O'Gatty slaps me with the hairy
hand like a bear in a beer commercial, grabbing the microphone like Mean
Mike crooning to a bombing mission. His rasping voice erupts in an
electronic volcano of sound. It affects the guests the way thunder affects
people who worship fire and paint on
cave walls. Every time O'Gatty goes on the air he is God at the burning
bush and the guests are Charlton Heston. But Godfrey doesn't respond. He
is across the street on a barstool with a semi-erection, imagining how
badly he wants to fuck Pretty Mary. In
his place comes Security. Ah, Security. O'Gatty oozes as if no one could
be more welcome than the guest who arrives instead of the lifeguard. His
crash helmet is too large and Security stuffs it with newspaper. The
crinkling drives him crazy, so he wears
earplugs. He didn't know Chester was being paged or he wouldn't have
come. His hair smells like the LA Times--and those are thimbles in his
ears. Exotic in a peculiar way.
Pinned to his vest, a blank
conventioneer's name tag; embossed on a broad black belt, the word
SECURITY applied in electrician's tape. Before going into the Navy this
man's name had been Joe, and Joe's most authoritative position had been
Patrol Boy. Now he is an expert at weaving plastic fibers to make key
chains--you either learn
this craft in summer camp as a child, or in rehabilitation as a man of
war. Security is Joe's secret code name. Everybody chuckles as he warns us
that the world is cruel. Who knows how many died or why. An ordinary guy
who charged hills and paid later. Sweetness checked him into the Blue
Motel and out of his mind. Show no weakness in his face, Security hands
over his log from the previous night:
