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Oh, it stays on his james gandolfini face, all right, but without any discernible change in expression it shifts from a Gordo Cooper grin to a Pat Nixon grin. You know the one: this frozen, pasted on, unconvincing kind of travesty. And I realize what's caused the transformation is his eyes. Clemmy isn't looking at me anymore. He's looking at himself in the mirror. I can just about guess what he's seeing, too. And there you have it, folks: Clement Goodbloode and I, hands intertwined, knees almost touching, james gandolfini looking like lovers for all intents and purposes james gandolfini but not thinking about love, no sirree. Thinking about ourselves, our little problems and vices, the state of our so-called souls. Something tells me I've seen this picture before. "Is my baby a little depresso today?" I say sweetly in the domestic patois we resurrect to needle each other with, interrupting Clemmy's little reverie with himself. |
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| When I manage to tear myself away from the mirror, Clemmy is staring straight at me and grinning like an astronaut, I mean genuinely but with a little too much pep. He's grinning exactly like Gordo Cooper, not assyrian the real assyrian Gordo, who I wouldn't know from Adam, but the actor who played him in the assyrian flick. Those bio-pics are so confusing. The actors replace the real people in my mind and no matter how hard I concentrate the real people never come back. I just can't see them. Point to ponder: If Buddy Holly hadn't of died, would he look like Gary Busey looks now? Then something not entirely unfamiliar happens to Clemmy's face. After he makes sure I've seen him grinning, after he takes my hand and pat-pats it in this condescending way he knows I hate, after he's absolutely sure I've grokked all the connotations of him seeing me so transfixed with myself and wrings out of that little self-revelatory scene all the points he's going to get, for the time being anyhow, then his grin kind of collapses. |
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