When guided off the subject of giant-killers, he turned out to be a pleasant enough companion, or at any rate no worse than her mother’s idea of a good catch. She wasn't getting any younger, ipse dixit Mama. Well, neither was he. Three hundred years old, and then some sum he chose not to mention. He had never felt better in his life. He ate right. He took responsibility for his place in the ecoverse. The American climate agreed with him. He loved New York.
She had had worse Friday evenings.
There was CATS on Saturday and a gallery opening Sunday morning after brunch at the Plaza. A hansom cab was waiting to convey her all the way home from the office on Monday afternoon. Her bedroom blazed lunatic with flowers. There were no more ovine incidents.
He supported Public Television. He preferred Ebert to Siskel, and had no use under God’s great sky for Pauline Kael, unless his sourdough recipe needed an extra shot of calcium some time. He had season tickets to the opera, though he only went for Verdi and Peter Grimes. Wagner upset him. Fafnir and the frost giants, you know.
She sympathized. Prejudice was so fifties.
He didn’t like zydeco, but for her sake he tried to understand it. While Springsteen left him cold, Steeleye Span was all right, and Clam Chower, and any old Joni Mitchell. He couldn’t dance at all. He subscribed to The New Yorker, though only for the cartoons. Desconstructionist criticism gave him the quinsy. He couldn’t find shoes that both fit him and made a fashion statement. He wore the poorly tanned skins of those few Central Park carriage horses in their declining years that he had been able to purchase. He had absolutely no taste in neckties.
He insisted that she pick all the restaurants they patronized, and relied on her judgment when it came to ordering the wine.
He was just filthy with money, all liquid assets, mostly gold and priceless gems that he had come by in the course of his European career. He didn’t really get her joke about how he’d staged unfriendly takeovers of dragon-guarded hoards, but he laughed anyway. He offered to show her the skull of the last dragon he’d killed. That had been on Orkney, and the puny size of the Worm had been what decided him to move across the sea to a fresher, more vital world. A man likes a challenge. Things were better in the Catskills.
His voice in person slowly acquired the beguilement of that same voice over the phone. At her gentle prodding. Hoffritz provided the proper tools for him to trim toenails and nose bristles. He was never late for a date. He let her pay the tab on occasion, without turning it into a favor or patronage. Three hundred years and then some could give a man a certain high octane pick-up rate in mastering the social graces, if he so wished. For her sake, he so wished, and he wasn’t shy about letting her know as much. Vulnerability did not terrify him.
And she knew that he needed her.
The first time they made love, she had her qualms. She was haunted by the old chestnut about how the size of a man’s nose may give the inquisitive some hint as to the relative proportion of an analogously shaped nether organ. The giant’s nose was—well—gigantic, voyons! A sight too much so to leave the lady entirely comfortable in her mind.
Still, needs must. She wanted to. She felt a certain obligation, though through no deed or word of his. His few good-night kisses were not taken from her as if by right of conquest, or even secured as reparation for his having bought her dinner. He never treated her like a feedbag whore. All the marks of tenderness that passed between them were granted on her initiative alone. One kiss from him dewed fully half her face, left her skin atingle with moisture and mint residue from his hastily munched rolls of Breath-Savers. It was an unusual and exhilarating experience. Perverse curiosity needled her on to further experimental delvings.
Were she honest with herself, she would have admitted too that, since Ian, she was homier than hell.
He was not so eager to accept her offer as she had imagined. “What’s wrong?” she demanded. Angry gooseflesh rose beneath the peach satin of her lace-trimmed teddy. The dressing room at Victoria’s Secret had been much warmer. Chills and rejection coupled together to nettle her deeply.
The giant’s jowls drooped, laden with rue. “Ar, it’s not yow, dearie. Sweet as fresh plums you be, and welcome as spring. All as you’ve done for me up to this—” he fingered the charming regimental-stripe tie she’d had custom made for him at Brooks Brothers “—that’s been more’n I ever hoped for. I be content wi’ that.”
She crossed her arms, being unable to cross her legs. There was nothing in the room for her to sit on. Furniture had been displaced by futons, in deference to accommodating his needs. “You don’t find me attractive!” she accused.
He tried to convince her otherwise, but she knew lies when she heard them. She’d lunched with enough salesfolk for that. By bullying and pouting and sniveling dangerously near the precipice of tears, she cudgeled out the truth.
“I ain’t—I ain’t so much—I don’t got too big a—I has me lackings.” He showed her proof.
Well, yes, he was right. What he said was true. If you were comparing him to other giants, that is.
She forced herself to look very solemn. She told him that size was not everything, but love conquers all. If he could lie, so could she.
They were very happy together.
Three weeks later, while she was at work, Ian called. “I’ve found myself,” he told her. “I was right there, all along. I’m a better person now. I’m sensitive to a woman’s needs. I can give you the support you want and the space you require. I’m ready to nurture. We can complete each other. I’m not afraid of commitment. Isn’t that swell?”
“Drop dead,” she said.
“But I need you.”
Well, and what harm was there in meeting him for a drink after work, after all was said and done, after what they’d once meant to each other? She couldn’t show herself to be afraid of seeing him again. They could talk about old times, catharsis over cocktails and a mouth-watering assortment of high-fiber, low-cholesterol veggies. She could handle that. She was strong. She was capable.
She was a fool for blonds with black eyebrows.
The giant’s brows were black enough to satisfy, but as for hair, blond or otherwise, his pate gleamed smooth as a crystal goblet. Some things a woman doesn’t miss until someone else points out that she does not have them. This holds as true for textured pantyhose as for men. In the bar with Ian, she found herself recalling how she used to run her fingers through his golden curls. Said fingers began to drum an antsy anthem on the sides of her lowball glass. Odd pulsings disturbed her body’s chosen serenity. She really should be getting home.
“I like what you’ve done with the place,” Ian said, kicking off his shoes, tossing his tie onto the futon. “So tell me about your new roommate.”
“She minds her own business,” she said. “She doesn’t ask questions, she doesn’t get ideas.” She brought the drinks from the living room, even though he knew where everything was kept and had offered to do it. The giant’s mug was in the liquor cabinet now. Ian might not mistake it for an oversized, spoutless martini pitcher. Few of those had BLUNDERBORE handpainted around their circumference, or an etched pattern of grinning skulls. Damn few.
Ian was essentially naked when she returned. A sheet counts for little in the strategies of such impromptu dalliances. He took his drink and raised it in her honor. “To your health,” he said. He sipped while she stripped and slipped between the sheets beside him. He paused. A thought had touched him.
“Speaking of which. . . .” He made a pointed inquiry into her social life since last they’d shared bedlinens.
Her eyes narrowed, her mouth screwed itself into a tight little macadamia nut of pique. “I’ve only seen one other man since you ran out. I’m still seeing him.” She laced barbs to this last sentence but he remained unstung.
“And, uh, how well do you know him? I mean, what was he doing before he met you? Personal habits? Companions? Lifestyle of choice? You know.”
“He killed dragons. He ground
men’s bones to make his bread. He never read any Garrison Keillor.”
“Men's bones?” Ian’s lovesome brows rose a moiety. “Um, did he ever give you any particular reason for, that is, in a manner of speaking, such exclusive tastes?”
“Put up,” she told him, “or shut up. In fact, shut up whether you put up or no.”
Ian steepled his fingers. “We are very hostile,” he said, and tsk’d audibly.
“Blunderbore doesn't think so,” she shot back. “Blunderbore isn’t intimidated by a strong woman.”
“Blunderbore?” Ian echoed. The steeple toppled. “Blunderbore?"
“It’s a perfectly good name for a giant,” she said, folding her arms.
Somewhere beyond the bedroom door—the apartment door, to be exact—a key jiggled in a lock.
“Your roommate?” Ian whispered.
“SURPRISE, ME DARLING!”
Oh, it was very sad, very sad indeed. A giant is like other men, only with a bigger heart to break. No vows had been uttered, and Blunderbore agreed in principle about mature adult persons in a modern relationship needing their own space, but still—
Temper, temper.
The bread was warm from the oven. “Have a piece, love. I’ll butter it for you.”
“I’m not that peckish now,” said Blunderbore. He leaned his face on one hand and gazed morosely at the steaming slab, very white where it was not yellow with melting butter. “Like to clog me arteries sommat fierce, that be. Take it away.”
“Tsk. You’re just being difficult. You’ve eaten butter by the hogshead before this. And after all my trouble, following that silly old family recipe of yours. No appreciation. None whatsoever.”
“Ar, all right, all right, cease yer cackling.” The giant raised the slice to his lips and bit. He chewed. “Gritty,” he said.
“You don’t like my cooking.” Ian pouted.
“Na, then, I never did say—It’s my fault,’tis, for not having a more careful eye at the handmill. I'll see to it as I grind ’em finer next time. Oh. it’s as grand a baking as ever I’ve tasted, lad, and that’s taking in some three hundred years. Don’t take on so, there’s me dearie. Come, sit you down on old Blunderbore’s knee and tell us how them wicked, wicked futures traders has treated our Ian today.”
Ian dimpled and dropped the sulks. Obediently he climbed the giant’s knee.
Blunderbore smiled indulgently at his manling. Maybe this one would last. In a certain light, the lad looked just like Jack.
Maybe this one wouldn’t kiss and tell.
THE FRONT PAGE
Ronald Anthony Cross
“The FrontPage ” was purchased by Gardner Dozois, and appeared in the November 1988 issue ofAsimov’s, with an illustration by Robert Shore. Cross made his first sale to Asimov’s under Shawna McCarthy in 1983, and has since sold a number of other stories to the magazine, including another odd adventure of Eddie Zuckos, the intrepid hero of “The Front Page.” He is also a frequent contributor to The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, and has sold to Universe, New Worlds, Orbit, Pulphouse, Weird Tales, Far Frontiers, In the Fields of Fire, New Pathways, The Berkley Showcase, and elsewhere. His only novel to date, Prisoners of Paradise, appeared in 1988, and he has his first collection coming up from Pulphouse's Author’s Choice Monthly series. He lives in Santa Monica, California.
Here he treats us to a wild and gonzo look at what reporters for supermarket tabloids really have to go through in order to come up with those bizarre headlines you goggle at while waiting in the checkout line. . . .
* * *
The door was unlocked, open a crack, but I could see the chains, many chains. And her little glittering eyes. Too bright.
“How can I be sure you’re not one of them?”
I had no idea who “them” was. “I told you I was one of us. and I showed you this I.D.” I flashed my National Revealer press I.D. card again. “It’s the real thing,” I said. I ought to know, I had worked hard enough to earn it.
“They have many secret superhuman powers,” she said. “They could use them easily enough to get a press card.” But she sounded a little unsure.
“No they couldn’t,” I insisted. “No one, but no one, could get one of these except a genuine reporter for the Rev. as we reporters call it.”
“Well . . she said coquettishly, and one chain came off.
“But wait a minute,” she said. “I know. Who’s Liz’s secret heartthrob? You should know that if you work for the Revealer,”
My mind spun dizzily. Who was Liz, anyway? I had a vague picture of some overweight, aging movie star who was never very attractive to start with. The publication I worked for had at least one article about her in each issue. Her amazing love life. The food she ate. The shoes she wore. Etc. For some reason I could never get a handle on, she seemed to be just about the most interesting human being in the world to everyone but me.
“I love her,” Bernie (that’s my boss) had confessed. “I’ve always loved her. Ever since she was an innocent little seventeen-year-old who loved horses.” (Who loved horses?!?)
My one respite from the agony of being subjected to a plethora of horrendously trivial assignments was that I had never been assigned to do surveillance on the stars.
“I don’t know,” I pleaded, “listen, I just write it. I don’t read it—okay? Get out your last issue. Page three. ‘Lightning Strikes Statue' is the title, by Eddie Zuckos. That’s me, see?” I showed her the card again.
“Oh yes, I remember that one. The statue came to life momentarily and walked a few steps across the lawn. You had photos of the footprints.”
I nodded yes. A chain came off. I nodded again. Another chain came off. Now I had the key—I just kept nodding and saying “yes” until all the chains were off and I was in the house.
“By the way, who are ‘they’?” I said.
“Oh, you know!” she said coyly.
Okay. I won’t describe the inside of her house. Why should I? It was so full of furniture and lamps and grotesque statues, and little glass figures of every creature under the sun, and paintings of cats made out of copper or tinfoil or whatever, and Jesus Christ over and over: so many paintings and statues of Christ that it was a veritable army, except that it was an army of skinny naked guys being whipped, tortured, and crucified. I won’t describe the inside of her house because it was too complex for my consciousness to register. I’d have to live there for a couple of weeks, and each day maybe inventory another corner until I had it all down on paper.
“All right,” I said, in my let’s-get-down-to-business tone. I was so sick of these Mickey Mouse assignments. When would I ever get on to something big?
“Name. Date of birth.” I went through the list of personal data.
“Now what exactly was it you wanted to report?”
She turned her head and lowered her eyelids and looked at me slyly, from an odd sideways angle, like a bird.
“You know,” she said.
“I have to ask these questions,” I said, “it’s important that I get your exact answers. In your own words. You see? At the Revealer we make every possible effort to get the truth, see?”
Really, I knew what it was. I was just hoping we'd got it wrong.
“Well, Eddie,” she said, “I vomit rocks.”
“You vomit rocks,” I repeated, trying to keep the disgust out of my voice.
“Not just any rocks. Some of them are in the shape of Our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. Some of them look a little like Liz. In profile. That’s what Harriet sez. Harriet’s my next-door neighbor and she’s a big, big fan. Of Liz, not of me, of course. ‘Why, that looks just like her,’ she sez. And I sez, ‘Who, Harriet?’ and Harriet sez, ‘My God, Edna, can’t you see it, it’s just as plain as the nose on your face. It looks just like the queen.’ Harriet always calls her ‘the queen,’ you see. I always said, ‘Harriet, she’s not the queen. That’s a different Elizabeth,’ but Harriet always sez, ‘She’s the queen to me, Edna
. Liz’ll always be the queen to me.’ ”
Chattering all the while, Edna led me through the jungle of grotesque bric-a-brac into her bedroom. I was totally lost before we were halfway there.
“Doesn’t look like Jesus to me," I said, holding the oddly shaped little stone in the palm of my hand. Starting to get interested. “Looks like that guy in the Bruce Lee movie. What’s his name? Big mean guy with a beard.”
“Does not look mean,” she said, snatching it out of my hands. “He is a movie star, though,” she said, getting interested herself.
“Sure,” I said. “I can't think of his name.” (Who could?) “Great big guy with a beard.” A vague picture of a tall, bearded guy with Bruce Lee’s foot stuck in his face flitted through my mind’s eye.
“Let me get a couple of shots.” I started to check out the camera, which was in its case, slung around my neck.
“I thought you were supposed to have someone following you around with a camera, taking all the photos for you.”
Sure, that'll be the day.
“He’s sick,” I said. “And since I'm pretty good at it myself. . .”
“Jack of many trades,” she was saying scornfully, when my beeper went off, saving me from the “master of none” part.
“Emergency. Can I use your phone?”
She led me back into the living room, where, sure enough, there was a phone hidden amidst all the bric-a-brac.
“Vomiting stones?" Bernie shouted in a shocked voice. “Oh yeah, I forgot. Forget about that. Get the hell over to Fletcher Valley. Can you get there by sundown? Get there, okay? This is important, Eddie. Handle with care, do you dig? Don’t fuck it up, or it’s your last big assignment as well as your first. Dig? Jesus Christ, vomiting stones, what vomiting stones?”
Isaac Asimov's SF-Lite Page 8
