pzb.drawingblood-第29章

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　feet　carefully　on　the　mellow　hardwood　floors。　He　was　intrigued　by　the　idea　of　a　house　with　good　karma；　a　house　that　held　memories　of　love　and　music。
　　He　pulled　the　heavy　wooden　door　of　the　bathroom　shut　behind　him；　tugged　his　wet　shirt　over　his　head　and　dropped　it　on　the　floor。　It　was　just　a　plain　black　tee　like　almost　every　other　shirt　Trevor　owned；　he　had　one　with　a　pocket；　but　that　was　getting　fancy。　The　little　Whirling　Disc　man　was　a　radical　departure　for　him。
　　Trevor　unbound　his　ponytail；　leaned　over　the　old　clawfoot　bathtub　and　wrung　a　stream　of　water　from　his　hair。　Then　he　rumpled　it　with　a　towel　and　let　it　hang　loose　to　dry。　It　rippled　halfway　down　his　back；　ginger　like　Bobby's；　shot　through　with　a　few　strands　of　pale　gold　like　Momma's。
　　The　mirror　in　the　bathroom　made　him　nervous；　he　had　a　strong　sense　of　someone　looking　back　at　him　from　its　depths。　He　put　his　lips　close　against　the　wavy　silver　surface；　whispered　〃Who　is　it？〃　But　nothing　answered。　There　was　only　his　own　high　pale　forehead　melding　with　its　own　reflection；　his　own　eyes　merging　into　one　misshapen　transparent　orb　that　stared　mercilessly　back　at　him；　his　own　long　somber　face　dissolving　to　mist　at　the　edges。　He　stood　back　from　the　mirror　and　watched　his　nipples　shiver　erect；　his　skin　prickle　into　goosebumps。
　　Trevor　pulled　the　Whirling　Disc　shirt　over　his　head　and　hurried　back　down　the　hall　to　the　living　room；　where　Terry　was　just　firing　up　a　fat；　pungent　joint。
　　〃I　don't　suppose　you　do　this？〃　Terry　asked　after　a　long　toke。　Blue　smoke　leaked　out　of　his　nostrils　and　the　corners　of　his　mouth；　narrowing　his　eyes　against　it；　he　looked　sybaritic　and　handsomer　than　before。　Trevor　hesitated。　Terry　held　out　the　joint；　waggled　it　enticingly。
　　What　the　hell；　Trevor　decided；　and　reached　out　to　take　it　with　his　left　hand。　He'd　smoked　pot　before；　but　not　for　a　long　time；　and　never　much。　It　had　been　one　of　Bobby's　drugs。　But　pot　had　never　made　Bobby　puke　and　sob　like　a　baby；　had　never　made　him　pick　up　the　hammer　or　whispered　in　his　ear　how　he　might　use　it。　And　Bobby　had　smoked　it　when　he　was　drawing。　Trevor　thought　it　might　be　good　to　try　some　right　before　he　went　in　the　house。
　　So　he　wrapped　his　lips　around　the　wrinkled　end　of　the　joint；　slightly　damp　with　Terry's　spit　but　not　unpleasantly　so；　and　took　a　deep　drag。
　　Big　mistake。
　　He　hadn't　eaten　anything　since　Kinsey's　dubious　noodle　soup　last　night　at　the　club；　hadn't　drunk　anything　but　a　few　Cokes　and　a　warm；　noxious　Jolt。　Suddenly　his　stomach　felt　like　a　small　pouch　of　cracked　and　shriveled　leather；　his　tissues　and　the　meat　of　his　brain　felt　scorched　by　the　fire　that　burned　inside　him。
　　The　joint　slipped　from　his　fingers　and　skittered　down　his　arm；　leaving　a　long　singed　trail　along　the　old　tracework　of　scars。　He　heard　Terry　say　something；　felt　his　knees　begin　to　buckle。
　　Big　round　bursts　of　light　appeared　in　front　of　his　eyes；　blue　and　red　and　sparkly　silver；　spinning　like　crazy　constellations。　Then　blackness　waltzed　in　and　wiped　them　all　away。
　　
　　Terry　couldn't　believe　it　when　the　kid　collapsed　on　his　living…room　floor。　He　had　seen　stoners　toked　to　the　point　of　zombification；　staring　at　a　TV　screen　as　if　it　might　bring　nirvana。　He　had　seen　drinkers　gone　to　drooling　stupor　in　every　sort　of　promising　position　and　location；　including　on　the　toilet。　He　had　even　seen　a　nodding　junkie　or　two。　But　never　in　his　twenty…eight　years　had　Terry　Buckett　watched　anyone　pass　out　from　one　toke　on　a　joint。
　　He　retrieved　the　burning　spliff　from　the　folds　of　Trevor's　shirt；　patted　down　the　kid's　scrawny　chest　to　make　sure　no　stray　embers　were　setting　him　aflame；　checked　out　the　glowing　end　of　the　joint　but　saw　nothing　amiss；　smelled　nothing　weird。　The　pot　couldn't　be　laced　with　anything：　Terry　had　already　rolled　three　or　four　joints　out　of　this　particular　bag；　which　came　from　a　trusted　source。　His　own　buzz　was　just　starting　to　tickle　the　edges　of　his　brain；　leafy　and　benign。　It　was　nothing　but　good　Carolina　homegrown。　This　pale　trembling　youth　must　be　in　pretty　sorry　shape。
　　He　checked　to　see　if　Trevor　was　breathing；　gently　pulled　up　one　of　his　eyelids　to　make　sure　he　hadn't　had　a　brain　embolism　or　something。　The　silvery…pale　eye　glared　at　Terry；　making　him　think　Trevor　was　in　there　somewhere；　not　too　far　away。　As　he　wedged　a　cushion　from　the　sofa　under　Trevor's　lolling　head；　the　kid　started　muttering；　〃。　。　。　m'okay　。　。　。　fine　。　。　。〃
　　〃Yeah；　you　look　great；〃　said　Terry。　He　went　to　the　kitchen；　found　a　dishrag　that　was　mostly　clean；　ran　it　under　cold　water；　went　back　and　draped　it　over　Trevor's　face。　Trevor　raised　a　limp　hand　to　swipe　at　it；　got　halfway；　then　let　the　hand　fall　like　a　dead　white　bird　by　his　side。
　　〃Hang　loose；〃　Terry　told　him。　〃Don't　go　away。〃　He　paused　beside　the　stereo　and　scanned　the　portion　of　his　vast　record　collection　he　had　already　managed　to　cart　over　here；　wondering　what　music　Trevor　might　like　to　surface　from　oblivion　with。　Jazz　was　one　of　the　few　categories　Terry's　collection　lacked；　he　liked　it　okay　but　had　never　accumulated　any　of　his　own；　had　always　vaguely　figured　it　was　the　sort　of　music　you　had　to　be　an　expert　on　to　really　appreciate。
　　Finally　he　selected　an　old　Tom　Waits　album；　dropped　the　needle　on　it；　and　returned　to　the　kitchen　to　be　a　gracious　host。
　　
　　Trevor　woke　with　a　damp　sour…smelling　membrane　over　his　face　and　a　strange　guttural　voice　groaning　in　his　ears。　He　clawed　frantically　at　the　membrane　and　it　came　away　in　his　hands；　cold　and　dank　and　foul。　How　long　had　he　been　gone？　It　felt　like　minutes　but　could　have　been　an　hour；　no　more；　the　light　hadn't　changed。
　　The　walls　seemed　to　tower　toward　an　infinitely　high　point　overhead。　They　were　decorated　with　vintage　acid　rock　posters　whose　lurid　colors　swirled　and　gyred；　the　bands'　names　taunting　him：　Jimi　Hendrix　Experience；　Captain　Beefheart；　Strawberry　Alarm　Clock。　All　had　been　in　his　parents'　record　collection。
　　The　room　was　furnished　much　like　his　childhood　home　in　Austin：　bookshelves　of　cinder　blocks　and　particleboard；　fortable　sofa　with　sagging　cushions　and　the　nap　on　the　arms　worn　thin；　table　that　looked　like　a　refugee　from　someone　else's　trash　pile。　Early　Starving　Artist；　or　Poverty　Deco。　Trevor　saw　parts　of　Terry's　drum　set　strewn　about　the　room；　a　cymbal　in　the　corner；　a　snare　propped　between　a　bookcase　and　the　doorway　that　led　to　the　hall。　There　was　only　one　difference　between　this　stranger's　house　and　the　one　he　remembered　living　in　with　his　family：　this　one　felt　somehow　safe。　His　parents'　home　had　felt　safe　once　too；　but　that　was　so　long　ago　Trevor　could　barely　remember。
　　He　tried　to　sit　up　and　felt　his　brain　starting　to　spiral　off　into　the　ether　again。　A　snippet　of　dialogue　from　Krazy　Kat　drifted　through　his　mind：　Just　imegine　having　your　〃ectospasm〃　running　around　william　&　nilliam　among　the　unlimitless　etha'…golla；　it's　imbillivibilImbillivibil　it　was。　Yet　it　would　seem　he'd　swooned　in　Terry's　living　room；　or　whoever's　living　room　this　was。　How　fucking　embarrassing。　Terry　didn't　seem　to　be　around；　and　Trevor　thought　that　when　he　felt　able　to　stand　he　might　just　slink　out　of　this　safe　place；　walk　the　rest　of　the　way　into　town；　then　out　to　Violin　Road。
　　Yes；　that　was　what　he　thought　he　would　do…until　he　smelled　the　aroma　wafting　from　the　kitchen。　It　rooted　him　to　the　floor；　made　his　nostrils　flare　and　his　head　throb　with　longing。　Oily…dark；　bitter…rich；　utterly　pelling。
　　Coffee。
　　
　　Terry　finished　making　two　generous　sandwiches；　poured　two　mugs　of　joe；　picked　up　the　plate　in　one　hand　and　both　steaming　coffees　in　the　other。　Precariously　he　edged　back　through　the　kitchen；　into　the　living　room；　and　held　out　the　mugs　to　Trevor。　〃Do　you　want　sugar　or…〃
　　He　was　surprised　again　when　the　kid　seized　a　mug　and　drank　down　the　hot　black　coffee　in　what　looked　like　a　single　swallow。　Terry　winced；　imagining　the　bitter　brew　blazing　down　his　own　smoke…seared　throat；　but　Trevor　just　sighed　and　licked　his　lips　and　held　up　the　empty　mug。　〃Can　I　have　another？〃
　　〃Should　I　just　bring　the　whole　pot？〃
　　〃Yes。〃　He　seemed　serious；　so　Terry　went　back　to　the　kitchen　and　got　it；　along　with　the　bag　of　sugar　and　a　couple　of　spoons。　Trevor　poured　himself　anothe