The Family Fang - Kevin Wilson [9]
While Kenny and Arden and David walked at a safe distance through the Fort Western Outpost, Joseph quickly rifled through racks of clothes and other cold-weather essentials, tossing them into Buster’s waiting arms. “So you write for a living?” he asked Buster, who nodded. “Yeah,” Buster said, “articles mostly, freelance stuff. And I’ve written two novels, but nobody reads those.”
“You know,” Joseph said, handing Buster two pairs of wool socks, “I’m thinking of becoming a writer myself.” Buster made a sound that he hoped suggested interest and encouragement, and Joseph continued. “I’ve been taking a night class on Tuesdays at the community college, Creative Writing 401. I’m not that good yet, but my teacher says I show promise.” Buster again nodded. He noticed that the other three men had stepped closer to the conversation. “He’s a damn good writer,” said David, and Kenny and Arden agreed. “You know what my favorite book is?” Joseph asked. When Buster shook his head, Joseph answered, a huge smile on his face, “David Copperfield by Charles Dickens.” Buster had never read the book, but he knew that he should have, so he nodded and said, “Excellent book.” Joseph clapped his hands together loudly, as if he’d been waiting for this moment for months. “I love that first line: My name is David Copperfield,” he said. “It tells you everything you need to know. I start all my stories like that: My name is Harlan Aden or I go by the name of Sam Francis or When he was born, his parents named him Johnny Rodgers.”
Buster remembered the first line of Moby-Dick and mentioned it to Joseph. Joseph repeated the line: Call me Ishmael. He shook his head. “No,” he said, “that doesn’t work for me. That’s not as good as My name is David Copperfield.”
An older man pushing an empty shopping cart asked if he could pass by the crowd of men to reach some dress socks, but no one budged.
“See,” Kenny said, “that makes this Ishmael guy seem like he thinks he’s a big deal. He can’t just tell us his name? He’s got to go making demands that we address him as such?” Kenny made a face like he’d had to deal with guys like this all his life.
“And that might not even be his real name,” offered Arden. “He’s just telling us to call him that.” The men all agreed that Moby-Dick sounded like a book that they had no desire to read. “Sorry, Buster,” Joseph said. “David Copperfield is the winner and still champion of the world.” David walked off and came back with a packet of air-activated hand-warmers. “I like these when it gets cold,” he said, handing them to Buster.
Back in the car, Buster having nearly maxed out his credit card on a black wool coat, tin cloth pants, Red Wing boots, and a Nebraska Cornhuskers baseball cap, they drove toward their next-to-last stop, the liquor store. “What was your last article about?” David asked Buster, who replied, “I had to report on the world’s largest gang-bang.”
Kenny carefully flipped on his turn signal and slowly pulled onto the side of the road. He placed the car in park and then turned around in his seat. “What, now?” he asked.
“You guys ever heard of Hester Bangs?” Buster asked. All four of the men nodded emphatically. “I was there when she broke the record for the biggest gang-bang. She had sex with six hundred and fifty guys in one day.”
“You didn’t,” Joseph began, his face bright red from embarrassment, “I mean, you didn’t have sex with her, did you?”
“Oh, god, no,” Buster answered. Buster remembered the two-hour argument on the phone with his editor when he refused to take part in the actual orgy. “It’s called Gonzo Journalism,” said his editor, “I’m looking it up on the Internet right now.”
“So,” Kenny said, “you basically watched this woman fuck six hundred and fifty guys?”
“Yeah,” answered Buster.
“And you got paid to do that?” continued Kenny.
“Yeah,” Buster again