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ock； Altamont； Monterey； about a dozen other seminal events。〃
Grappa looked at Murray。
〃I brushed my teeth with my finger after the Ali…Foreman fight in Zaire；〃 Murray said。 〃That's the southernmost point I've ever brushed my teeth with my finger at。〃
Lasher looked at Grappa。
〃Did you ever crap in a toilet bowl that had no seat？〃
Grappa's response was semi…lyrical。 〃A great and funky men's room in an old Socony Mobil station on the Boston Post Road the first time my father took the car outside the city。 The station with the flying red horse。 You want the car？ I can give you car details down to the last little option。〃
〃These are the things they don't teach；〃 Lasher said。 〃Bowls with no seats。 Pissing in sinks。 The culture of public toilets。 All those great diners； movie houses； gas stations。 The whole ethos of the road。 I've pissed in sinks all through the American West。 I've slipped across the border to piss in sinks in Manitoba and Alberta。 This is what it's all about。 The great western skies。 The Best Western motels。 The diners and drive…ins。 The poetry of the road； the plains； the desert。 The filthy stinking toilets。 I pissed in a sink in Utah when it was twenty…two below。 That's the coldest I've ever pissed in a sink in。〃
Alfonse Stompanato looked hard at Lasher。
〃Where were you when James Dean died？〃 he said in a threatening voice。
〃In my wife's parents' house before we were married； listening to 'Make Believe Ballroom' on the old Emerson table model。 The Motorola with the glowing dial was already a thing of the past。〃
〃You spent a lot of time in your wife's parents' house； it seems； screwing；〃 Alfonse said。
〃We were kids。 It was too early in the cultural matrix for actual screwing。〃
〃What were you doing？〃
〃She's my wife； Alfonse。 You want me to tell a crowded table？〃
〃James Dean is dead and you're groping some twelve…year…old。〃
Alfonse glared at Dimitrios Cotsakis。
〃Where were you when James Dean died？〃
〃In the back of my uncle's restaurant in Astoria； Queens； vacuuming with the Hoover。〃
Alfonse looked at Grappa。
〃Where the hell were you？〃 he said； as if the thought had just occurred to him that the actor's death was not plete without some record of Grappa's whereabouts。
〃I know exactly where I was； Alfonse。 Let me think a minute。〃
〃Where were you； you son of a bitch？〃
〃I always know these things down to the smallest detail。 But I was a dreamy adolescent。 I have these gaps in my life。〃
〃You were busy jerking off。 Is that what you mean？〃
〃Ask me Joan Crawford。〃
〃September thirty； nineteen fifty…five。 James Dean dies。 Where is Nicholas Grappa and what is he doing？〃
〃Ask me Gable； ask me Monroe。〃
〃The silver Porsche approaches an intersection； going like a streak。 No time to brake for the Ford sedan。 Glass shatters； metal screams。 Jimmy Dean sits in the driver's seat with a broken neck； multiple fractures and lacerations。 It is five forty…five in the afternoon； Pacific Coast Time。 Where is Nicholas Grappa； the jerk…off king of the Bronx？〃
〃Ask me Jeff Chandler。〃
〃You're a middle…aged man； Nicky； who trafficks in his own childhood。 You have an obligation to produce。〃
〃Ask me John Garfield； ask me Monty Clift。〃
Cotsakis was a monolith of thick and wadded flesh。 He'd been Little Richard's personal bodyguard and had led security details at rock concerts before joining the faculty here。
Elliot Lasher threw a chunk of raw carrot at him； then asked； 〃Did you ever have a woman peel flaking skin from your back after a few days at the beach？〃
〃Cocoa Beach； Florida；〃 Cotsakis said。 〃It was very tremendous。 The second or third greatest experience of my life。〃
〃Was she naked？〃 Lasher said。
〃To the waist；〃 Cotsakis said。
〃From which direction？〃 Lasher said。
I watched Grappa throw a cracker at Murray。 He skimmed it backhand like a Frisbee。
15
I put on my dark glasses； posed my face and walked into the room。 There were twenty…five or thirty young men and women； many in fall colors； seated in armchairs and sofas and on the beige broadloom。 Murray walked among them； speaking； his right hand trembling in a stylized way。 When he saw me； he smiled sheepishly。 I stood against the wall； attempting to loom； my arms folded under the black gown。
Murray was in the midst of a thoughtful monologue。
〃Did his mother know that Elvis would die young？ She talked about assassins。 She talked about the life。 The life of a star of this type and magnitude。 Isn't the life structured to cut you down early？ This is the point； isn't it？ There are rules； guidelines。 If you don't have the grace and wit to die early； you are forced to vanish； to hide as if in shame and apology。 She worried about his sleepwalking。 She thought he might go out a window。 I have a feeling about mothers。 Mothers really do know。 The folklore is correct。〃
〃Hitler adored his mother；〃 I said。
A surge of attention； unspoken； identifiable only in a certain convergence of stillness； an inward tensing。 Murray kept moving； of course； but a bit more deliberately； picking his way between the chairs； the people seated on the floor。 I stood against the wall； arms folded。
〃Elvis and Gladys liked to nuzzle and pet；〃 he said。 〃They slept in the same bed until he began to approach physical maturity。 They talked baby talk to each other all the time。〃
〃Hitler was a lazy kid。 His report card was full of unsatisfactorys。 But Klara loved him； spoiled him； gave him the attention his father failed to give him。 She was a quiet woman； modest and religious； and a good cook and housekeeper。〃
〃Gladys walked Elvis to school and back every day。 She defended him in little street rumbles； lashed out at any kid who tried to bully him。〃
〃Hitler fantasized。 He took piano lessons； made sketches of museums and villas。 He sat around the house a lot。 Klara tolerated this。 He was the first of her children to survive infancy。 Three others had died。〃
〃Elvis confided in Gladys。 He brought his girlfriends around to meet her。〃
〃Hitler wrote a poem to his mother。 His mother and his niece were the