pzb.drawingblood-第7章
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The movie bothered him； though； when Eddy took him to see it。 He always enjoyed watching Tim Burton's films … they were eye candy； for one thing…but they left him feeling vaguely pissed off。 They all seemed to have an agenda of relentless normalcy hiding behind a thin veil of weirdness。 He'd loved Beetlejuice until the last scene； which sent him storming from the theater and left him kicking things all day。 The sight of Winona Ryder's character； formerly strange and beautiful in her ratted hairdo and smudged eyeliner； now bed out and squeaky clean； clad in a preppy skirt and kneesocks and a big shit…eating sickeningly normal grin 。。。 it was entirely too much to bear。
But that； Zach supposed； was Hollywood。
He took one more drag on the joint and snuffed it out in the ashtray。 It was excellent pot； bright green and sticky with resin that smelled like Christmas trees； quick to set the brain buzzing and humming。 He hoped somebody at the Market would have more。 Zach felt around on the floor again； found his glasses； and put them on。 The world stayed blurry at the edges； but that was just the drugs。
Something nudged his hip beneath the sheet。 The remote control for the TV and VCR。 He aimed it at the screen and smiled as he thumbed the ON button。
He found himself watching an Italian splatter movie called The Gates of Hell。 Good old Lucio Fulci； his plots were brain…numbing nonsense； every character dumber than a bag of rusty nails； but he gave great gore。 And nothing normal ever happened in his movies。
A girl began to bleed from the eyeballs…Fulci loved eyeballs…then proceeded to vomit out her entire digestive tract over the course of maybe a minute。 She'd been parking with her boyfriend； such were the wages of sin。 Zach pressed the reverse button and watched the actress suck up her intestines like a plate of spaghetti in marinara sauce。 Tasty。
A moment later he realized that the movie was making him hungry； which meant it was seriously time for some food。 The remains of a muffuletta from the Central Grocery were wrapped up in his little dorm…style refrigerator。 Zach kicked the sheet off； swung his legs over the edge of the mattress； rode the ensuing headrush for a minute； then stood and picked an expert path through the debris to the fridge。
The savory smells of ham and Italian spices； oiled bread and olive salad wafted up as he unwrapped the greasy pink butcher paper。 The big round sandwiches were expensive but delectable； and they made two or three meals if you weren't a big eater； which Zach was not。
It wasn't as if he couldn't afford a muffuletta anytime he wanted one。 Money was free； or nearly so； all he could need was at his fingertips every time he sat down at his desk and switched his puter on。 But he had never quite gotten used to having enough to eat。 His parents' kitchen cabinets never had much in them but booze。
The movie raged on。 A priest had hung himself in the town of Dunwich…original name； that…which flung wide the gates of hell； or something。 Zombies with bad skin conditions seemed to be able to beam themselves around like refugees from the Starship Enterprise。 Zach thought of the only priest he had ever known； Father Russo； who said the masses his mother used to drag him to every few months when she was ing off a bad binge。 Twelve…year…old Zach had gone to confession alone one day； ducked into the booth and leaned his aching head against the screen and whispered； Bless me； Father； for I have been sinned against。 Hot tears squeezed out of his eyes as his lips formed the words。
That is not how the Confession begins； the priest replied； and some of Zach's hope ebbed。 But he persisted： My mother kicked me in the stomach and made me throw up。 My father slammed my head against the wall。 Can't you help me？
Bad boy； telling lies about your parents。 Don't you know you must obey them？ If they punish you； it is because you have sinned。 The Lord says honor thy father and thy mother。
WHAT ABOUT THEM HONORING ME？ he shrieked； slamming his hand against the flimsy wall of the confessional； a hot spike of pain shooting up his already…sprained arm。 Raking the curtain back； bursting into the priest's side of the booth； yanking his shirt up to display the technicolor bruises and belt stripes across his skinny ribs。 WHAT ABOUT THIS； MOTHERFUCKER； WHAT DOES GOD SAY TO THIS？ Staring into the priest's startled face； seeing the tracework of broken veins deepen from red to purple； the weak watery eyes flare with pious anger； and knowing sickly that there was no help here； that the priest was not really seeing him； that the priest was as drunk as his parents had been last night。
He had been hauled from the church and told not to e back； as if he ever would； he collapsed on the stone steps and sobbed there for an hour。 Then he got up； hawked an enormous goober on the steps； and left with a silent pain that went deeper than his bruises and abrasions； all the way down to the wounded soul that the Catholic church would never touch again。
It would be nice to see Father Russo hanging and burning and bleeding from the eyeballs。 Maybe the priest was dead now； maybe he had the starring role in some hellish Lucio Fulci film。 Zach hoped so。
He chewed the last bite of muffuletta； licked the grease off his lips； and went diving for clothes。 He came up with a pair of army pants cut off at the knees and a T…shirt that pictured JFK grinning toothily as his brains exploded in vivid silkscreen color。 Faded red Converse hightops without socks pleted the ensemble。
It was time to go snag his two daily stashes。 Then he could e back here and get some work done。
June； as far as Zach was concerned； was the last tolerable month in New Orleans until mid…autumn。 The days were already hot； but not as mired in sodden swelter as they would be through July； August； and most of September。 During these obscene months he slept all morning and afternoon； his dreams punctuated by the rattle and drip of his laboring air conditioner。 He spent his nights cramming his head with information； words and images and the subtle semiotics they triggered in his brain； or hacking paths through the infinite mazes of forbidden puter systems； or simply skating around the boards where he was not just wele but absurdly revered。
Only long after sundown would he venture into the French Quarter to prowl the gaslit side streets； to walk among euphorically drunken； tourists and roustabouts on neon…smeared Bourbon Street； to meet his friends passing a bottle of wine in front of Jackson Square； or lingering in the dark bars and smoky clubs of Rue Decatur； or occasionally throwing a small party in Saint Louis #1； the old cemetery on the edge of the Quarter。
But today he descended the stairs to the sidewalk； pushed the iron gate open； and drew in a noseful of the humid air as if it were perfume。 And it was； of a sort； it felt like wet cotton in his lungs； but it carried the fragrance of the Quarter； a heady melange of thousands of odors： seafood and spices； beer and horseshit； oil paints and incense and flowers and garbage and river mud； and underlying it all the clean crumbling smell of age； old iron； softly sifting brick； stone trodden by a million feet； recording the infinitesimal imprint of each。
Zach's third…floor apartment overlooked tiny Rue Madison； one of the two shortest streets in the Quarter； along with its twin Wilkinson on the other side of Jackson Square。 His row of buildings was decorated with intricate black ironwork。 Only a block long； quiet little Madison ran straight into the technicolor melee of the French Market。
Zach passed the vintage clothing store on the corner； knocked on the open door and waved to the hippie proprietor （who had recently given him a neighborly deal on a black frock coat lined with royal purple silk； though it would be too hot to wear the thing until Christmas）； then cut through an area housing an informal bazaar where you could find useless crap or the very treasures of Lafitte； depending upon the day and your luck。 Then he was in the French Market； surrounded on all sides by delicious smells and harmonious colors and all the symmetry and bounty of the edible vegetable kingdom； heaped together in great glowing piles under one old stone roof。
There were pyramids of tomatoes so achingly scarlet that they hurt the eyes； bushel baskets of eggplants like burnished purple patent leather； the verdant green of bell peppers and the delicate； creamy green of the tender little squash called mirliton。 There were onions as large as babies' heads； red and gold and pearly white。 There were nuts and ripe bananas and cool frosted grapes； fresh herbs by the bunch； great thick braids of garlic and dried red tabasco peppers hanging from the rafters。 There were stalks of fresh sugar cane； sold by the foot so you could gnaw and suck out the sweet juice as you walked through the market smelling and marveling。 There was homegrown rice； and barrels full of shining red beans to cook it with； and long links of smoky Cajun sausage to throw in for flavor。 There was a fish market to the side where you could buy fresh crabs and crawdads and catfish； bright blue Gulf shrimp as long as your hand； even alligator if you liked。
And in front of every stand were the vendors hawking their wares； old men who had e in laden pickup trucks before dawn； their faces seamed leather； black or tan； Cajuns； Cubans； occasional Asians。 The Market； Zach thought； was probably one of the most culturally and racially diverse spots in the city。 Good karma for a place where； not two hundred years ago； slaves had done the morning shopping。
Every vendor had the finest； the freshest； the cheapest goods in all the Market； they all proclaimed so； each more loudly than the next； until the clamorous praise for fruits and vegetables rose to the roof and spiraled out between the stone columns。 They would sell it to you by the piece； or the pound； or the whole damn lot if you fancied。
But Zach fancied other things。 He walked through； looking but not stopping； until he reached the fringes of the flea market that took up the rear part of the building。 Here the wares tended more toward the tacky or the weird； tables full of shell magnets and ceramic crawfish salt shakers alternating with stands that sold leather jewelry； boot knives； essential oils and bundles of incense and suspicious…looking cassette knockoffs of whatever CDs the vendor had recently bought。
Several of the people running the weirder stands nodded to him。 There was Garrett； a nervous kid with bleached…blond hair and great tragic angel…eyes； who painted pictures way too scary for the Jackson Square portrait crowd； he had a table full of crucifix pendants and rhinestone cat's…eye sunglasses； and was doing a brisk business。 There was Serena； purple…haired patchouli…daubed priestess as calm as her name； nodding happily before her altar of bootleg Cure and Nirvana； serene until some unsuspecting light…fingered customer happened along and mistook her for an easy mark。 Then she whipped into ultraviolent motion； straight…arming the hapless thief with one hand； retrieving her merchandise with the other。 There was spooky Larese with her black Cleopatra e
