Chapter 6 Section 5

Sometimes, Brian Glaske called late.He called one after another late at night, maybe four times in a weekend.What did he say on the phone?Office business of course, something he couldn't easily mention in the tower, possibly the latest national scandal.He goes into great detail, maybe he talks about the DVDs he asked me to rent, about violence and drugs.He felt that doing so would strengthen our friendship. He did it to irritate me too.Brian felt that my life was stable, I had a house and a family, everything was in order, and my attitude towards life was more confident than his.He felt that I was older than him, but my body was better than his. I was free from disease and pain, and had a strong physique.In his words, I am still a very strict-tongued person.It made him uncomfortable, disturbed, and forced him to make some childish attempts to get my attention.

When the phone rang sometime in the evening, Marianne and I would exchange a look: It was Brian's call, and it must be him. "You sure don't know where I am. Get here right away. This place is amazing. You're the only one I want to share this place with. Come on," he said. After a lot of trouble, I finally found the place.I've crossed Interstate 10 a few times and it's an unmapped place, low stucco buildings with satellite dishes on the roofs, tractor and diesel engine parts everywhere, piles of sand, Rocks and security supplies.Later, I saw a few of the shops Brian described, a clean, tidy little shopping center with the usual country pink and green exteriors.Of those factory outlets, three have yet to open.I parked the car near the last store on the left.There was only one open, and it was called Complete Condoms.

In the store, a group of slightly unkempt college students stood between the shelves, talking, browsing the catalog and reading the small print on the box.Some people came in, both men and women, a little older, who had already worked.They wear soft slacks and behave with ease and ease.That manner and style is what people call a taste of life. Brian pushed me into a corner where I could see the whole room.The aisles are spacious, with soft light-coloured carpets and murals painted on the walls.There are five oil paintings on the two wide walls, which show the scene of an ice cream parlor in the 1940s and 1950s: behind the marble counter, a man selling cold drinks is serving two girls in school uniforms and stockings. Make a cold strawberry drink.It was a flat-painted mural, the style of which was inconsistent with the era represented in the picture, and the overall effect was peculiar and completely unexpected.Brian looked at my chin, watching my reaction.I heard the music in the distance, a pop singer singing softly, oldies, ballads with a muffled Italian word or two interspersed here and there.In my opinion, the voice was well controlled, neither hot nor hot, and the ridicule was moderate.

Suddenly Brian whispered something to me as if I hadn't noticed. "condom." What's all the fuss about, condoms, the whole store is full of condoms.The shelves were lined with all kinds of protective gear, for both men and women: spermicide, body lotion, rubber gloves, lubricant.There are also books, brochures, videos, special displays, novelty items for big and small penises, and of course condom logo T-shirts and baseball caps. "The location of the place is strategic, at the front of the New Territories," he said. "I can imagine that from this shop, a satellite town will grow up, and there will be a thousand houses here. That's what I saw, expanding around this condom outlet, like a medieval town with the church at the center."

"People in those days built castles around towns." "Fuck you. Show surprise. They have peach-scented condoms here. Young people come here to make friends and hang out and see what's interesting. I'm waiting to hear Al Heberer Sing "Unrestrained Melody"." "Al Hebler sings great." "Great? Fucking, should be shocking. You thought Ray Charles was blind? Al Heberer, he was blind. Should spark your response." He led me into an aisle.My response is, look at these condoms!Decorative nail type, warm and comfortable type, ribbed type, direct insertion type.We used to say, don't drop in.Meaning, if she wasn't wearing a condom, she might get pregnant.Now, there are condoms called direct insertion, which are electronically tested, ultra-thin, and ultra-sensitive.

"These things are going to replace running shoes," Bryan said. "Young people are going to be buying these sheepskin condoms." There are also loose condoms sold in bowls and jars.Grab it.A woman looks at a display sample: it has a polyurethane sheath with elastic collars at the ends.Brian met her at the bank ATM—Hello, hello, hi, hello.There are finger condoms, full-body condoms, and mint-flavored oral condoms, as well as portable condom cases and condoms that resemble caps that can be worn on the head. Brian said: "My brother used to have condoms in his purse when he was young. He showed it to me once when I was twelve. He hissed open the purse and showed me the shriveled little thing , like a softened penis. I feel like it never went away. I wasn't prepared to see that at all. I could understand sex on an animal level, and what he showed me was Something completely different. Material, plastic-like, with a look and feel, something completely new. He also let me touch it. I don't know anything about the nature and function of that thing. Tremors. The sex itself is unspeakable. Such a piece of technology, they want me to put it on the sparrow. This is mass-produced latex, used to protect battleships in the past."

"You were a sensitive teenager then." "I was scrawny, inarticulate, and barely human. You were tall and strong back then, and you could knock down a kid like me at will." "There's no kid like you," I told him. "You carried condoms with you then?" "In the side pouch of overalls." "By the time I was sixteen, young people back then didn't do that." "Young people these days do that," I said. "I don't think my brother ever used a condom that was in a purse. Then he got a car and he kept it in the car, in the glove box. I don't think that's when he started using it."

A man sang softly, and the gentle lyrics wafted from the speaker he was carrying.He came toward us, hesitantly, pushing an oxygen tank on wheels.A gray-haired guy with tubes coming from an oxygen tank and going up his nostrils.The jars are about the size of a dachshund in a box.He sang, softly in a hoarse voice, with good words and pauses.Soft sentences, a tasteless love song, singing the content related to the farewell letter, using his repressed voice slightly changed to adapt to the state of life itself, wandering in the depths of the human heart. We turned sideways and let him walk by.

In the descriptions of these products and their uses, we see vivid text descriptions.Firming serum, personal lube, condom with reservoir.There are condoms packaged in the shape of Roman coins, and there are condoms in cardboard matchboxes.Brian read the words on the box.We saw condoms of all kinds, made from natural membranes taken from animals, sweetened with bubblegum, glow-in-the-dark, made for foreplay, printed with For Drawing Of Erection.A letter becomes a word, and a word expands into a phrase.We both saw a line parodying Churchill's famous speech and we were going to wear them on the beach.In addition, there are condoms in the shape of lollipops and boxer shorts.The cartoon characters on the trousers are like erect condoms, a little floating, with nipples on the front, and the characters speak semen.

A woman stood at the door with the logo of Pharaoh Ramses tattooed on her earlobe. "My son got one of those things," Brian said, "but it's Pepsi. Should I be thankful?" "Which child?" "Which kid. Does it make any difference which kid?" Brian is very sensitive to the behavior of his family, adopts the attitude of a high-ranking father, and always complains about his children's extravagant spending and lack of consideration.We've all played the part, the rhetoric's equivalent of a second language, Dad's easy-to-manage lament.But Bryan's solo, tinged with contempt, is very emotional, and yet there's something more pathetic hidden deep inside, a feeling that these are his rivals, doing whatever they want in his house, ready to consume. To his self-worth - a stepdaughter, a daughter, a son, all in middle school.The wives, he said, are two bubbles coming out of the center.

"She has more than one pattern printed on her body." "Which kid?" I asked. "Brittany." "I like Brittany. Treat her well." "Treat her well. Listen, she's wearing an armband. You won't believe what a mock apartheid day their school has." "Tell me about it." "It's what the name says, they want to simulate apartheid culture and make the kids understand what it's like. They all wear armbands, gold for the oppressed, red for the military, green for the elite. Brie Tenney volunteered to play the oppressed class, but she won't take off the armband now. The official simulation lasted a day, but she did it for weeks. She is the only one in the whole school who still does it. She restricts herself to the cafeteria. Time, only ten minutes a day, only take the bus at a certain time, and sit in the assigned seat in the classroom." "How did the other kids react?" "Some spit, and some avoid." He gestures to a TV screen with both hands, thumbs parallel and index fingers vertical.He was watching me from behind the screen, squinting, tongue lolling. We made one last turn around the room.In one mural, a boy and a girl sit in a compartment with a sundae, two glasses of ice water, and scoops for the sundae on a table.The scene is not conceived to be glamorous, but it is close to documentary in style.I feel like the whole place is like a small museum where time is compressed and items are laid out to make sense in terms of evolution.A woman sang a ballad about a chapel under the moonlight, which I felt I had heard before.I turned around to see if the man with the oxygen tank was still singing. Brian bought a box of condoms to give to his son, David, a buddy practice, a sign of communication and coordination.We left the store and stood in an empty shopping plaza.He opened the box and tore off the single jacket inside the foil wrapper.He looked at it and let out a crisp laugh.That kind of laughter he used in a certain situation, as if a drowning man expressed dissatisfaction with the offered hand.He looked at the thing and couldn't stop laughing. "Back then, everyone was talking about venereal diseases. The term gonorrhea had a very important connotation. Gonorrhea." "Flower disease." "Each name is worse than the other. In condoms, however, I don't see any factor to avoid trouble, maybe because it reminds me of another name." "Foam Bag." "Even if I'm retarded and IQ is only at the level of a twelve-year-old child, in this thing in my brother's wallet, I found a secret life and discovered this foam bag. How can something called a foam bag make people Is it safe to use?" "We dispose," I told him, "foam bags are what we dispose of." "But, when you think about the contempt that people use that word with. It's an ugly word, full of self-hatred." "Forget the words. The reason you're buying your kid a condom is because he's supposed to use it. I hate sanity. I know it's futile to keep sanity in the face of someone else's obvious skepticism." "Yes." "People have to use something like this." "True," he said, "it's useless." He unwrapped it and shook the condom, the nipple-shaped end swaying in the breeze.Then he crumpled it up with his hands and brought it up to his nose. "What's that smell? It's kind of like a shower curtain you use in the bathroom, it's kind of like car upholstery or lampshade cloth, it's kind of like a big clothes bag, the kind of bag you don't wear," he said. He inhaled hard, trying to inhale the smell, let it linger in his nose long enough to determine what material it was made of.He tilted his head, his cheeks flushed.He felt that the smell was like the bubble wrap on the outside of a new computer. When you open the computer box, you will smell this smell.Or maybe it's the smell of the packing box itself, the computer itself, the plastic bag that's been sitting in the freezer for too long and soaked up Freon.He thought it might smell like a hospital, a laboratory, a chemical factory.He couldn't make an accurate judgment.Or, it could be the smell of the insulation in the walls, the smell of the air conditioner filter cover. “I thought they were odorless. Modern condoms are odorless unless a special scent is added,” I said. "It's new and completely tasteless. I bought him a cheap, old fashioned latex type that slips on and reduces sensation and smells bad. I'm making him pay for his sanity." Marian sat in Jeff's room, watching a movie on the TV.I'm not used to other people being in his room.His room was like a den, strewn with his hides and smelling of him.I feel like she's destroying the habitat of this animal by sitting there. She was wearing ripped jeans and a low-cut, scooped tank top.I think she's one of those women who get prettier with age and look more beautiful with time.Then, when you see her one day, it feels like she's suddenly the object of surprise and chatter in the neighborhood. "When did you start smoking again?" "Don't be verbose," she said. I told her about what I'd seen in a condom store.I stood in the doorway, talking loudly over the sound of the TV.She had a good complexion and an air of overconfidence, and she had a very characteristic look: a prominent face, a straight nose, black hair, and a serious, almost classic American demeanor.The old-school demeanor was almost austere, like a face embossed on an old soap, maybe it was Camry, I couldn't be sure.Silhouette of woman's head with wavy hair.Marianne, however, had straight hair. "Where's Jeff?" "Out. I'm watching a show." I stood in the doorway and told her about the apartheid simulation day. "I'm watching this show," she said. "Want something to drink? I want something to drink." "Let's have some mineral water," she said. I went into the kitchen and got what I needed from the fridge.I put a little ice in a large glass, poured mineral water, and added a slice of lemon.Get a bottle of potato vodka out of the freezer, ice cold.At this time, I remembered what I wanted to tell her.I peel off a crescent of lemon peel with a knife and put it in a wine glass. I want to talk about Brian. For a while, I used to try to drink wine, to understand the taste of wine.Listen to it, wine glass, for wine.Now, I drink vodka from a wine glass, thick, cold, opal colored. I was on the other side of the house and heard the dialogue from the movie. Her skin was the color of Camry soap, and her hair was dark, straight, and often cut short—and easy to manage.Her voice is distinctive, full-bodied, textured, full-voweled, and sensual, especially on the phone or in the dark of a bedroom.The voice was a little hoarse, as if soaked in the charm of brandy, as if it was a desire wandering in the dark night. In the past, she used to sing in the church choir in the town where she lived.She liked to call it Big Ten, and left the place with a certain disdain.I know, she hates it when I tell why. I handed her the mineral water and she talked about Brian.I figured she might be trying to beat me to the brian thing.She felt that she had seen a shadow of it in her daily reading of the stereo signal of marriage. "And there's a scene at the end of a film where you're shooting each other in the gutter. Did he recommend it?" "That's how Brian handles the stress." I was reminded of a social gathering in the past: she was in the corner with a man we only met once, a college poet with long, side-cut hair and a smile showing stained teeth.He tells, she listens.You may say that such a relationship is very innocent, or not innocent, but it is completely acceptable.A party is a party.If two people hug for too long, who will pay attention except the husband?I told her later.That was a long time ago, when the kids were young and Marianne drove without a pencil.When I told her that, it was with a deliberately emphasized sense of dignity in my words.That was my heartfelt statement, but it was also a tongue-in-cheek one — people often do that at social gatherings. I said I was suffering from a rare condition affecting Mediterranean people called self-esteem. I stood at the door, watching TV with her. "Jeff will live with us for the rest of his life, right?" "Maybe." "How did that job at Diet Ranch go, didn't get hired?" "I suppose so." "Didn't he say it?" "I'm watching this show," she said. "Have you packed the papers yet?" "I packed the bottles. Tomorrow is bottle recycling day. Let me watch the show," she said. "Let's watch together." "I don't know the plot. I've been watching it for an hour and fifteen minutes." "I'll get to know it slowly." "You don't want to sit here and listen to me explain." "You don't have to say anything." "This film doesn't deserve an explanation," she said. "I'll take a look and I'll understand the plot." "But you're bothering me," she said. "I don't talk, I just watch." "You're disturbing me by looking here," she said. The remark pleased her, and it smacked of wisdom.She stretched her body, yawned with a smile on her face, her buttocks and legs did not move, and her upper body leaned back.I guessed, and I knew what she meant: that the presence of another person upset the stable balance, the whole effect of the box.She wants to be left alone, watching bad movies, and I'm the one to judge anytime. "You're staring too hard," I told her. "I like it, leave me alone." "Now, I am no longer like this, and you are doing the opposite." "I'm watching the show right now." "You don't have to be so focused." "I would be very disturbed if he tried to kill her." "Maybe, he's going to kill her when he's off camera." "Off camera, that doesn't matter. He can use the chainsaw as long as I don't see it." I watched with her until the glass was drained.I went back to the kitchen and turned off the lights.Later, I walked into the living room and looked at the light ocher sofa.It's a new piece of furniture, something to look at carefully and, over time, to blend into the room.It takes our eyes off the piano.The piano is one of the family heirlooms that Marian brought from Big Ten. The big thing is like a bearskin product, carrying the original breath of life and bringing us a sense of oppression. Before turning off the lights in the living room, I checked the bookcase first, and stood there looking at the light ocher sofa, the Rajasthani-inspired walls, and the books in the bookcase.Later, I turned off the light, checked the other lights, and made sure that the light in the back hall was still on, so it would be easier for my mother to get up at night. I stood at the door of my mother's room again.Mary watched TV in safety and concentration.She lit another cigarette and I went into my bedroom. I stood there, looking at the books in the bookcase.Afterwards, I undressed and went to bed.After about fifteen minutes, she walked in.I waited for her to undress. "What did I find?" "What do you mean?" she asked. "Between you and Brian." "What do you mean?" she asked. "What did I find? That's what I mean." "He made me laugh," she finally said. "He also made his wife laugh, but I found nothing between them." She thought for a moment, not knowing how to respond.Perhaps, this is a joke, not what I want to express.She glanced at me and walked out of the room.I heard the sound of the shower coming from the other end of the hall, and that's when I realized I'd screwed up.I should have brought this up at the door while she was watching TV.In that case, I should be the one who walked out of the room.