Chapter 6 Chapter 5

Larry Underwood pulled around the corner and found a spot between the fire hydrant and the trash can to park his Mitsubishi.Who knows who threw the trash can in the gutter, emitting a stench.Larry seemed to see a dead cat, already stiff, with a mouse gnawing and biting on its white belly.The car lights flickered, and the mouse suddenly disappeared. The movement was so fast that people felt that it was just an illusion.The cat was still submerged quietly in a puddle of smelly water, motionless.Since the cat is real, the mouse is not an illusion either.Larry thought as he turned off the engine.Someone seems to have said that the mouse in Paris is the best in the world, right?It's all those old sewer pipes that have become their comfort zone.But New York is no less.What's the matter, parked in front of this dilapidated brownstone building, why do you keep thinking about those rats?

Five days earlier, on June 14, he had been in sunny Southern California, a land of drug addicts, religious freaks, the only swing club in the world, and Disneyland.At 4:15 in the morning, he crossed the continent and came to the east coast of the United States. After paying the toll, he passed the Triborough Bridge.The gray drizzle kept falling all the way.Only in New York can an early summer drizzle be so dreary.The eastern sky had turned white, and Larry could now see the raindrops accumulating on the car's windshield, blurring his vision. Dear New York: I'm back. Maybe the Yankees were still sleeping soundly in the city, and that might have been worth the trip.Take the subway to the stadium, grab a beer, eat a few hot dogs, and watch those Yankees leave Cleveland and Boston to go about their day's business…

He thought wildly for a while, regained his composure, and found that the sky was much brighter.The clock hands on the dashboard read 6:5.He has been dozing off.The mouse was real, he saw it.The mice are back.It had already opened a large hole in the stomach of the dead cat.Larry felt a little sick.He wanted to honk the horn to scare the rats away, but he was discouraged by the sleeping building in front of him and the empty trash cans in front of the building. He ducked down so that he could not see the rat eating his breakfast.Dude, please, take another bite and go back to your sewer.Is it moving to Yankee Stadium tonight?Maybe I'll see you, old friend.But I'm afraid you can't see me.

The walls in front of the building were painted beyond recognition.When my father was alive, when he was a child, the surrounding environment was quite good.Two stone dogs guard the steps, which leads to a double door.Some crooks had smashed the stone dog on the right from the front paws up a year before he hurried off to the coast.Both dogs are now gone, except for the one on the left with a hind paw.Perhaps a decoration in a makeshift shelter for some Puerto Rican drug addict.Or the rats had dragged it to some abandoned underground passage one dark night.Maybe they took his mother too.He thought he should at least climb the steps to see if her name was still written on the letter box in apartment 15, but he was too tired.

No, he just wants to sit here and doze off, trusting that the red wine left in his stomach will wake him up around 7:00.Then he went to see if his mother still lived here.It might be best if she moved.Maybe then he wouldn't have to worry about the Yankees.Maybe he could just check into the Biltmore Hotel, sleep for three days, and drive west to the Gold Coast.The sky is getting brighter, and it is drizzling.Larry only felt a headache and numbness in his legs.New York is like a dead whore, repulsive and charming. His mind wandered off again, ruminating over the events of the last 9 weeks, trying to find a key, to solve every mystery, to figure out why he had been hitting walls for 6 years, whether it was playing in nightclubs, Recording demo records, or giving concerts, it's a small matter, and within 9 weeks, he became famous in one fell swoop.Trying to get things out of your head is like trying to swallow a doorknob.He thought, there must be an answer that would allow him to get rid of ominous thoughts, not to believe that everything was just a whim, and in Dylan's words, it was just a matter of fate.

He was already drowsy, arms folded on his chest, thinking over and over again, mixing everything together, as if it was some kind of premonition: the mouse, eating the dead cat's carcass, chewing , looking for something tastier and more palatable there.My good old man, that's the rule of the jungle, if you're in the jungle you must hang yourself... Eighteen months ago, it all really started.He was playing with Ragged Survivor at a nightclub in Berkeley when a Colombian called him.He is not a big man, and he has to struggle on his own.Neil Diamond wanted to record a song of his called "Baby, Are You Satisfied With Your Man?" "

Diamond is working on a record book, a collection of his own compositions, and an old Holly Duo hit — "Peggy Sue Got Married," and possibly this Larry Underwood tune.The question was, would Larry be willing to come to the concert after a demo single?Diamond wanted to add another bass guitar, and he really liked the piece. Larry said yes. The concert lasted 3 days and the effect was good.Larry met Neil Diamond, Robbie Robertson, and Richard Perry.His name was also printed on the inside of the record sleeve, and he was paid to sing along.But the song "Baby, are you satisfied with your man?" was not made into a record.Because on the second night of the concert, Diamond brought a new song of his and used it instead for the record.

You see, said the Colombian man, this is too bad.Tell you - why you don't make that piece anymore.I'll see what else I can do.Larry thus made that record and found himself back on the streets.In Los Angeles, times are tough.Although there are a few concerts, not many. He ended up getting a job playing guitar at an upscale nightclub, crooning sad songs like "Gently I Leave You" and "Moon River" to which some old guy Talk about business while eating spaghetti.He jotted down the words on the paper, because otherwise he would get them mixed up, or forget them all, when he sang "Mummum, ta-ta-mummum" chords, genteel as if Tony Bennett was improvising, and feeling like a fool.In elevators and supermarkets, he would suddenly think of the recorded music that was constantly playing in the bar.

Nine weeks ago, the Colombian called him out of the blue.They wanted to make a single out of his demos and asked him if he would agree and do the other side of the record?Larry said no problem.He can do it.So, on a Sunday afternoon, he dove headlong into the Columbian's recording studio in Los Angeles, and in about an hour he double-grooved "Baby, Are You Satisfied With Your Man?" in his own voice? , and on the other side of the record, a song he wrote for Rag Survivor, "Little Savior."The Columbian gave him a check for $500 and signed him to a grossly unequal contract with the record company.He shook Larry's hand, told him how great it was to have him on board, gave him a sympathetic smile when Larry asked him how he would market the single, and walked away.It was too late to cash the check, so Larry had to go to Gino's show with the check in his pocket.

Seven weeks ago, the Colombian called him again and asked him to pick up a copy of the leaderboard.Larry became famous. "Baby, are you satisfied with your man?" " became one of the three most popular hits of the week.Larry called the Colombian back, and the Colombian asked if Larry would like to have lunch with some real big names to discuss his album.They all loved the single so much it was already playing on stations in Detroit, Philadelphia, and Portland, Maine.The song looked like it was going to be a hit, winning the vocal battles on Detroit Soul Radio for four nights in a row.Nobody knew that Larry Underwood was actually white.

He was so drunk at that lunch that he didn't know what salmon tasted like.No one seemed to notice that he was already in high spirits.A celebrity also said that he saw "Baby, are you satisfied with your man?" won't be surprised to win next year's Grammy Award.Those words sounded pleasing to Larry's ears.After returning to the apartment, he had a strange feeling that a truck would rush towards him, which made him break out in a cold sweat, and then he found out that it was Huang Liang Yimeng.The Colombian signed him another check for $2,500.When he got home, Larry picked up the phone and started calling.Call Gino first.Larry asked him to also ask Gao Ming to sing "Yellow Bird" for him while customers were eating disgusting under-cooked spaghetti.He then called everyone he could think of, including Survivor's Barry Grigg.After finishing the call, he stumbled out onto the street. Five weeks ago, that single broke into the "Hot 100" chart.Ranked 89th.At that time, Los Angeles was already full of spring. In the afternoon of May, the weather was clear and sunny. The white buildings contrasted sharply with the blue sea, which seemed a bit dazzling.That day, he heard his ranking on the radio for the first time.At the time, three or four friends were at his home, including his current girlfriend, all peacefully enjoying cocaine.Larry was coming out of the kitchenette and into the living room, a bag of chocolate pralines in his hand, while a familiar ad for a program was playing—New Songs Big... Playing.Then, when his own voice came over the speakers, he froze for a moment. "God, it's me," he said.He dropped the chocolate praline to the floor and stood dumbfounded as his friends applauded. Four weeks ago, his single jumped to No. 73 on the charts.He began to feel as if he had been suddenly thrust into an old-fashioned silent film, where everything was terribly fast.The phone kept ringing.The Columbians are clamoring for the record, hoping to cash in on the success of the single. Always repeating the same old tune.Words that promised this would be the best record in five years poured into his numb ears.Brokers call endlessly.They all sounded hungry.He started taking stimulants and felt as if he could hear his own songs anytime, anywhere.He heard his song on "Soul Train" one Saturday morning, and spent the day convincing himself that yes, it was all true. He suddenly felt inseparable from Julie, the girl he'd been dating since he played jazz at Gino.She introduced him to all kinds of people, some of whom he really didn't want to meet.Her voice started to remind him of those would-be agents he'd heard on the phone.After a long, dull, and acerbic quarrel, he broke up with her.She yelled at him that his head would be too big to fit through the studio door, and that he owed her $500 for drugs.She threatened to kill herself.Afterwards, Larry felt as if he had been through a long pillow fight, and all the pillows seemed to be filled with shoddy gas. 3 weeks before they started recording the album, Larry rejected many "for your own sake" suggestions.He took advantage of the leeway his contract gave him.He tracked down the three members of Ragged Survivor — Barry Grigg, Al Spellman and Johnny McCall — and two other musicians he’d worked with in the past, Neil Goodman and Wayne Stuckey.They made the album in nine days, which was apparently all the production time they could get.Colombians, they thought, seemed to need an album that represented 20 weeks of experience, with "Baby, Are You Satisfied With Your Man?" , and ends with another song.Larry's ambitions don't stop there. The album cover featured a photo of Larry lying in an old-fashioned tub covered in foam.The words "Little Savior" and "Larry Underwood" were written on it.Colombians want to call this record Baby, Are You Satisfied With Your Man? , but Larry was adamantly opposed, and they finally agreed to stick a "Top Single Inside" label on the plastic wrap. Two weeks ago, that single reached No. 47, and the reception began.He rented a beach house in Malibu for a month, and things have gotten a little muddy since then.People are coming and going, and more and more.He knew some people, but most of the rest were faces.He thought of more agents puffing him up, wanting to "further develop his successful career," and he thought of a girl, fresh off drugs, hallucinating, laughing and running all the way on bone-white sand, naked.He remembered snorting cocaine and pumping it in with agave.He remembered being shaken awake Sunday morning, must have been a week ago, to hear Kasi Kassim report that he had entered the Top 40 for the first time at No. 36.He remembered drinking a lot of red wine and haggling in a daze for a Mitsubishi that he finally bought with a $4,000 royalty check in the mail. By June 13, six days earlier, Wayne Stuckey asked Larry to accompany him for a walk on the beach.Even though it was only 9am, the stereo and the two TVs were on, and it sounded like a carnival going on in the basement entertainment hall.Larry had been sitting in an ottoman in the living room, wearing only his drawers, sternly reading the Superteen comic strip.Concentrating on it, but the vocabulary in the book did not form any concept in his mind.Wegener's program blared from the quad speakers so loudly that Wayne and Larry always had to shout three or four times before he could hear them clearly.Larry nodded.He felt he could go out and walk a few miles. But when the sun pierced his pupils like needles, he suddenly changed his mind.Not going for a walk.His eyes seemed to become magnifying glasses, and soon the sun would shoot through them, setting his brain on fire over time.His poor rusty brain felt like flammable material. Wayne gripped his arm tightly, must go.They walked down to the beach, and Larry finally decided it was a good idea to go for a walk anyway, stepping on the warm fine sand.The muffled sound of the ebbing tide had gradually subsided.A seagull fluttered high, hovering in the blue sky like a sketched white letter M. Wayne tugged on his arm tightly. "hurry up." The two walked several miles at a stretch until Larry was exhausted.He had such a terrible headache that his spine felt like it was made of glass.Eyeballs twitched, and there was a dull pain in the waist. "Wayne, I want to go back." "Let's hang out a little longer." He thought Wayne was looking at him strangely with a mixture of exasperation and pity. "No, man, I just want to put my pants on. Or I'll get busted for being too revealing." "On the beach here, you can't get arrested for overexposure with a bandanna around your waist and your balls dangling out. Come on, man." "I'm tired," Larry said grumblingly.He was starting to get really annoyed with Wayne.It was Wayne's way of getting back at him for Larry's rise to fame, and Wayne only had a place on the new album with the keyboard accompaniment.He is no different from Julie.Everyone hates him now.Everyone got their knives out.His eyes were quickly blurred with tears. "Come on, man," Wayne said again, and they quickly made their way back to the beach. They might have gone another mile when suddenly Larry's hamstrings cramped.He yelled and fell onto the sand.It felt like a pair of daggers suddenly plunged into his flesh. "I've got a cramp!" he cried. "Oh, man, I've got a cramp!" Wayne crouched beside him, straightening his legs, pain hitting him again.Then Wayne began to treat him, tapping and massaging the tense and raised areas.Finally, the oxygen-starved tissue begins to relax. Larry had been holding his breath and was starting to get a little out of breath. "Ah, man," he said, "thanks, it hurts so...so much." "Yeah," Wayne said, "Larry, I think it's going to be. Now what?" "Okay. Hey, let's sit like this for a while and then go back." "I wanted to talk to you. I had to bring you here so I could speak up." "Wayne, what are you trying to say?" he thought, finally getting down to business. "Larry, it's time for the reception to end." "what?" "Reception. When you go back, unplug everything, give everyone their car keys, thank them for their time, and watch them go. Get rid of them all." "I can't do that!" Larry said, shocked. "You'd better be like this," Wayne said. "But why? Man, this reception is just getting started!" "Larry, how much did the Colombian pay you in advance?" "Why do you want to know this?" Larry asked slyly. "You think I'm going to kiss your ass, Larry? Think." Larry thought about it, he was getting more and more confused, and he realized that there was no reason for Wayne Stucky to ask him for money.He hasn't really done that yet, he fights for the job like most of the people who helped Larry make the album, but he's not like most of them, Wayne comes from a rich family and gets along with the people around him well done.Wayne's father owned the third largest video game company in the country, and the Stookies had a decent palatial house in Bel-Air, and Larry realized that his current sudden wealth might look like a possibility to Wayne. Like little bananas. "I don't think so," he said hoarsely. "How much is that?" Larry thought about it carefully. "To be honest, there are 7000 in total." "They pay you quarterly for singles and semiannually for albums?" "yes." Wayne nodded. "They keep holding it until you yell, you bastards. Smoke?" Larry took one and lit it. "Do you know how much this reception will cost you?" "Of course I do," Larry said. "You can rent this villa for no less than 1,000 yuan." "Yes, that's right." It's currently $1,200, plus a $500 damage deposit.He has paid a deposit and half a month's rent, totaling 1,100 yuan, and still owes 600 yuan. "How much is the doping?" Wayne asked. "Oh man, there must be something wrong with you. It's like the cheese in a Ritz cracker..." "There's money for cocaine. Tell me, how much?" "Damn it," Larry said angrily. "Five hundred plus five hundred." "It'll be gone the next day." "It's hell!" said Larry in amazement. "Man, I saw two pots when we came out this morning. Most of them were gone, but..." "Dude, you don't remember that sailor?" Wayne suddenly imitated Larry's sloppy voice perfectly. "Dewey, charge it to my account. Fill the pot." Larry looked at Wayne with growing horror.He did remember this guy, small guy with stiff hair and a different hairstyle, the kind that we would have called a blow-cut 10 or 15 years ago, a guy with a blow-cut, A small man in a T-shirt with "Jesus is coming, He's going to throw a tantrum" on the front.This guy seems to be a born junkie.He even remembered telling the guy, Sailor Dewey, that it was his fault to fill up his hospitality pot.But that was...well, it was a few days ago. Wayne said, "This is the best thing that happened to Sailor Dewey in a long time, man." "How much does he owe me?" "Money is nothing. It's depreciated. $1,200. The cocaine cost eight bills." After a while, Larry felt like throwing up.He stared at Wayne without saying a word.He wanted to say it, but he only opened his mouth: 9200 yuan? "Inflation, man," Wayne said. "You want the rest?" "There is a color TV upstairs. Someone smashed it with a chair. I thought it would cost 300 yuan to fix it. The wood paneling downstairs is broken. 400 yuan. Good luck. French windows facing the sea the other day Shattered. $300. Wool carpet in the living room all ruined - burnt cigarette butts, beer, whiskey. $400. I called the hotel and they were happy with their bill, like sailors. $600. "600 yuan for drinks?" Larry whispered.Melancholy and fear enveloped him from head to toe. "Also thankful that most of them guzzle just beer and wine. You have a $400 bill at the supermarket, mostly pizza, chips, tacos, worthless stuff. But the worst Rumors are going around. Soon enough, the cops are coming. To break the peace here. You've got four or five outlaws dealing heroin. There's three or four ounces of 'Mexican Brown' in this place." "That's on my account too?" Larry asked hoarsely. "No. The sailor wasn't involved with heroin. It was an organization's account, and the sailor didn't like the idea of ​​cement cowboy boots (he'd slip off with oil on his feet). But once the cops come, you're sure to see It will be charged to your account when you are arrested." "But I don't know..." "Just a naive, gullible guy, huh?" "But……" "You've got over $12,000 on the bill for this little event that's been going so far," Wayne said. "You went out and bought that car...how much did you put on the bill?" "25." Larry said the number, with a tear in his voice. "How much money do you have before paying your royalties next time? 2,000 yuan?" "Almost," said Larry, who couldn't tell Wayne he didn't have that much left: only about $800, half cash, half check. "Listen to me, Larry, because you don't deserve to say it twice. There's always a party to be had. Not just here, the only two things in the world that stay the same are cow shit and parties. These guys Come running like a bird on a hippopotamus. Here they are now. Pick them off your carrion and send them on their way." It occurred to Larry that there were dozens of other people in the villa.He knew that maybe only one person was there at this time.The thought of telling people to leave made his throat tighten.He might lose their good opinion of him.Another opposing vision resurfaced: Sailor Dewey filling the hospitality pot again, pulling a notebook from his back pocket, and writing them all down at the bottom of the bill. Wayne watched calmly as he chose between the two images. "Man, I'm going to look like a big fool," Larry finally said, hating the weak, rude words coming out of his mouth. "Yes, they'll say a lot about you. They'll say you're going to Hollywood. Going to be a big star. Forget about old friends. Actually, Larry, none of them are your real friends. Your Friend sees what happened 3 days ago and walks away. Seeing a friend pee their pants and not even knowing it's not that funny." "Then why are you telling me this?" Larry asked suddenly angrily.When he realized that his real friends had left him, and remembered how far-fetched all of their excuses had been, a nameless fire came to him.Barry Grigg had pulled him aside to talk to him, but Larry was really going to be giddy by then, and he just nodded and smiled indulgently at Barry.Now, he wondered if Barry had been wanting to call him that, too.The more he thought about it, the more embarrassed he became, and the more he thought about it, the more angry he became. "Why are you telling me this?" he asked again. "I don't think you fucking like me that much either." "Yeah . . . I don't really like you either. Other than that, man, I can't tell. I'll let you get a kick out of it. Once is enough for you." "What do you mean?" "You'll tell them. Because you have a tough streak about you. It takes a lot to succeed, but you succeed. You're going to have a great career. Nobody's going to remember lingering pop in 5 years. Only High school mob players will collect your records. You'll be rich." Larry clenched his hands into fists.He wanted to smash the peaceful face in front of him.What Wayne was saying made him feel like a little pile of shit next to a stop sign. "Go back and cancel the reception," Wayne said softly, "and drive away. Just go, buddy. Hang around until the next royalty check is waiting for you." "But Dewey..." "I'll get someone to tell Dewey. I'd be honored to do it, man. He'll tell Dewey to wait for his money, like a good boy, and Dewey will gladly say yes." He paused, following the with two little children in bright swimsuits running on the beach.A dog accompanies him, barking loudly and cheerfully towards the blue sky. Larry stood up and reluctantly thanked him.The sea breeze blew in and out of his old underwear.The words coming out of his mouth were like bricks one by one. "You're going to move elsewhere and think about it," Wayne said, standing beside him, still looking at the two boys. "You have a lot of things to think about. What kind of manager do you want, what kind of tour, what kind of contract do you want when Little Redeemer hits the ground running. I think that's it. If you give yourself a little space, you Will figure them all out. Someone like you will always have the brain." People like you will always have this brain. People like you will always have this brain. people like you…… Someone is knocking on the car window. Larry moved reflexively, then sat up.There was a sudden pain in his neck, and he flinched, the muscles there felt stiff.He fell asleep, not just taking a nap.Seems to be back in California.But here and now it's gray New York day, and the fingers are tapping again. Painfully, carefully, he turned his head and saw his mother, with a mesh scarf over her head, looking into the car. They looked at each other through the car window, and Larry somehow felt naked, watched like an animal in a zoo.Then he laughed and rolled down the window. "Mother?" "I know it's you," she said in an unusually calm tone, "come out and let me see you standing up." Both legs fell asleep, too; when he opened the car door to get out, the numbness in his limbs stretched down to his big toe.He never wanted to see her this way, unprepared and exposed.He felt like a sentry who fell asleep while on guard and was suddenly called to attention.Somehow he wanted his mother to look smaller and less confident, that after all these years he had matured like magic while she remained the same. But the way she found him was almost uncanny.When he was 10, she would wake him up on Sunday mornings, thinking he had slept in too long, and she would knock on the closed bedroom door with a finger. 14 years later she still wakes him up this way, he sleeps like a tired kid in his new car, trying to stay up all night, only to be lethargic by sleepbugs and sleepy in a bad way grace. Now, he was standing in front of her with disheveled hair and a weary grin.Both of his legs still felt numb and he had to switch from one foot to the other.He remembered that she had told him that if he was like this he had to go to the bathroom, and now, he didn't move, letting the numbness prick him. "Hi, Mom," he said. She looked at him without saying a word, and a sense of awe returned to him, like a bird returning to its nest.Worrying that she would turn away from him, refuse to accept him, give him a back view, or go to the subway exit around the corner and leave him. She took a deep breath, the way a person would before lifting a heavy object.Her voice was so natural, soft - so fitting - that he was so pleased that he almost forgot his first impression. "Hi, Larry," she said, "come upstairs. I knew it was you when I looked out the window. I've called in sick." She turned around and led him up the steps between the two stone dogs.He followed her up the three steps and caught up with her, still walking awkwardly because of the numbness of his legs and feet. "Mother?" She turned her head and he hugged her tightly.A look of horror flashed across her face, as if she would rather be robbed than hugged.Then, the panic on her face disappeared, and she accepted his embrace and hugged him tightly.The smell of her powder crept into his nostrils, inadvertently evoking nostalgia, so strong, sweet and so bitter.After a while he thought he was on the point of crying, and smugly thought she might be too; the moment was very touching.Through her sloping shoulder he could see the dead cat, half inside, half out, lying in the litter box.Her eyes were dry when they parted. "Come on, I'll make you some breakfast. Have you been driving all night?" "Yes," he said, his voice slightly hoarse with emotion. "Well, come on. The elevator stops, but it's only two floors. It's even worse for Arthritic Mrs. Halsey. She lives on the fifth floor. Don't forget to wipe your feet. If you bring mud Come in, Mr. Freeman will tell me. I swear he can smell it. Dirt is his enemy, isn't it?" They all live upstairs now. "Can you have 3 eggs? I'm going to make toast too, if you don't mind the semolina. Come on." He followed her past the old stone dogs, looking a little bleakly at where they had once stood, just to make sure they were really gone.She opened the door, and the two walked in.Even the dark brown curtains and the smell of rice haven't changed. Alice Underwood made him three eggs, bacon, toast, juice, and coffee.He ate all but coffee, lit a cigarette, and stepped back from the table.She flashed accusations at the cigarettes, but said nothing.It restored him a little confidence—a little, not a lot.She has a knack for patiently biding her time. She put the pot in the dishwater and it hissed a little.She hasn't changed much, Larry was thinking now.Getting a bit older - she might be 51 by now - and the hair is graying a bit, but it's still full of black hair. He started flicking ashes into the coffee saucer; she snapped the saucer away and replaced it with an ashtray, which she had been keeping in the cupboard.The saucer, already soiled with coffee, seemed perfect for flicking ash into it.The ashtray was clean, without any blemishes, and he couldn't bear to flick the ash in it. "You're back at last," Alice said, "what are you doing?" Well, Mom, this friend of mine was telling me to get my head around life—that horde of fools always followed me.I don't know if the word friend is right for him.He respects me musically as much as I respect Fruit Gum Company in 1990.But he put me on sneakers. Didn't Robert Frost say that home is the kind of place where your feet have to take you when you get there? "I miss you so much, Mom," he said aloud. She snorted. "Is that why you write to me so often?" "I don't like writing letters very much." He took a drag on the cigarette slowly, exhaled five smoke rings, and slowly drifted away. "Can you say that again." "I don't like writing letters very much," he said with a smile. "Still playing tricks on your mother. That hasn't changed." "I'm sorry," he said, "How are you, Mom?" She put the pot away, unplugged the sink, and wiped the suds off her red hands. "It's all right," she said, and went back to the table and sat down. "My back still hurts, I took medicine. It's barely passable." "Have you not been ill since I left?" "Once. But had it seen by Dr. Holmes." "Mom, those massage treatments are... all lies." He fell silent. "What are they?" Facing her smile, he shrugged unnaturally. "If you're rich, you're white, you're only 21, and he helps you, that's fine." Sighing, she took a wintergreen oil life-saving pill from her coat pocket. "I'm much more than 21. And I feel it too. Want a pill?" He shook his head at the life-saving pill she was holding.She ate it herself. "You're still young," he complimented playfully, as ever.She'd always liked it, but now, hearing that, there was just a smile on her lips. "Do you have a new man in your life?" "A few," she said, "how about you?" “没有，”他郑重地说，“没有新的男人，只有一些姑娘，不是新男人。” 他希望她大笑，但这次她还是只露出了一丝微笑。“我让她烦恼了。”他想。那是什么原因呢。她不知道我来这儿想要干什么。她毕竟为了让我露面等了3年。 “拉里还是那个老样子，”她说，“从来没正经过。你没有定婚吧？是不是一直在和人约会？” “我和好几个女孩约会，妈妈。” “你总是这样。至少你从没回家告诉我你让一个漂亮的天主教女孩怀孕了。你以前要么不是小心谨慎，非常幸运，要么就是非常有礼。” 他努力板着脸。这是他生命中的第一次，她直接或转弯抹角地对他谈起异性。 “不管怎样，你要听着，”艾莉丝说，“他们说单身汉总有乐子。不是那回事。你已经长大了，能瞎折腾了，弗里曼先生就是这样。他要了那间挨着人行道的屋子，总是站在窗户那儿，希望刮来一阵大风。” 拉里哼了一声。 “我从收音机里听到了你的歌。我告诉别人，那是我儿子。那是拉里。大多数人都不相信。” “你听到了？”他奇怪为什么她一开始不说，而是先说了些不足挂齿的小事。 “是的。一直从年轻姑娘听的摇滚乐电台听的。罗克电台。” "How do you like it?" “就像我喜欢听那类音乐一样。”她坚定地看着他，“我认为有一些歌听来很有启发。下流。” 他发现自己的脚总是移来移去的，他强迫自己不动。“可能只是听起来……有些激情。就这些。”他的脸泛着红光。他从未想过坐在妈妈的厨房里讨论激情问题。 “'激情'应该在卧室里。”她简短地说了一句，结束了关于他的成名歌曲的艺术讨论。“还有，你的嗓音变了，听起来像个黑人。” “现在吗？”他打趣地问道。 “不，是在收音机里像。” “她应该走过来。”拉里一边压低了嗓音模仿比尔·威瑟斯的唱法，一边笑着。 “就像这样，”她点点头，“当我还是个姑娘的时候，我觉得弗兰克·西纳特拉标新立异。现在他们有了这种说唱，他们叫说唱。我看是大嚷大叫。”她用妒忌的眼神看着他。“至少你的专辑中没有大嚷大叫。” “我有版税，”他说，“卖出一张专辑就抽一定百分比的税。它分成若干部分……” “噢，接着说，”她说，她的手作了一个轰赶的动作。“我数学考试从来没及格过。是他们付给你钱，还是你贷款买了那辆小车？” “他们给我的不多，”他说，差一点说漏了嘴，还好收住了。“那辆车我付了定金。其余的那部分钱我一直在付。” “宽松的贷款条件，”她悲伤地说，“你父亲就是这样破的产。医生说他死于心脏病，其实不是。他的心已经碎了。你爸爸是因为宽松的贷款条件才加重的病情。” 这是陈年旧话了，拉里只想不受它的影响，在适当的时候点点头。他父亲开了一家男子服饰用品店。一家罗伯特专营店，就在不远的地方开业，一年后，他的生意破产了。他为了寻求安慰就不停地吃，3年中长了110磅。拉里9岁时，他死在街角的一家小餐馆里，当时他面前放着一盘吃半截的肉丸子三明治。在守灵时，她姐姐努力安慰一个看起来绝不需要安慰的女人——艾莉丝·安德伍德——说人死了比活着强。她说，可能是这样。从姐姐的肩膀上，他一下子看到了她的姐夫，他一直在喝酒。 艾莉丝后来独自一人抚养拉里，她一直用格言和自己的看法主宰他的生活，直到他离开家。当他和鲁迪·施瓦茨开着鲁迪的那辆老福特车出发时，她对他说的话是：加利福尼亚也有救济院。亚西尔，那是我妈妈。 “你要留在这儿吗。拉里？”她温柔地问道。 他很惊奇，反问道，“你介意吗？” “有地方住。后面的卧室里有活动床。我一直在后面的屋子里储藏东西，但你可以把一些箱子移开。” “好的，”他慢悠悠地说，“如果你肯定你不介意的话。我只在这儿呆两个星期。我想我还要看望一些老熟人。马克……盖伦……戴维 ……克里斯这些人。 " 她站了起来，走到窗户那儿，把它打开了。 “拉里，你在这儿愿意住多久就住多久。也许我不善于表达自己，但我很高兴看到你。以前我们从未好好地说过再见。都说的是一些刺耳的话。”她的脸对着他，仍旧很严肃，但充满了令人生畏的、不太自然的爱意。“从我这方面来说，我感到后悔了。我只会说那些话，是因为我爱你。我从不知道怎样说恰当，所以我就用别的方式表达。” “那很正常，”他说，低头看着桌子。那种激动的感觉又回来了。他可以感觉到。“听着，我出钱买家具。” “如果你想买可以买。如果你不想，也不要勉强。我有工作。你还是我的儿子。” 他想着那只死猫，一半在里一半在外地躺在垃圾箱里，还想起了水手杜威，笑着将待客用的锅填满，突然他的眼泪流了出来。他用脏手去擦反而更脏了，他想这可能是她的想法，并不是他的——什么都没按照他想的那样发展，什么都没有。她彻底变了。他也是，但不像他怀疑的那样。一种不自然的反差出现了；她变得越来越大，而他不知怎的，越变越小了。他没有回家看她，是因为他要去别的地方。他回了家是因为他害怕，他想要妈妈。 她站在窗前，看着他。白色的窗帘在潮湿的微风里飘来飘去，把她的脸弄暗了，虽然没有全遮住，却显得愈发严肃了。窗外车水马龙的声音传了进来。她从上衣口袋里拿出了一条手绢，走到桌前，放在他正在摸索的手中。拉里性格坚强。她不会因此而责备他的，但结果会怎样呢？他爸爸是个轻信他人的人，她内心非常清楚是什么导致他病情加重；马克思·安德伍德总是借贷多，收回少。所以是在那种情况下形成的坚强性格？拉里要感谢谁？还是要谴责谁？ 他的眼泪不能改变他性格中石头般坚强的一面，就像夏天的一场暴雨并不能改变石头的形状一样。这种坚强的个性有许多好处——她知道这点，以前她在这个城市里独自抚养孩子时她就知道，因为这个城市对当妈妈的并不怎么关照，对孩子则更少——只是拉里还未觉察罢了。他就是她说的那样：拉里还是那个老样子。他还会继续走下去，不动脑子，给别人——也给他自己——添麻烦，当麻烦太多的时候，他还会唤起那种坚强的性格让自己摆脱。那别人呢？他会让他们靠自己的力量解决。岩石是坚硬的，他的性格是坚强的，但他没把它用在正道上。她能在他的眼睛里和他的一举一动中看出他的性格……甚至从他弹香烟弄出那些烟圈的动作中也能看出。他从不让他的这种坚强性格锋芒毕露去伤害别人，但那种性格确实存在，但当他需要时，他仍会像孩子一样唤醒它——它就像一根大头棒，当他掉进自己挖的陷井中的时候再拿它开出一条路来。从前，她曾对自己说拉里会变的。她这样说过，他会的。 但站在她面前的已经不是个孩子了，是个长大了的男人。她恐怕他的改变期——深入彻底的改变性格，她的牧师称之为灵魂的改变，而不是心灵的改变——已结束了。拉里的性格让你感觉像听到粉笔写在黑板上时发出的尖锐刺耳的声音一样。深埋其中，露形于外，非拉里莫属。他的心中只有他一个人。但她还是爱他。 “你累了，”她说，“收拾一下。我把盒子挪开，你就可以睡了。我想我毕竟今天就要忙开了。” 她穿过走廊到后面的卧室去了，他原先的卧室，拉里听到她在一边咕咕哝哝，一边搬箱子。他慢慢地把眼泪擦干。窗外车水马龙的声音传了进来。他试图回忆起他最后一次当着他妈面哭的情景，他想起了那只死猫。She is right.He is tired.他从未感觉这么累过。他上了床，睡了将近18个小时。