Powder

Snake in the grass! Ladies' man! Sex fiend! Clovis had been a rube, but now he was unstoppable

With a master of fine arts degree in hand, Clovis Spicer left Athens, Georgia for the Midwest. Spicer had locked down a job at Chicago's premier advertising agency. Left behind was his girlfriend, Little Olive, who chose to pursue an advanced degree in microbiology.

Clovis couldn't wait to leave the hick town of Athens, but in one short day the fast pace of Chicago exhausted him beyond measure. People were buzzing around like V-1 rockets. The El trains roared past his room at the St. Ingbert Hotel in an apocalyptic rumble. While window-shopping along Michigan Avenue he was assaulted by the incessant hiss of tires and police and ambulance sirens. And then there was the incredible sight of a doomed twin-engine Cessna streaking overhead like a kamikaze plane zeroed in on the battleship Arizona. It was absolutely incredible. He even got a clear look at the pilot's face as he plunged into the water. The pilot's gaze was directed at his lap, as though he were reading a panel of Jiggs & Maggie from the Tribune. Later Clovis realized the pilot had been working at the stick of the plane. Clovis saw the pilot's head bounce off the windshield just as he crashed into a lake infested with lamprey eels. No doubt the pilot was sucked dry by those hideous creatures even before he had the luxury of drowning. Clovis once saw a picture of a lamprey. Its entire head was a mouth filled with razor-sharp teeth.

Clovis retreated to his room at the St. Ingbert Hotel, a fleabag on the western edge of Hyde Park. At two in the morning he heard the crash of beer bottles against a brick wall. Looking out his dingy window he saw two coal-black men in iridescent suits screaming at each other in French. "Qu'est-ce que vous savez de la politique? Rien!" said the first.

"Je sais que vous êtes idiot!" screamed the other.

The verbal assaults escalated into a pushing, shoving match. Seconds later fists were flying until the two men fell to the ground, wrestling in the grime of the alley. It was hard for Clovis to tell who was winning. Then a huge thug in a guayabera and a short-brimmed fedora stepped out of the back door and grabbed both men by their hair. "Goddamn it, you fuckin' bastards! Clean yourselves off and get out of my alley!"

After the long day's noise, the incredible plane crash and then this bizarre alley fight, Clovis found it impossible to sleep. Maybe Athens, Georgia wasn't so bad after all. As the first rays of sunlight peeked through his window shade, Clovis fell into a short coma.

He showed up at the Booth Wicks Agency an hour late. Creative director L.L. Hargrove saw the new copywriter sheepishly make his entrance. Hargrove awaited Clovis's approach with his thick forearms crossed and his narrow black eyes fixed into a fierce glare. Clovis offered Hargrove a tepid hand, after which Hargrove said, "Your hand feels like a wet 90-year-old penis. Come with me."

Clovis followed Hargrove to a cubicle, where Hargrove laid out the in-house rules. Hargrove was a frightening man in spite of his high voice. Clovis was shocked. Hargrove had been pleasant and congenial during initial interviews; now he was the werewolf of London. In a shrieking contralto he said, "Dress code 101: Brooks Brothers only! Let me repeat that: Brooks Brothers only! White shirts crisp with starch, changed daily. Bow ties are unacceptable. So too are suspenders. I want no aftershave, scented facial moisturizers or harsh breath fresheners. Use toothpaste alone. There will be no pierced earrings, ponytails or homosexual wrist flopping. Take a look around you and you'll get the gist."

This from a man in a glen-plaid gabardine suit and a blue polka-dot bow tie, yellow-tinted pince-nez and a wrinkled navy blue shirt. "Our health plan does not provide for sex-change operations," Hargrove said. "And your computer will be monitored for personal tomfoolery, including chat rooms like Submissive Males Seeking Discipline. Have you any questions?"

Clovis swallowed hard. "No, sir."

"If you do have questions, see Brandy."

"Yes, sir."

"So let's get down to business. You come in late again, you will be fired," Hargrove said, pulling open the top door of a gray file cabinet. He produced two number-seven cans of garden peas and a can opener. "We have here a can each of Dominick's brand garden peas and a can of Green Giant early spring peas. It's a quarter to 11. I want 200 words on the virtues of each of these commodities by 11:15. Do you think you can manage that?"

"Yes, sir." Clovis had his handkerchief out and pressed it to his forehead and upper lip, blotting beads of sweat.

"Well, cut loose then. One half hour. Time enough to put a little dynamite on the page. Set those effeminate fingers ablazing!"

Clovis swallowed hard. "Yes, sir."

He booted up the computer as Brandy Becker stepped into the cubicle and pulled a chair up to Clovis's desk. She picked up a can of peas and placed it to her ear like a telephone.

"Mr. Spicer," she said. "How do?"

Clovis was harried but lifted the other can to his ear anyway. "Hello?"

Brandy Becker was the most beautiful woman Clovis had ever seen. He studied the long, slender fingers clasping the can of Green Giant peas. Her nails were cut short and lacquered with bloodred polish. Her left hand was devoid of a wedding ring, and she wore a man's stainless steel Rolex Submariner on her left wrist. Brandy was wearing the agency uniform for women, a Calvin Klein navy jacket over a crisp white blouse. She had fair skin, warm green eyes, full lips lightly glossed with plum lipstick--it took Clovis three seconds to forget about Little Olive entirely.

"Hey there, it's Brandy Becker," she said, speaking into her pea-can telephone. "May I speak to Clovis Spicer?"

"Hello, Brandy. This is Clovis Spicer. What can I do for you?"

"I just wanted to tell you that Mr. Hargrove is on the warpath today. Don't take it seriously. His bark is bigger than his bite."

"Okay."

"Don't worry. I'll keep you out of trouble. Just don't come waltzing in an hour late anymore."

"It will never happen again," Clovis said.

Brandy winked at the new employee, set her can of peas on Clovis's desk and stepped into her office across the hall to answer a genuine phone call.

•

By 11:30 Clovis was still struggling with his 200-word assignment. His blood sugar was perilously low, and he felt an overwhelming urge to pee. He finally worked up the nerve to duck his head out of the cubicle, looking left and right for Hargrove. The coast was clear, and Clovis quickly made for the men's room.

Inside the loo he stood before a urinal only to find Hargrove in the partition next to him. Clovis felt his penis grow cold and shrink down to about half an inch. Hargrove said, "How's that copy coming along, buddy?"

"I'm getting there, Mr. Hargrove. I'm almost there."

The creative director shook his dick and hit the flush bar. He quickly washed his hands with a squirt of antibacterial soap. He held up a pair of thick, square hands like a surgeon prepared to glove up. The two paper towel dispensers were empty. Hargrove shook his fingers and dried his King Kong hands on his pants. Hargrove moved close to the new man, violating any reasonable sense of personal space. "I was wondering who you reminded me of with that high, piping voice of yours, the lisp, the timid mumbling--all of it," Hargrove said. "And now I've got it. Michael Jackson!" Fuck, look who was talking!

Clovis remained at the urinal. His eyes were watering from his full bladder, but it took him five minutes after Hargrove left before he could relax enough to urinate. Clovis was still at his keyboard at seven P.M. when Brandy made an appearance, buttoning up a black cashmere coat. "You're still here," she said.

"The Green Giant wears a pair of green-leaf go-go boots. I never noticed that before."

Brandy searched her purse for keys and said, "Babe, you look tighter than a drum. Go home and take a hot shower."

"What say the two of us go out and have a few drinks? I could use about 30 of them."

"I'm in a relationship, Clovis. In any case, you're not my type."

•

Hargrove asked Clovis to read his first sample of ad copy in the boardroom the following afternoon. Clovis got to his feet uncertainly. "When it comes to green garden peas, Dominick's are chocked full of goodness. A sweet Dominick pea is like no other pea."

These words provoked snorts of laughter from the writers sitting around the mahogany conference table. Brooks Brothers men, Calvin Klein women and a hick from the state of Georgia reading the most stupid piece of copy known to man.

Back at the St. Ingbert that night Clovis assailed Carmen, the night receptionist, with a rundown of his day. Carmen was an anaplastic dwarf with a normal torso but shortened limbs. She was the first friendly face Clovis had seen all day. She stood on a small bench behind the reception desk, paging with stubby fingers through an ancient card file. "I know just the person for you." Carmen found the number and made a quick phone call. "Dr. Harrigan has an open appointment and can see you in 10 minutes. His office is two blocks down the street, just beyond the El platform. The man works wonders, and his fee is reasonable."

Clovis followed Carmen's directions to a three-story brick building where (continued on page 155)Powder(continued from page 86) half a dozen bicycles were chain-locked to a stainless steel bicycle rack. He stepped over broken wine bottles and cigarette butts, walked up three concrete steps and went inside. A hunchback no more than three feet tall descended the staircase. Clovis stopped the man for directions to Harrigan's office. The midget reeked of musk. "Upstairs, room 204." Clovis thanked him and began to wonder if he was living in Dwarf City.

He climbed the stairs to the second floor, passing a door with a two-by-five card that read Motherfucker! Don't knock on the motherfucking door! I'll kill you!

Harrigan's door had his name scratched on the frosted glass. Clovis knocked timidly and stepped into a vast space with 20-foot ceilings. He shut the door, triggering a little bell. Four pigeons took flight through a broken window, and frigid wind blew in.

Clovis took a look around. There was a dark granite lab table littered with test tubes and vials of colored potions, one of which issued a smoky vapor. Near the ceiling was a commercial bug zapper that snapped periodically with lightning-blue sparks. Clovis watched a pair of English sparrows buzz around, repeatedly smacking into the window until one of the birds flew too near the bug zapper. The bird was incinerated with a loud pop. The execution filled the air with the smell of ozone and burned feathers.

A thin Asian man in an aloha shirt emerged from a back room.

"Would ye be the gentleman Carmen sent by? I cannae remember your name."

"Clovis. Excuse me, Doctor--are you Irish?"

Harrigan smiled. "I am nae Irish but Scottish with a bit of Chinese."

Harrigan led Clovis into a small room, where the examination table appeared to be the bench seat of a GM automobile, propped on top of four cement blocks.

"Take off your shirt and climb aboard."

Tentatively Clovis did so. Harrigan felt Clovis's pulse at the wrist and the brachial artery. The doctor seemed slightly alarmed and listened to both pulses on the other arm. It seemed to confirm disaster. "Open wide," Harrigan said.

He stuck a tongue depressor in Clovis's mouth and examined it with a penlight. "How long hae it been since ye had sex?"

Clovis said he had never had sex.

Harrigan was astonished. "You're 25 years old? People get laid by accident!"

"Well, people eat at McDonald's, too, but no Big Mac has ever passed my lips," Clovis said.

Harrigan threw the tongue depressor into a trash can. "Too much mucus. Thready pulse. Lay facedown upon the table. Donnae worry, it's steady."

Clovis stretched out on the car seat. Harrigan painlessly inserted hair-thin needles in Clovis's back, neck and the soles of his feet. When they were in place Harrigan began to twist them, causing Clovis's hair to stand on end as he bit a hole into the car-seat table. Harrigan removed the needles, counted them and told Clovis to get dressed and meet him outside. The acupuncture treatment left him feeling spaced.

Back in the laboratory Harrigan was mashing a concoction of powders.

"What's this?" Clovis asked.

"Something for ye heart chakra--new thistle, auricula, wild dog tail, snake penis and a pinch of armadillo."

Harrigan scraped the powder into a Diamond matchbox. "A quarter teaspoon before brookfest." Clovis left the building feeling a bit better. He returned to his room and stirred some powder into a cup of hot tea. One long gulp later and his head began to throb. His eyelids and lips grew warm and swollen. His heart pounded. He staggered back to his Slumberking, thinking he might faint. His right testicle was heavy and painful and seemed to hang from his scrotum like a cannonball. The room began to spin, and Clovis felt himself go off into a glide. When he came to he glanced at his watch. It was midnight. Great Caesar's ghost! He regained his feet and, cradling his sore testicle in his hand, walked over to the window overlooking Cottage Grove Avenue. It had begun to snow.

Clovis threw on his new Burberry trench coat. He was horny and ready to do something about it, but the nearest bar was female-free, populated with morose men in flannel shirts and ball caps. A pool game was in progress, and "Orange Blossom Special" blasted from the jukebox.

Outside Clovis bumped into a woman with a swollen face and a black eye. She wore a green Army jacket stained with lipstick. She seemed to bounce off Clovis and take a few precarious steps to a parking meter, which she hugged to her breast before sliding down to the sidewalk. Clovis helped her to her feet. As he did so he noticed that her left hand was bruised and swollen.

Clovis hailed a cab and told the driver to take them to the nearest hospital. It was a slow night in the ER. The personnel recognized the woman, whose name was Vilda. They x-rayed her wrist and set it in a cast that was short enough to expose her fingers and thumb. A physician's assistant cleaned off a gash above the woman's eyebrow and sutured it closed as a nurse patted off blood with sterile dressings.

Clovis was in no mood to play Good Samaritan, but he was stuck with the woman. He took her back to the St. Ingbert, where he agreed to pay for her room even though the point of staying in the dump was to save money. Then he noticed bloodstains on his trench coat, which itself cost a small fortune. Another week like this and he'd be eating cat food.

•

The next day Clovis reported to work on no sleep. No matter; the powder made him feel like the luckiest man in the world. There was nothing he couldn't do. Leap tall buildings in a single bound? No problem. Stronger than a locomotive? Most definitely. Faster than a speeding bullet? He was faster than the speed of light. On the subway to work Clovis closed his eyes and found himself on a magic carpet. He steered over the South Side, the Loop, the Museum of Science and Industry, the Art Institute and then over vast Lake Michigan (chock-full of toothy lampreys), cutting eastward to cruise over the Statue of Liberty, then taking on the Atlantic Ocean for an Eiffel Tower flyover. From there he passed the domes and cathedrals of Florence, backing off for the minarets and spiked towers of Istanbul and the palaces of Mecca, and from there to the Sahara with a camel caravan below, and from there to the Carpathian mountains (all without a passport or visa!). Back to southern California, where a dynamo clogged with desert sand forced a semi-crash landing in Beverly Hills into Renée Zellweger's backyard. The movie star was lying in a tent surrounded by three-by-three blocks of crystal clear ice. She was in the tent and on her stomach, reading Time magazine. She looked up and said, "Hey, Clovis. How do?"

Clovis whacked the dynamo on a block of ice to clear it of sand and let it cool down after its intergalactic flight. Then he joined Renée in the tent, and the two of them began to make out. They were necking furiously when he felt a hand slapping his thigh. Clovis opened his eyes, and an old woman with greenish skin said, "The ides. Beware the ides. The March ides."

She seemed like an apparition, and he allowed himself to drop back into his Renée Zellweger dream. "What are ides, Renée?"

"The 18th of March, give or take," she said. "Macbeth, act one, scene three. Clovis, have you got a condom?"

Clovis opened his eyes just enough to make his subway stop. Back in the agency, Ardith Walthers, a CPA, stopped the new writer to flirt with him; yesterday she had given him the cold shoulder.

He retreated to his cubicle, where in violation of city codes he fired up a cigar and switched on his IBM. People drifted by to see the source of the smoke, but no one dared say a word.

At noon Veronica Schell, the agency's star writer, popped into the cubicle and offered to take Clovis to dinner, spilling out so much preening behavior Clovis felt as if he could fuck her right there. She said, "You're the new man on board, and I thought we should go over a few things."

Just before two Clovis stepped into Hargrove's office with a handful of storyboards. Hargrove was eating a pastrami sandwich and pointed to a chair opposite his desk. Clovis took a seat as Hargrove cleaned his hands with a napkin and removed the lid from a cup of coffee. "You got yourself some decent duds, Clovis. I like the look," he said.

The creative director blotted his thick mustache as he studied the new material. "Whose artwork is this? I don't recognize the artist."

"I drew the panels myself," Clovis said.

"Let me get this straight. You wrote the copy and drew the panels?"

"Correct."

"Pretty damn good. I'm impressed. You must have been up all night. Let me run these past Veronica," Hargrove said. "Meanwhile you can have the afternoon off. Take a spin over to the Brookfield Zoo. I hear the panda is not to be missed."

"Thanks, Harv," Clovis said.

Hargrove leaned back in his swivel chair and gave Clovis the thumbs-up signal. "Roger, wilco and out."

At dinner Veronica ordered sushi, while Clovis ate prime rib. They left the restaurant buzzed on wine, and Veronica broke out a doobie lined with hash oil. They shared a couple tokes of that and walked back to Veronica's place, listening to Django Reinhardt on a small boom box they'd found on a porch stoop. Clovis cut loose with a little break dancing, which seemed to thrill Veronica. But as they continued they found themselves walking down a long pier in the fog. Veronica asked Clovis to turn down the music, which had suddenly become the worst thing in the world. Clovis could not get the music to stop and tossed the boom box into the water, where it languished a foot from the surface, emitting bubbles until it finally dropped out of view.

"Oh God," Veronica said. "I'm freaking out. Where the hell are we?"

Clovis was feeling great until Veronica hit him with that one. They backtracked off the pier and tried to get their bearings.

Somehow they found their way back to Veronica's apartment. The trip was utterly harrowing. Veronica recovered and insisted on sex. Clovis proposed anal sex.

Veronica's voice was husky with desire. She said, "Yeah, take me up the ass."

Clovis said, "It's going to hurt."

Veronica said, "Go ahead and make it hurt."

She retired to the bathroom after the deed was done. Clovis lay in bed, smoking a Marlboro. It was the second cigarette of his lifetime, but he blew a perfect smoke ring.

Veronica returned from the bathroom with a pair of handcuffs. She coaxed Clovis into being tied facedown on the bed. She gave him a backrub, lightly tracing her nails over his neck, arms and thighs. Suddenly she was digging. Exorcist-voiced, she pulled a wooden paddle from her bag of tricks and began to whack the shit out of Clovis's buttocks. He bucked to escape the blows, which seemed only to inflame Veronica's sadism. Finally, Clovis ripped off the headboard and managed to regain his feet. Veronica's face was filled with amusement. Clovis said, "You are one crazy fucking bitch!"

•

After sleeping in he was back in his cubicle by noon, mugging and blowing kisses at Brandy Becker. At the water fountain he cracked up the boys with an impression of the Big Hurt, the White Sox's lumbering slugger, Frank Thomas. Clovis Incredible Hulked around an imaginary home plate and said, "If I feel like it, I just might hit a couple of homers today."

There was a champagne party at four P.M. to celebrate a new account. Hargrove had three glasses of punch and put on a top hat (from the Stetson account). He cakewalked around the office. Clovis was still in his cubicle when Hargrove passed by, singing "Maybellene" as he duck-walked around the seventh floor. Clovis let his jaw drop. This was not to be believed.

Hargrove backpedaled, giving Clovis a tip of his hat, flashing the wide toothy grin of Theodore Roosevelt. To cap off the performance, Hargrove lifted a ham and ripped off a German beer fart. An hour later Clovis stepped into Hargrove's office to drop off fresh copy. Hargrove was on the floor like an overturned tortoise. Clovis tied Hargrove's shoelaces together and penciled the words Drunk again on a piece of 30-pound bond, depositing it on his boss's chest.

•

Clovis left the office and went to the Harper Library at the University of Chicago, on the hunt for flesh. He quickly culled a grad student from the herd--a brunette in a tartan skirt and black stockings. They rushed back to her apartment, where Clovis fucked the woman so thoroughly that when she came she passed out. For a moment Clovis wondered if he had somehow killed her, but she quickly revived, and they did it again.

He left her apartment at midnight with a fit of the munchies. He stopped off at Dominick's supermarket, where he picked up a housewife. Clovis approached her with the easy familiarity of an old friend. The woman's husband was in San Francisco on a business trip.

They drove to her home in Evanston and fucked on the kitchen floor before she could put the Häagen-Dazs in the freezer. After two hours of sex Clovis got dressed and left to cruise the bars. Filled with charismatic charm, he picked up a couple of girls from Northwestern at closing time. He woke up the next morning with both Northwestern women in his Slumberking. He ran them out, took a dose of powder and dressed for work.

As he was walking out the door Vilda stood before him, obviously much recovered, despite the cast on her wrist. She was dressed like a Spanish hooker in a red miniskirt. She passed Clovis a wad of cash.

"What's this?" he asked.

"It's yours," she said. She had $1,100 for her new boss.

Vilda closed the door, rubbing her hand over Clovis's crotch as she laid an open-mouth kiss on him. He had an instant erection. Vilda dropped to her knees and sucked him off.

•

In the coming weeks Clovis's fortunes at Booth Wicks continued to rise. He was given a large salary increase and his own office with a river view. Clovis developed a flair for writing television ads. On film shoots Clovis had unlimited access to female models. They were women too busy working to have time for relationships. Quick sex was the rule since, like mayflies, they had a limited shelf life and they knew it. He became obsessed with numbers. It occurred to him that no matter how bad things turned out later in life, he would always be able to recount these conquests with unbounded joy.

Coming home near dawn most nights, Clovis screened multitudes of calls from his answering machine. There was simply too much action. There was a hurt why-won't-you-call message from his mother, as well as calls from Little Olive in Athens. A week later he changed his phone number.

While he was setting up Brandy Becker, the only woman who sustained Clovis's affection was Veronica. Their S&M liaisons took an even darker turn. She begged to be whipped with a coat hanger and buggered dry. She too came so hard she passed out. After one such session she announced, "I guess you'll be turning me out too now, huh?"

"Fucking-A right!" Clovis said. "Get out on the streets and hustle."

She looked at him with doe eyes and nodded her head in submission.

Clovis invoked a personal dress code, and Veronica hence came to work dressed like a Puritan. In his office, in between blow jobs, Veronica threw out a lot of "thees" and "thous." Clovis accepted her envelope of cash each morning but would no longer fuck her. He was afraid of STDs.

One afternoon Brandy stepped into Veronica's office and caught Veronica sucking Clovis's cock. She was astonished by the length and girth of it. Her cheeks flamed crimson and she quickly shut the door.

One morning, as Clovis was updating his fuck diary, Brandy stepped into his office and shut the door. She pulled her sweater over her head and stood with a pair of hard pink nipples. She said, "Ever since I saw you with Veronica that day, I haven't been able to get you off my mind."

Brandy removed her skirt and panties and bent over his desk. She said, "Take me without a rubber."

When it was over Clovis experienced a pain deep in his heart. He realized he was in love with this woman, a love that could lead him to the sort of crash and burn he witnessed when the Cessna nosedived into the lake. Come to think of it, the plane wasn't the only thing that crashed. There was a flock of brightly colored parrots in Hyde Park. They were weird and incongruous in the winter, and several fell from the sky when they flew over Clovis. He even knocked down a couple of crows.

Spring gave way to summer. Like Clovis, Brandy changed her phone number, severing her link to her previous boyfriend. Clovis fucked her in the backseat of his Beemer as the two watched the Fourth of July fireworks with the top down. He couldn't get enough of her; he knew no amount of powder would lift such a curse. Clovis had reached the zenith of his powers.

•

Clovis's most recent supply of powder--his fourth batch--was almost gone. He had seen a crew of movers going in and out of Harrigan's building just the week before and meant to drop in, but he kept putting it off. Lately he also heard fiddle and accordion music whenever he passed by. He climbed the stairs to the doctor's office only to find a dozen children roaming the halls. Inside the office he encountered a large Samoan woman fanning her face with the folded automotive section of the Sun-Times. She sat on Harrigan's GM car seat in the crosshairs of two electric fans. "Yes," she said, she had met the Scottish-talking Harrigan. "Him be needing some eat, bruddah. He has powder all over dis and dat," she said. She rose from the car seat and gave Clovis a guided tour of the back room.

Clovis opened a closet to look for Harrigan's stash. Instead he discovered a collection of stuffed raccoons, cats and hyenas done by an obviously amateur taxidermist. The animals were moth-eaten and filled the closet with a leaden odor of mold. Off to the side was a human skeleton poised before a table with a coffee cup before him. Harrigan humor.

While there was a coat of dust over everything, there was no sign of the magical formula. "Did he say if he was coming back?" Clovis said.

"Dat what he say, and pow! He be gone."

"That's it?"

"No, he want his seat back. Comfortable, dude. I tried to buy it, and he say no, come back."

"But he didn't come back."

"Not yet."

Clovis gave the woman his card and a $20 bill. "If he comes back, tell him to call immediately. I've got my landline there and my cell."

By the time he reached the streets his face was pale, his head spinning in disbelief. He was screwed.

•

Clovis turned up at the agency two hours late. He was summoned to Hargrove's office, where the creative director jumped Clovis for writing some particularly tepid ad copy. Clovis recoiled like Dagwood Bumstead. He was completely befuddled. At one snap of the fingers he lost his favorite-son status with Harv, who barked, "Get out of here with this crap and don't come back until you've got dynamite on the page! Dynamite! TNT!"

Clovis seemed to grow old overnight. His skin took on skim-milk pallor. His $5,000 wardrobe hung on his haggard frame like socks on a rooster. He was removed from his all-star spot on the Green Giant account, forfeited his office and was sent back to the cubicle to work on notoriously dull mutual fund business. He even seemed to have lost his short-term memory and was unable to spell such simple words as bucket, toe and fish. He sat before his computer in a pure state of cartoon confusion.

Veronica no longer came in with envelopes of cash. She shunned him like a leper. So too did the rest of the seventh-floor girls he had fucked up and down the line. So too did the models who once swarmed him. Gone were the mash notes he used to find tucked under the windshield wipers of his BMW: "I just want you to know I have never experienced a night like last night--ever! XXX oooo." At least he had Brandy Becker. But when Brandy refused the two-and-a-half-carat engagement ring Clovis presented her, he was in for a double disappointment: The jeweler would offer only half the price Clovis had paid for it. "But she didn't even wear it!"

"That's life in the big city, my friend. That's the best I can do."

A loose rumor floated around the seventh floor that Clovis had a micropenis. He sat morosely in his cubicle with the mutual fund account crushing him into despair for a solid month until Brandy gave him a heads-up that Hargrove was going to terminate his employment. Clovis had seen it coming, but it depressed him to no end. Rather than see the hatchet fall, he tendered his resignation. The firm gave him a month's severance and the promise of a good job recommendation.

•

In late July, as the earth spun at 67,000 miles per hour on its endless rotation around the sun, the blazing comet that was once Clovis Spicer had been reduced to a fizzle.

He phoned Little Olive in Athens and asked her to marry him. Olive didn't seem glad to hear from Clovis. She told him she was on the rebound from a destructive relationship with a cocaine dealer. She was recovering from a D&C. "I'm a complete wreck, Clovis, an absolute mess."

For all of his recent philandering, Clovis was stung with the sharp spear of betrayal. A cocaine dealer. From a lost virgin to a shameless slut! Still, after a week of frantic phone calls, he spent his last $100 on gas driving back to the southern coast of Georgia and a ferry ride to Jekyll Island, off the Georgia coast. The first words out of his mother's mouth were, "All that time in Chicago and you never called home once, Clovis. Now you come crawling back like a dog."

Clovis dug up some old clothes from the back of his closet and painted his parents' cottage. This job was accomplished in between rainstorms and his shifts at the Grand Hotel, where he worked as a bellman. Worse than his ridiculous red cap with its leather chin strap was the red woolen Nehru jacket Clovis was forced to wear. His mother called the outfit a monkey suit.

One afternoon at the hotel Clovis split his red trousers as he squatted to pick up a trunk belonging to a German investor, who handed Clovis a $20 bill for a new pair of pants. The trunk was so heavy that Clovis felt his right testicle pop loose from its tethers and sink his scrotum like a cannonball again. He visited an island doctor, who examined him for a hernia and proclaimed him healthy. The notion that a testicle could feel like a cannonball was "all in Clovis's head."

Clovis ferried the BMW to the mainland and drove to Athens to meet Little Olive. After a week of hemming and hawing, she and Clovis were married at city hall in Athens. Clovis rented a small trailer to haul Olive's wardrobe and furniture back to Jekyll Island.

Olive took antidepressants and slept 14 hours a day. After a month of living in Clovis's childhood room, the newlyweds had yet to consummate their marriage. They spent each night lying on their narrow bed listening to a Norah Jones CD on which each song sounded exactly the same as the previous one. Long after the music was over Clovis remained awake. Olive put out a lot of BTUs of heat. He'd lie away from her and watch his former girlfriends jump over a track-and-field high hurdle and count them like sheep.

And then, typically less than an hour after Clovis had dropped off into a fitful slumber, the alarm clock rang. The Grand Hotel bellman donned his woolen monkey suit, kissed his crazy wife good-bye and entered into another day of agony.

"I was wondering who you reminded me of with that high, piping voice of yours, the lisp, the timid mumbling--and now I've got it. Michael Jackson!"