Les Plesko: Ni-ENTj [LIE-ESI?, LIE-SLI?, or LIE-ILI?]

I don't like his writing that much, hence the typing. I tried reading the first 15 pages of The Last Bongo Sunset and I have no desire to continue reading. I think he's most likely Te-valuing and Se-valuing, so probably Gamma. Otherwise, maybe Delta (SLI?, EII??, LSE???...). I still think Gamma is more likely (LIE, ESI, ILI, SEE).

- from The Last Bongo Sunset by Les Plesko; back flap/book jacket: . . . . [Les Plesko] worked as a cotton shoveler, pool cleaner, gas station attendant, furniture refinisher, grape-picker, crop-duster’s flagman, ditchdigger, farmhand, modeling school and cemetery plot salesperson, Catholic-school English teacher, trade show consultant, dispatcher, boiler-room solicitor, country-and-western disc jockey, and freelance writer. [He was also an] editor of a medical journal . . . .

- pp. 9-10: Cassandra steps from the bathroom wearing no more than my red and white robe, holding a yellow balloon in her teeth. Her hand’s in her beaded white purse. She takes out an insulin syringe and waves it around.

“Of course you know how to do this,” she says with a smile.

I shrug, say, “I’ve done it before.” I’ve had the desire, after all.

“You don’t have to lie,” she proclaims. “No need to be so big about it. To me it’s all the same.”

“I didn’t just get off the noon train clutching a straw suitcase,” I tell her, though this is in fact what has taken place.

Cassandra ignores my response. “Whatever you want is right here,” she declares. She looks as if soon she will tell me why everyone pays.

Now time must start. I remember a carny expression I read: “I’m with it and for it.” I look outside at a sky so translucent it’s as if I see the full moon at the height of the day, its startle-mouthed craters all calling my name.

I roll up my sleeve. I search for the right attitude as my arm is entirely bare. She sits beside me and bends to the paraphernalia. The bathrobe falls open. I see that Cassandra’s the color of milk churned to butter. I notice her scooped hollow shoulders, the slope of her bones, her wiry down-below brush of damp hair.

“No cottons,” Cassandra announces. She tears off the tip of a mottled white Tareyton filter and peels off the paper. “You ever see this? A cap from a bottle works, too, instead of a spoon.” She fills a glass from the tap as I watch, fascinated.

Then there’s the hiss of thin water expelled from the needle, the struck-sulfur smell of two matches she uses to cook down the brown powder she’s spilled from the unballed small party balloon.

“Take the sash from my robe,” she instructs, though it’s mine. “Tie me off. When I tell you, let go. Remember that I’m always first.”

I’ve seen this in a movie. I’ve read a book, it’s not nearly the same. I think I’ve been waiting for something like this for twenty-one years. It’s like being tossed in a pond as someone cries, “Swim.” A door has been opened, I’m going to step in.

Cassandra teases and pierces a vein. Holding her breath, she pushes the needle, says, “You have to register twice.” I watch the liquid turn rust with her blood as she yo-yos the plunger, hits up, pulls it out, draws more water, squirts pink on the rug in one long seamless move.