O l i v e r B e n j a m i n
course, no one could possibly be on a high all the time. Nevertheless,
this was the first time she had seen him act this way. He was riding
lower than a midget carpenter’s underpants.
“Something on your mind, honey?”
“Nope.”
“You want a foot massage?”
“No.”
“Something else?”
“Hey, listen, babe. Can’t you just let me be? I got a lot on my
mind.”
“But you just said there wasn’t anything on your mind.”
Deaf Lemon let out a sigh that was one part stardust and two
parts exhaust fumes, shaken well. “Let’s just say that I got a whole lot
of nothing on my mind,” he admitted. “More nothing than you could
ever imagine.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” she teased, trying to coax him
into conversation. “Is that just you being creative again?”
“It means nothing. Nothing means anything. Everything means
nothing.” Deaf Lemon crushed his beer can and looked away.
Doggedly, Melinda turned his face back towards her so that he could
witness the compassion in her eyes, the soothing sentiments of her
language.
“You got the blues, huh?”
“Midnight blue, baby.”
“Well, I know something that’ll cheer you up. Listen to this: I’ve
got you booked on Letterman next week! How about that!”
“Cancel it.”
“What? Are you serious?”
“You heard me. Cancel it. I’m finished with all this shit, baby.
Can’t you see? I don’t deserve any of this. Let me just bow out
gracefully and take you down to Mexico before everything turns to
hell. I quit.”
“No you don’t. I won’t allow it,” Melinda objected angrily.
Deaf Lemon just laughed and threw his crumpled beer can into
the fireplace. It landed with a clank and clatter on top of the thirteen
other similarly exhausted vessels that evening. If he had made a
toast, it would have been simply this: “To life. Long life.
So long,
life.”
“Do you hear me, Marcus Hopkins? I simply cannot allow you to
throw away something that I—you have worked so hard for. As your
manager, I simply cannot—You just can’t do it, Lemon!” she pleaded.
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