O l i v e r B e n j a m i n
“Certainly. They are yours, sir. Enjoy them in good health. Would
you like me to cut them up for you?”
The trucker looked at Harvey, perplexed.
Vic placed a large glass of the dark brown liquid in front of
Harvey and handed a basket of stale, fried pork skins to the trucker.
“So, sugar, you on your way somewhere to celebrate the holidays?”
she inquired in a kindly tone.
Harvey took a long pull from his drink, quickly formulating some
kind of acceptable answer.
“Why yes,” he said, “I am going to celebrate the birth of our lord
and the dawning of a new year with my large, extended family in
Arizona. Aunt Matilda is going to cook up the turkey and Uncle Willy
is going to slice it. I will eat it, and my lovely wife Gladys will wash
the dishes. Then we will sit around the fire and sing Christmas carols.
Any flatulence will be blamed on Thaddeus, the dog. It will be a
gathering unprecedented in overall swellness.” He finished the drink
and waited for it to be filled again.
Only a person blessed with great sensitivity could recognize the
undercurrent of grief beneath Harvey’s overly sarcastic tone. Victoria
Nudbutter was one of those people, although she wouldn’t have
called that faculty a blessing. A sensitive ear was the second most
important thing for a good whore, right after a good body (which she
no longer had), and it was this ear that had originally lead her into so
many lopsided love affairs that she figured she might as well get paid
to get fucked over. Eventually, she saved enough to buy a small hotel
and start a brothel, of which she was not only the madam, but also
the only resident prostitute. Business wasn’t exactly booming, but
she was old and tired now anyway and was content just to serve
drinks, change the linen and keep her ear tuned on to the frequency
of universal suffering. Which was what she did best.
Victoria had a special talent for interpreting the melody in
people’s voices. She had been a music aficionado all her life, and
knew that major chords were the ones that sound happy, while minor
chords were the sad, heartbreaking ones. When a person is
miserable, she noted, they speak with a melody in the minor scale.
This fellow was more sophisticated than most, she noted. He was
babbling on in minor-sevenths.
“Why don’t you tell me where you’re
really
going, honey.” she
said candidly.
“Madam?”
21
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