Odditorium

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BIRDS. DIRTY BIRDS. DIRTY little birds that toddled and pecked at the edge of high weeds. Steep-angled light that was too steady, too bright on a pile of broken bricks. Wind that drove through this dead corner pocket of Hillsborough County like a nasal voice, by the limp clothesline, over a curving neck of pine needles, through saw grass and cattails, and out past the cabbage hammocks to where the water moccasins lived. On the white sill two beetles clambered over each other, fighting or mating or eating. And that goddamn light out there. A nonstop frenzy of it. Windows around here should be dark green. Like sunglasses.

Karl Gables did not know the time of day. His liver worked feverishly to oxidize the last transfusion of Night Train Express while the bubblegum taste went sour in his mouth. A fortified wine, 18 percent alcohol; the kid at the store said junkies used it to taper off with sometimes. Karl picked up the empty bottle, looked through it. It was green and soothed his eyes. Sweat filmed his face and neck, dribbled down his chest, over the delta of his ribs. He was like a fountain.

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