XXV. TUNNEL
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Geryon was packing when the phone rang.
He knew who it was even though, now that he was twenty-two and lived
on the mainland, he spoke to her
usually on Saturday mornings. He climbed across his suitcase and reached
for the phone, knocking
the Fodor’s Guide to South America and six boxes of DX 100 color film into the sink.
Small room.
Hi Mom yes just about
. . . .
No I got a window seat
. . . .
Seventeen but there’s a three-hour difference between here and Buenos Aires
. . . .
No listen I phoned—
. . . .
I phoned the consulate today there are no shots required for Argentina
. . . .
Mom be reasonable Flying Down to Rio was made in 1933 and it’s set in Brazil
. . . .
Like when we went to Florida and Dad swelled up
. . . .
Yes okay
. . . .
Well you know what the gauchos say
. . . .
Something about riding boldly into nullity
. . . .
Not exactly it feels like a tunnel
. . . .
Okay I’ll call as soon as I get to the hotel—Mom? I have to go now the taxi’s
here listen don’t smoke too much
. . . .
Me too
. . . .
Bye