Gately now simply blows through Inman, heading for B&C over on the upscale northwest side nearer to Harvard, every light suddenly green and kind, the Adventura’s ten-cylinder backwash raising an odd little tornado of discarded ad-leaflets and glassine bags and general crud and a flattened Millennial Fizzy cup, like from a stand, which whirls in his exhaust, the tornado of waste does, moving with him as the last pearly curve of the sun through baggy clouds is eastern by the countless Santa Something and then whitewashed WASP church roofs’ finials farther west, nearer Harvard, at 60 k but sustained in its whirl by the stroking west breeze as the last of the sun goes and a blue-black shadow quietly fills the canyon of Prospect, whose streetlights don’t work for the same municipal reasons the street is in such crummy repair, and one piece of the debris Gately’s raised and set spinning behind him a t’Antitoi Entertainent’ on the street’s east side, and hits, its waxed bottom making a clunk, hits the glass pane in the locked front shop door with a sound for all the world like the rap of a knuckle, so that in a minute a burly bearded thoroughly Canadian figure in one of those Canadianly inevitable checkered-flannel shifts appears out of the dim light in the shop’s back room and wipes its mouth on first one sleeve then the other, and opens up the front door with a loud hinge-suqieak and looks around a bit, vis. for who knocked, looking not overly pleased at being interrupted at what his sleeves betray as a foreign supper, and also, below that harried expression, looking edgy and emotionally pale, which might explain the X of small-arms ammo-belts across his checked chest and the rather absurdly large.44 revolver tucked and straining in the waistband of his jeans.
Ok, I typed it. Now I’ll poofread it and report back.
OK, I poofread it and fixed a few typos but forgive me I could not make myself compare it word by word to place where page 479 and 480 of my paperback copy of Infinite Jest.
Loading comments...