(pwa-'tem) ¨ ˘
We’re in his Oldsmobile. He admits to being the sort of omnivorous music dork that emerges as a product of the internet. The speakers thump with stark and angry rap. “Venus of Villenbury!” I shout over the music. “You say something?” I get the feeling he’s taunting me. “Can we talk about it?” We stop in front an ABC. We go inside and he heads straight to the bourbon shelves. He grabs a bottle of Wild Turkey. He agrees for us to talk. I pick up a ten dollar bill that fell out of his back pocket. He and the cashier are friendly, and he heads back to the car. His apartment is a bachelor’s, not dirty but messy, in his own words. There are clothes everywhere, empty soda bottles and socks strewn around, like two feet had a wild night they immediately regretted. He goes to the fridge and pulls out some kind of glass, soda, then sits down with his whiskey. He fixes a drink, a more judicious spill of the Coke than the Turkey. “Let’s talk turkey,” he says. Then he looks down at his glass. “Let’s talk, Turkey.” Then up at me. “Turkey, talk.” “Who are your biggest influences?” I say. My plan is to ease him into actually talking about himself. If I can wait out the bullshit he’s putting up, I’ll get into the more personal stuff. “What kind of question is that? You can do better.” He drinks. “I’ve answered this question to the point that there’s no sense in answering it again. I like Faulkner and Tennessee Williams and David Milch. There. Better question. I know you can do it. Or can you?” He grins. “What’s your favorite drink?” “Buffalo piss.” I look at him. I imagine a Mazda running him over. “Could you talk about whatever you want?” “Yeah. I’m sorry I’m so callous; I just don’t like getting asked the same fuckin’ question over and over. I’m sick of talking about Venus of Fuckin’ Willendorf, women, the whole thing. I just want to be away from everything.” “It’s Villenbury.” “I wrote the cocksucking thing, why are you telling me that?” “Because you said it wrong.” “Okay, what do you want to hear about?” “You.” “Oh, fantastic. I’m twenty-three. I’m Southern. I’m a depressive. I’m not 19
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4/6/12 3:06 PM