Skip to main content. You are here Home. Thursday, July 11, - pm. This event is free and open to the public. Nate never imagined that he would be attacked by his best friend. Deposing Nathan Hardcover. By Zack Smedley. And like what they see. Two women make repeated attempts to get eye contact with him. Like the hero in some old-fashioned book for girls, or an ancient Greek drama.
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He glances briefly back at them. Nothing more. All he wants to do right now is dance. Surrender his body to the rhythmic looping music and free his soul from all thought and feeling. He takes a swig from the bottle of beer clutched in his hand, looks around.
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Suddenly his face cracks into a broad smile and his eyes light up. He takes a few steps forward and stumbles over a cable, but regains his balance and heads toward the dark-haired woman. For a few brief seconds she seems to be wondering what to say to him, then she gets pushed aside by a thickset man in a black vest forcing his way past her from behind.
The two men raise their right arms in the air and their palms meet in a powerful slap. He nods in response and they push their way off the dance floor. I was starting to think you were never going to show up. Three thirty-five. Abdula empties a small transparent bag and chops the contents up with a Visa card from Nordea Bank. He knows that his friend actually spells his name differently, but the Tax Office managed to get both names wrong when the Kahn family arrived in Sweden in Years later Abdula tried to get them to correct their mistake, which they were prepared to do—for several thousand kronor.
Abdula chose to carry on having his name misspelled. Dig in! Zack looks at his friend in surprise. Theirs are too long and thin. Pink ones, at that?!
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What happened to the chrome tube you had in that gorgeous little case? He lowers his nose to it and inhales sharply as he moves the straw along the line. They sit on the cramped cubicle floor next to the toilet for a while, just looking at each other as they wait for the cocaine to kick in. Thoughts become focused again. Vision gets clearer. The world has sharply chiseled edges. He knows plenty of people, but only has one real friend.
Years of madness, hardship, and constant struggle. And love, brotherly love. He feels his chest lurch at the thought. He nods gently back at him. The boundary between agony and ecstasy is slowly dissolving. The monotonous beat is driving Zack crazy. Crazy in a good way. His chest is dripping with sweat and his blond hair is getting curlier in the humid air. Two girls are dancing right next to them. The blonde and the brunette. Shoulder bumping against shoulder. Thigh against thigh. The music is pumping. Another visit to the toilet.
Four people squeezed into the cubicle. The Visa card like a woodpecker on the toilet lid. The girls giggle. Take the first lines. Their low-cut tops hide virtually nothing as they bend over. They toss their heads back, their hair flying, and instinctively put their hands to their nostrils. Straighten up. Bodies pressed tightly in the cramped space.
Lips meeting. The Mekong whiskey has had the usual effect.
The atmosphere is considerably lighter now. It was in October. Four tea lights are floating in a dish of water on the table, spreading a shimmering glow over the terracotta-colored wallpaper. The room smells vaguely of coriander, chili, rice, and dried fish after the evening meal.
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The rice whiskey on the table is starting to run out, as is the two-quart bottle of Coca-Cola. The last bag of chips is empty. The women are tired, their bodies ache. They talk almost exclusively about life back home, about the ongoing floods that have struck so many villages in their old home district, about the children living with grandparents. But it hurts, talking about their children and families.
They never feel farther from home than when they do that. Forty-three-year-old Daw Mya leans forward and refills her glass.
A bit of Mekong at the bottom, then plenty of Coke. She turns to Mi Mi. She remembers the evening by the river. Warm as the night around them. His lips and tongue even warmer, as moist as the rain on the first days of the monsoon. A lone man is marching with firm strides along the path below. He looks up briefly toward the window before taking a shortcut through the playground toward the door. A broken swing is spinning slowly on its one remaining chain. On the rotting wooden frame of the sandbox there are fragments of green glass from a broken bottle.
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The apartment block is large and unwelcoming, like a concrete bunker. One of a row of identical buildings. Satellite dishes everywhere. The elevator is out of order, but he would have taken the stairs even if it had been working. I know what it's like to come across a book that brings back childhood memories. Post a Comment. As a matter of fact, I love everything about it. The idealized version of masculinity. The amazingly detailed how-to on all things outdoors.
The retro illustrations and world views that scream 50s. Really, it couldn't be more awesome. I am counting the minutes until my son stumbles across it on his shelf and gets it. Will he learn how to build a campfire using only two sticks? Will be sew his own tent?