BooksBarbecue
Back The Deal Goes Down
Chapters (55)
  1. Cover
  2. Other Titles
  3. Dedication
  4. CHAPTER ONE
  5. CHAPTER TWO
  6. CHAPTER THREE
  7. CHAPTER FOUR
  8. CHAPTER FIVE
  9. CHAPTER SIX
  10. CHAPTER SEVEN
  11. CHAPTER EIGHT
  12. CHAPTER NINE
  13. CHAPTER TEN
  14. CHAPTER ELEVEN
  15. CHAPTER TWELVE
  16. CHAPTER THIRTEEN
  17. CHAPTER FOURTEEN
  18. CHAPTER FIFTEEN
  19. CHAPTER SIXTEEN
  20. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
  21. CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
  22. CHAPTER NINETEEN
  23. CHAPTER TWENTY
  24. CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
  25. CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
  26. CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
  27. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
  28. CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
  29. CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
  30. CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
  31. CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
  32. CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
  33. CHAPTER THIRTY
  34. CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
  35. CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
  36. CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
  37. CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
  38. CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
  39. CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
  40. CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
  41. CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
  42. CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
  43. CHAPTER FORTY
  44. CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
  45. CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
  46. CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
  47. CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
  48. CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
  49. CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
  50. CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
  51. CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
  52. CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
  53. CHAPTER FIFTY
  54. CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
  55. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

He said, “Fuckin’ banks. Taking homes from people. You drive around the county and you see empty homes all over. They’re falling down. Falling into ruin. You can bet, most of them, somebody came up short, got foreclosed. We got houses falling down and people with no place to live. Fuckin’ banks.”

“Fuckin’ banks,” I said, the choir echoing the preacher.

“I won’t even ask you where you came up with the money, in cash, from yesterday to today.”

CHAPTER NINE

ON FEEDING CATS

“No one here gets out alive.”

JIM MORRISON, “FIVE TO ONE.”

Also the title of his biography.

I TREATED MYSELF TO DINNER in a trendy restaurant. My starter had the title “Tomato and Tuna,” and the ingredients ran like movie credits: heirloom tomato, tomato-tamarind chutney, mint, sweet chile, shaved bonito.

For the main course, I contemplated the cassoulet. I thought about it. I lingered over it. But I knew that if it wasn’t particularly good I would be angry. If it was good, well, then I would probably weep. Cassoulet was the peculiar tagline of a private joke about death and love. No, change that. From love, about death, and what is there to say. Remembering her would make me weep there at my table, in a place that was nothing but bare, clean rectangles and right angles, hardly a place for tears, in sight of the young, bald, bearded chef with tats running up his arms from his knuckles into his short sleeves, and the pert, hipster-looking waitperson, as well as the various other customers around me. An old man, dining alone, silently crying would remind them that this could be their endgame, too, and ruin their dinners.

Instead, I ordered the pork sugo, slow-cooked pork jowl, tomato-vinegar broth, green peas, barley, summer vegetables, garlic creme, pesto, herbs, $24.00, oh what charming details. Both courses were good and made me feel indulged. To feel. Feel. Anything. Was good.

On the way home, I got the cats their preferred cat food. In Rome, the feral cats eat pasta. But cats are cunning. Once they know some human wants to feed them, they become manipulative. They turn down spaghetti and wait for chicken. Then not just any chicken, their favorite brand. Certain people are like that, too.

—

The message light on my landline was blinking.

An old friend had died in Paris. I had neglected her as I’d neglected so much else. Her children had called to tell me. I felt that the world was made less by her absence. I felt faint tremors of guilt that I hadn’t done more to stay in touch. I felt death creeping ‘round.