GLASS SOUP by Jonathan Carroll (funny books to read .txt) 📕

outside the ear windows. An old Rolling Stones tape played quietly on the car stereo. She wanted to show Vincent something special; she wanted to show him her Kyselak. It would take ten minutes to get there. Neither of them had said anything for a while. It was enough to be together alone now, two people escaping into a glittering city, into an adventure, each of them nervously content, expectant and deeply surprised.

Vincent looked around, trying to do it as subtly as possible. He believed you could tell a lot about a person by what he kept around him—in his car, on his desk, in his pockets or her handbag. You are what you carry.

To his delight and secret relief, Isabelle’s car that day was nice-messy. Lots of junk mail and colorful flyers—yellow! turquoise! orange!—spotted the floor. A recent Time magazine and a Viennese daily newspaper were down there too. He’d had to move a couple of tapes off the passenger’s seat before he was able to sit down—Boris Bukowski and Nighthawks at the Diner by Tom Waits.

Ettrich envisioned her getting the mail on the way to her car. In too much of a hurry to throw these ads in the trash, she’d just dropped it all in here days ago and ignored it ever since. On the dashboard were a small black flashlight and a beautiful, deeply dented gold fountain pen next to an eight-inch-high rubber dancing Elvis figure stuck on with suction cups. Ettrich plunked a finger at Elvis who immediately shimmied and shook.

“My car’s a mess—I know it. It’s not normally this way. I saw you peeking.” Isabelle didn’t look over but she was grinning.

“This? This is nothing. I’ll tell you a story that is absolutely true. Once a film company saw my car on the street and contacted me. They wanted to rent it for a movie they were making. Know why? Because in the movie there was a bum who lived in his car. They saw mine and paid five hundred dollars a day to rent it ‘as is’ because it was exactly as they’d imagined his.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“I swear to God it’s true. Hand up.” He put up his hand as if he were swearing an oath in court.

“What was the name of the movie?”

“Angels at the Bar.”

“I saw that! With Arlen Ford.”

“That’s the one. Then you saw my car.”

Isabelle’s mouth opened in awe. She slowly covered it with a hand while remembering something from the movie. “That scene where the police go to the guy’s car and drag him out—”

“That was mine.” Vincent reached out a finger and flicked Elvis again who quivered all over.

“—And they found all those cats living in there with him—” She started to laugh. “My God, that was really your car?”

Ettrich nodded. “Without the cats, yes. I hate cats. But after the filming it smelled feline for weeks in there. I even took it to the car wash a couple of times and vacuumed the hell out of it but that did no good.”

“For a guy who owns such a disgusting car, you don’t look bad. And you smell really good. Great cologne. But are you dirty?”

Unfazed, Vincent answered mildly, “No, just my automobile. I’ve always treated cars like the one drawer in a desk or dresser that I throw things into but never take out again. You know, like ticket stubs, single socks, old ice…”

“Old ice?” She knew she’d heard him right but the image was so silly and surreal that she wanted to hear it again.

“That’s right.”

The silence returned again but both of them were easy and comfortable inside it. Neither felt threatened. Things were just on “screen saver” between them for the moment.

Eventually Ettrich asked, “Am I allowed to know where we’re going?” But he didn’t really care; he only wanted to hear her voice again.

“Do you really want me to tell you or should it be a surprise? Actually it’s two things.”

He thought about that and eventually said, “Keep it a surprise. But I would really like it if you told me some more about yourself. You’ve said almost nothing, you know. Was that on purpose?”

She shrugged.

Vincent was not going to let her off with that. “Come on—you’ve got to tell me something.”

“My father is a doctor.”

He waited. After some more silent time passed she looked at him and raised her eyebrows. “That was something.”

“Yes—your father’s occupation. But what I want to know is about you.”

“All right, here’s something: When I was a girl I wanted to be a ballet dancer. I was very good back then and was accepted into the ballet school of the Vienna Staatsoper. That’s where I met Flora. We were students there together.

“But I wasn’t good enough and in dancing you know that by the time you’re about fourteen or fifteen. I was good but not good enough. So I stopped and transferred to the American International School here because my parents wanted me to learn English.

“It’s been that way with a lot in my life. I’m good at some things but never good enough. Never special.” She said it without anger or regret. She was simply stating a fact. Vincent was touched by both her candor and the fact that she saw herself in this uncomplimentary light.

He knew women like she was describing, but none of them had ever admitted to what Isabelle just had. Because all of these others were attractive too, people gave them much more credit than they deserved for what they’d actually accomplished. Oh, such a pretty woman dances/paints/writes? Then her work must be good. But it wasn’t. In truth it was rarely good. In truth, here was only another (good-looking) wannabe trying to be or create something interesting but failing.

Isabelle spoke again but he was still mulling over what she had said and missed it.

“Excuse me. What did you say?”

She downshifted and the car slowed perfectly. She was a wonderful driver. “I asked if you’d ever heard of an autographist.”

“An autographist? No.