Michelangelos Shoulder | Page 9

idiot."
"Ah," Arthur said. She hadn't married Penn, at any rate.
"On the positive side, they have two wonderful children."
Only children don't get to be uncles. "Lucky Auntie," Arthur said. "Do
give her my best. There's biology and then there's biology."
"Yes," she said. "Well, I must be going." Arthur watched her leave,
wishing for a drink of water. He was fifteen years older than Penn, and
Penn was a lot older than Pookie; it was absurd to be jealous. They did
make a handsome couple. At least they had the one time they'd driven
by in an old Porsche with the top down--Penn talking, his head turned
to Pookie. He was still youthful. If anyone could manage a relationship
with a big age difference it would be Penn. No doubt he worked in a
hospital or a clinic surrounded by women. I forgive myself for giving

her a B, Arthur thought. It should have been a C, but he had been
unnecessarily cold with her in class. Let it go.
He emerged from his thoughts too late. "Chop wood, carry water,"
Martin said and launched into an explanation of the latest fund drive.
"Of course," Arthur said. "After the I.R.S., my gambling debts, the
Sierra Club, and Psi Upsilon, you shall have everything."
"Thank you, Arthur. We know we can count on you. You have been a
great help to the zendo."
"Chop wood, carry water," Arthur said, trying to remember where he'd
parked the Land Rover. He walked away trustingly and turned at the
corner. There it was, by the bodega near the end of the block. He
lowered the car windows and sat listening to mariachi music pouring
from the store.
The beat was attractive, maddening. It made him want to be a part of
things, to dance in the town square. He worked hard. But. He never had
any--fun. The word caught in his throat, emerged, and hung before him
like the coast of Antarctica. He gripped the steering wheel. Mother had
been on him about that earlier. _You ought to go out and have a good
time, Arthur. Never mind those science trips._ Mother specialized in
good times. Her round of social events would drive him crazy. He was
content to see her alone at their weekly breakfast. Quite content. In fact,
meditation was helpful after breakfast with Mother. He remembered to
exhale, and he loosened his grip on the wheel.
Trumpets blared above guitars. It was a sunny day, a good day to be
outside. He started the car and drove away. When he reached the
intersection where he normally turned toward home, he steered right
and then impulsively left, veering back into the traffic going straight
ahead. Someone leaned on his horn and passed him, too close. The
driver turned his head. Arthur could see his mouth moving but couldn't
hear the words. Fucking something something something. It hadn't
been that dangerous. Amazing how people need to get angry, be
righteous.
"Get a life," Arthur said. The man cut in front of him. A bumper sticker
declared: "My Kid Beat Up Your Honor Student." I could knock him
right off the road, Arthur thought. His mood brightened, and he floored
the gas pedal. "Don't mess with honor students," he said, roaring past.
He reached for the radio and found a Spanish music station.

Gambling debts--what a laugh. He had been to two conventions in
Vegas and never gambled once. Give your money to a casino? Stupid.
The flow of traffic carried him to the edge of the city. He kept going
and then turned toward the mountains. The higher he drove, the better
he felt. He had lived entirely in California except for business trips and
visits to his father in Hawaii. His life spread out behind him, below him,
as he climbed toward Nevada. He stopped for gas, looked at the stands
of Douglas fir, and decided to spend the night in Tahoe.
He was pleased when he coasted into town. The lake was clear blue.
The streets were impersonal and commercial; he had credit cards; he
knew the rules. He signed for a room and strolled down the main street,
his small notebook and pen secure in his jacket pocket. The air was
sharper. Winter was coming, very different up here. He looked around
for a place to eat.
"Got any spare change?" The meaning of the words and the sound of
the voice were like light blows to opposite sides of his head. He turned,
disoriented. "Hey, Art," Penn said.
"Is that you, Penn?" Arthur struggled to reconcile the young man in his
mind with the man in front of him. Penn's hair was thinning. He needed
a shave.
"Indeed so. You are looking a bit crazed, Arthur. You need a