â€œ National Geographic .”
    â€œ The Advocate .”
    â€œNo fair, I thought I was next,” Ivan said.
    â€œOnly once a week now, Ivan, we talked about this.”
    â€œIt works.”
    â€œLike the rings of a tree. He’s seventy-eight.”
    â€œWhat is this Space Invaders thing? Anyone?”
    â€œHe’s right, I’m seventy-eight.”
    Marty joined in, “Turns out his ass is a hundred, though.”
    â€œWith Dutch elm disease,” offered Tango Sam, “and a Japanese beetle infestation. Might have to cut it down to save his balls.”
    Ted felt like riffing along with them. “Yeah, but I bet it’s the squirrels that are really annoying, hiding their nuts…” but he trailed off as he felt a change in temperature. Total silence. Like the popular E. F. Hutton commercials of the day. The old men turned and stared at Ted with outraged incredulity.
    â€œWhat?” Ted asked. “His ass is like a tree, so it follows a squirrel might hide nuts in Ivan’s ass like in a tree. A tree. If his ass is a tree in this joke, then it’s possible a squirrel … I’m just…”
    â€œThat’s