A Visit From the Goon Squad - Jennifer Egan [43]
That morning when Dave started up, I felt an inclination to speak. “You know, Dave,” I said, “I think that’s the point.”
“What’s the point?”
“That their breasts don’t bounce,” I said. “It hurts them. That’s why they wear jog bras in the first place.”
He gave me a wary look. “Since when are you the expert?”
“My wife used to jog,” I said.
“Used to? You mean she quit?”
“She quit being my wife. She probably still jogs.”
It was a quiet morning. I heard the slow pop, pop of tennis balls on the courts behind the Williamsburg Bridge. Aside from the joggers and tennis players, there were usually a few junkies out by the river in the early mornings. I always looked for one particular couple, a male and female in thigh-length leather jackets, with skinny legs and ruined faces. They had to be musicians. I’d been out of the game a long time, but I could spot a musician anywhere.
The sun rose, big and shiny and round, like an angel lifting her head. I’d never seen it so brilliant out there. Silver poured over the water. I wanted to jump in and swim. Pollution? I thought. Give me some more. And then I noticed the girl. I spotted her peripherally because she was small and ran with a high, leaping gait that was different from the others. She had light brown hair, and when the sunlight touched it, something happened that you couldn’t miss. Rumpelstiltskin, I thought. Dave was gaping at her, and even Sammy turned to look, but I kept my eyes on the river, watching my line for a tug. I saw the girl without having to look.
“Hey Scotty,” Dave said, “I think your wife just ran by.”
“I’m divorced,” I said.
“Well, that was her.”
“No,” I said. “She lives in San Francisco.”
“Maybe she’s your next wife,” Sammy suggested.
“She’s my next wife,” Dave said. “And you know the first thing I’m gonna teach her? Don’t clamp them down. Let them bounce.”
I looked at my line flicking in the sun. My luck was gone; I knew I wouldn’t catch anything. Soon I had to be at work. I reeled in my line and began walking north along the river. The girl was already a long way ahead, her hair shaking with every step. I followed her, but at such a distance that I wasn’t following her, really. I was just walking in the same direction. My eyes held her so tightly that I didn’t even notice the junkie couple in my path until they’d almost passed me. They were huddled up against each other, looking haggard and sexy the way young people can for a little while, until they just look haggard. “Hey,” I said, stepping in their way.
We must’ve seen each other twenty times on that river, but the guy aimed his sunglasses at me like he’d never seen me before, and the girl didn’t look at me at all. “Are you musicians?” I asked.
The guy turned away, shaking me off. But the girl looked up. Her eyes seemed raw, peeled away, and I wondered if the sun hurt them, and why her boyfriend or husband or whatever he was didn’t give her his glasses. “He’s awesome,” she said, using the word in the male teenage skateboarding sense. Or maybe not, I thought. Maybe she meant it literally.
“I believe you,” I said. “I believe he’s an awesome musician.”
I reached into my shirt pocket and took out Bennie’s card. I’d used a piece of Kleenex to remove it from yesterday’s jacket and place it in today’s shirt, making sure not to bend or fold or smudge it. Its embossed letters reminded me of a Roman coin. “Call this man,” I said. “He runs a record label. Tell him Scotty sent you.”
They both looked at the card, squinting in the angled sunlight.
“Call him,” I said. “He’s my buddy.”
“Sure,” the guy said, without conviction.
“I really hope you will,” I said, but I felt helpless. I could do this only once; I would never have that card again.
While the guy studied the card, the girl looked at me. “He’ll call,” she said, and then she smiled: small orderly teeth, the kind you only get from wearing braces. “I’ll make him.”
I nodded and turned, leaving the junkies behind. I walked north, forcing my eyes to see as