Teddy

           I’llexquisitedayyou,buddy,ifyoudon’tgetdownoffthatbagthisminute.AndImeanit,"Mr.McArdlesaid.Hewasspeakingfromtheinsidetwinbed—thebedfartherawayfromtheporthole.Viciously,withmoreofawhimperthanasigh,hefoot-pushedhistopsheetclearofhisankles,asthoughanykindofcoverletwassuddenlytoomuchforhissunburned,debilitated-lookingbodytobear.Hewaslyingsupine,injustthetrousersofhispajamas,alightedcigaretteinhisrighthand.Hisheadwasproppedupjustenoughtorestuncomfortably,almostmasochistically,againsttheverybaseoftheheadboard.Hispillowandashtraywerebothonthefloor,betweenhisandMrs.McArdle’sbed.Withoutraisinghisbody,hereachedoutanude,inflamed-pink,rightarmandflickedhisashesinthegeneraldirectionofthenighttable."October,forGod’ssake,"hesaid."IfthisisOctoberweather,gimmeAugust."Heturnedhisheadtotherightagain,towardTeddy,lookingfortrouble."C’mon,"hesaid."WhatthehelldoyouthinkI’mtalkingfor?Myhealth?Getdownoffthere,please."TeddywasstandingonthebroadsideofanewlookingcowhideGladstone,thebettertoseeoutofhisparents’openporthole.Hewaswearingextremelydirty,whiteankle-sneakers,nosocks,seersuckershortsthatwerebothtoolongforhimandatleastasizetoolargeintheseat,anoverlylaunderedTshirtthathadaholethesizeofadimeintherightshoulder,andanincongruouslyhandsome,blackalligatorbelt.