Sport 27: Spring 2001
And so to the Bradshaws’. They live in what used to be a foundry. Their apartment consists not of rooms but shelves. These lofty platforms are sustained by wires—albeit ones as thick as bicycle spokes. Girders and bricks abound, gloomy drops besides.
Dinner is excellent. Concluding it, the friends linger at table. A bottle of cognac gleams; issuing from small cuboidal speakers, Vivaldi toots and chimes. ‘And where are the kids these days?’ Colin asks.
‘Simone's at Scott Base still.’ This from Shura.
‘Cody's in India—or was.’
‘He forgets his own kids’ names.’ This from Sue. ‘More cognac, David?’
The Bradshaws tend to knock it right along. The Bradshaws have smoky histories, bohemian credentials riskily acquired. Jones however page 41 is not without credentials of his own. ‘Bring it on,’ he tells his hostess.
‘I'm warning you,’ says Shura.
‘I hear you, hon,’ says Jones.
Colin is rolling up some bhang. With his shaggy moustache and smudged bifocals, he looks like a certain German novelist. In fact, he directs a popular soap—not bad for a guy who once spent time in an infamous Peruvian jail. ‘Come clean, Jones. Just what egregious stunts are going down in the courts this week?’
‘I'm defending an elderly party who smothered her husband.’
‘Good for you.’
‘Good for her,’ says Sue.
‘For myself, I'm at war with my producer. The bitch has got it in for half my cast.’
‘Selwyn Grove. Who needs it?’
‘We do, Sue,’ says Colin.
The joint has been lit. The joint is passed to Jones. Resinously, sweetly, it pops and flares like a thatch hut afire.
‘I dare you.’ This from Shura.
‘Watch me.’ This from Jones.