Free Venus Drive by Sam Lipsyte Page A

cocaine.
    â€œHey,” says Junebug to the ranger, “Qualified Gremlin here threw down with a cop.”
    â€œWell, he better not try any of that shit with me,” says the ranger. “I’ll put my foot in his ass.”
    They fold flyers until noon, break, fold again.
    â€œWhat about the garbage?” says Gary, finally. “Shouldn’t I go out into the park with one of those sticks?”
    â€œWhy, looking for a weapon?” says the ranger. She gives Gary a mop and points him to the toilet. The seats are gummed, the tiles caked with boot tracks.
    â€œWhen it sparkles, you can go,” she says.
    Â 
    Gary sees the man with the leggings outside the bagel store.
    â€œHow’re the teeth?” calls Gary.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œThe teeth?”
    â€œLook,” says the man, moves in, as though about to show Gary his mouth. “I’m not your homeless. Got it, fucker?”
    Gary goes up to his place for a clean shirt. When he comes back down the man is sitting on a grate, cinching a seabag.
    â€œNo hard feelings,” the man says.
    Gary holds out a buck and the man waves him off.
    â€œI have other offers on the table right now,” the man says.
    The bus is packed going over the bridge. Gary presses his head on the tinted window. He stopped at the bank on the way to the bus. The gods of the machine have wearied of him. The buyers are off at their bungalows, yoga retreats. He will have to borrow some money from his mother again.
    It’s hot on the bus and everyone wears short sleeves except for Gary. He picks at the few tiny flecks of blood on his shirt with his fingernail.
    Gary’s mother hugs him at the door.
    â€œYou look like you got some sun today. Out with the kids?”
    â€œYeah.”
    His mother hooks him on his arm’s tender spot, guides him across the room. A group is gathered near the bay window, pouring whiskey.
    â€œBoy, am I glad you came.” Today his mother has that almost dazed expression which, along with the featherings at her mouth, people take for mirth. “These people are drips. Put on any music you like.”
    â€œI’m fine, Mom,” says Gary.
    â€œHey, there’s Jacob Gelb,” says his mother. “Remember him?”
    Gary looks at the man, tall and tan, easy with his body in casual silk. Gary has that flicker of thought that comes along with his mother’s house: I wonder if I’ll turn out like him when I grow up. But Gelb is a few years younger. Gary remembers once putting worms in his hair, or firing an air pellet at his nuts, something senseless and maybe not forgotten.
    â€œA drink?” says Gary’s mother.
    â€œJust water.”
    â€œGood for you.”
    Gelb keeps a plastic cup aloft with his foot, his loafer. A woman sways down near him in a goalie pose, dangles her fingers out.
    â€œHey, Jake,” Gary calls. “Been watching the Cup? How about that Cameroon?”
    Gelb looks up without missing a tap.
    â€œThose guys are gone. Knocked out this morning, or last night, or whatever. My money’s on the Netherlands. The Goudas.”
    Gelb kicks the cup into the fire place, throws his arms up, mugs, mimes the frenzy of thousands.
    â€œI’d trade it all in for one good run at goal,” says Gelb. “When I have to go to Europe for work I just order up food and watch the leagues.”
    â€œSo cosmopolitan,” says the woman. “Going to a foreign country to watch sports on TV.”
    â€œI go to make money. I watch sports to clear my head.”
    â€œSame here,” says Gary.
    â€œYou’re Gary,” says the woman. “I’m Lorraine. I heard what happened to your friend. I’m sorry.”
    â€œThanks.”
    â€œI’ve never heard your music, but people say it’s really interesting.”
    â€œOh,” says Gary. “I’m not playing anymore, anyway.”
    â€œWhat are you doing?”
    â€œWorking