David Sexsmith is giving me a look like I’ve been caught ransacking his picnic basket in a Jellystone Park. It’s not just the surprise of some random person bringing up something from his past, but a random, lower class person to boot. David seems to view himself as something of an elite. And I am here, having left my containment, breaking the social rules, to ask a question.
I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. His bus stop ads scream precocious ass and his name reads like something you’d find in a Jane Austin novel. What I hadn’t really considered, until this exact moment, as I’m staring into Sexsmith’s face, is all of the levels of social commentary in the Yogi Bear cartoons. I never put much thought into the dynamics of the poor bear–forced to thievery by a white ranger because the confined place he called home didn’t have the resources he needed to survive comfortably–until that moment. Ugh, Gus’ aside style thinking is wearing off on me I guess.
Sexsmith replies, eventually, evenly, with, “The last I heard was the museum took whatever it was they found and did whatever it is museums do with those types of things.”
Gus and I sit for a few seconds, expecting more. When I realize he’s done, I wonder aloud, “Why leave the bowling business?” It doesn’t matter, but I’ve always been mildly curious about the profit margins on a bowling alley, which require a lot of space but not a lot of employees.
“My son runs it.” Sexsmith is nothing if not short and to the point.
As we stand to leave, Sexsmith shakes Gus’ hand heartily, but when I extend mine to do the same he simply nods and waves his hand toward the door.
When we’re back on the street, I feel a bit dazed about the whole thing. “That was odd.”
Gus nods, “He was certainly a type, though I’m not sure what. Military? Maybe? No. What’s the type who project confidence and superiority by simply being silent and short?”
“I don’t know, Gus, you’re the fiction expert. He just seems like an ass to me.”
“Hrm.” Gus seems generally bothered that he doesn’t have a specific word to use here. Or at least some character to draw back on. Fiction and nonfiction books have colored most of Gus’ experiences, far more than any real world activities have.
“Well I suppose there’s no point in dwelling on it,” he says, clearly dwelling on it.
“No, there isn’t.”
I don’t want to go back to the hotel, but I don’t what how we’re going to find Melinda or Alexis. There are dozens of new age books shops in town to canvas, if it comes down to it, but that doesn’t seem like the most productive use of time. I look over at Gus, who’s still obviously trying to come up with a word to describe David.
“What do we do now?”
“Oh well,” Gus pauses to pull out a map, “I have this map of some of the strongest ‘vortexes’ here in town. It’s silly, but I kind of want to see them still.”
“Don’t you mean ‘vortices?'” I can’t help myself.
“Grammatically, yes, Sally, but who ever says that?”
“I don’t know, how often do you need to say the plural of vortex to begin with?”
