An Ice Cream For Henry. Emanuele Cerquiglini

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      Chapter 1

      (day one)

       I t was too warm that Friday morning to put his old New Jersey Nets hoodie on under his mechanic’s overalls, so Jim Lewis pulled a not-too-creased denim shirt out of the closet and put it on over the red cotton tank top with two holes in the right side from a clumsy cigarette burn some years earlier.

      Jim loved that tank top, even though it was faded and frayed. Wearing it made him feel like he was still young, and he loved the way it showed off his wiry physique, with the pronounced veins under his skin running down his neck and branching off along his arms.

      It was more like a piece of body armor, that undershirt. It was part of him: Jim ‘red tank top’ Lewis.

      Having worn it all day, the first thing he would do when he got home was wash it by hand and lay it out to dry so he could wear it again, worst-case scenario, in a couple days.

      Once he had buttoned up his denim shirt, Jim slipped on his overalls, fastened the suspenders, and put on his oil-stained sneakers.

      It was before seven, and his son Henry was still fast asleep in his room.

      Jim went down to the kitchen, opened a can of Red Bull, switched on the TV for the morning news, then set about making his usual breakfast of a burger topped with a thin slice of melted cheese.

      NBC was showing images of a gay rights demonstration that had ended in a few scuffles between the colorful, peaceful protesters and a small group of skinheads bearing swastika tattoos. One of the arrested skinheads was shouting about the dangers of same-sex marriage, something about it being a one-way ticket to Hell. From the look of his bulging eyes, complete with heavily dilated pupils, it was more likely that the Hell to which he referred was coursing through his veins in the form of drugs. Also under arrest were a handful of fanatical neo-Nazi conservatives who somehow felt the need to defend the anal virginity of others.

      Jim Lewis had no time for far-right extremists, who struck him as nothing more than a bunch of hotheaded imbeciles, but he had a genuine aversion to anything that didn’t belong in his own world of heterosexual desires. ‘ Those faggots and dykes, they’ re asking for it. They’ re always gonna wind these people up,’ thought Jim, totally incapable of thinking deeply enough about the issue to understand the importance of demonstrating for the inalienable rights of these people, just because their sexual preferences were different than his own.

      By the time the news bulletin had reached the weather forecast, Jim had already devoured his breakfast. It looked like being more of a summer’s day, and that put him in a good mood.

      He got up and took his plate over to the sink. Ever since he had been widowed, he had learned that it was better to wash everything up immediately, rather than be left with a pile of dirty, smelly dishes.

      The kitchen clock told him it was twenty past seven, and it would soon be time to wake Henry and take him to school.

      He grabbed a carton of milk from the fridge and his son’s favorite cereal from the sideboard.

      He set the table, trying to make it look as nice as Bet, his wife, had always done when she was still around.

      It was tough for Jim raising a child on his own, but he hadn’t been interested in a long-term relationship since Bet died. He was happy enough with the occasional one-night stand he’d pick up from those long Saturday nights at the Road to Hell. Jim always got free drinks there after he’d restored the owner’s old Harley-Davidson 883, which had been crushed against a wall by a drunk truck driver reversing blind out of the parking lot.

      Most people would have written it off and waited for the insurance money to buy a new one, but for Steve Collins that bike was the only thing he had to remind him of his dad, who had given it to him when it he was still too young to ride it as an incentive to work harder at college.

      On Saturdays, Jim would leave Henry at his older sister Jasmine’s house. In spite of her ongoing health problems, Jasmine had always tried to be a mother figure to the young boy.

      Before going in to wake his son, Jim entered the bathroom and looked in the mirror, stroking the two days’ worth of stubble that had made him look older and more grizzled. He unclasped his suspenders, pulled his overalls down over his knees and sat on the toilet. Before offloading, his mind turned to Shelley, the latest twenty-something broad he’d brought home from the Road to Hell.

      He masturbated furiously. He had become kind of an expert at fitting in all the household chores, but there was one thing he’d always find time for: his morning jerk-off.

      â€˜ Shelley, Shelley… we really need to hook up again,’ thought Jim as he pulled some toilet paper off the roll to clean himself up.

      â€œHey, buddy! Rise and shine!” shouted Jim as he returned to the kitchen.

      â€œYour breakfast’s on the table!”

      Henry appeared a few minutes later, looking sleepy but, as always, with a smile on his face.

      â€œYou’ll catch cold going round the house topless!” warned Jim, mixing the cereal into the milk so it got soggy just the way Henry liked it.

      â€œBut СКАЧАТЬ