"Eliot Fintushel - Izzy and the Father of Terror" - читать интересную книгу автора (Fintushel Eliot)

onto the table.

"Sorry," my Sanduleak contact said,
turning meekly.

"Just watch it, okay?" The trucker threw a
napkin onto the spill, then lapsed back
into samadhi.

"Sure. Sorry." My hippie turned back to
me. "WhatтАЩs your name? IтАЩm Gypsy. IтАЩm

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waiting for my sister, is all. SheтАЩs in
the head. She takes a long time, I donтАЩt
know why; she just always does. What did
you say your name was?"

"Mel," I said. There was a floating
astigmatism, like a skyflower before me,
the kind that is pushed away by oneтАЩs
looking, so itтАЩs never quite in focus. At
first I thought it was in my field of
vision, but the more I tried to sweep it
to center stage, the more I realized it
was a sort of thought. A name on the tip
of oneтАЩs tongue. A half-remembered face.
An inkling, an intimation, but of nothing.

It was IzzyтАЩs temporary. My mind-tongue
stroked and stroked it with instinctive
curiosity, like leukocytes casing a virus,
something hard and foreign patching my
mind.

"YouтАЩre looking at my beard," the
Sandulean said. "Is there something stuck
in it?"

Stroked and stroked it. My father was in
there, Gone Joe. Stroking and stroking
IzzyтАЩs amalgam, it was Gone JoeтАЩs fingers
I stroked with. He was digging his fingers
into IzzyтАЩs bung, trying to flee my mind;
the rest of him had vanished when I was
two, left Mom and me at the gift shop in
Niagara Falls. Only this shade remained
behind, Gone JoeтАЩs shade feeling guilty in