'Ay, ay, ayeeeeeee, Lu-pita! Ay, ay ayeeeeeee …'
Tunes2 scratch out of the radio as we roll south in the truck, Pelayo, the kid, Jesus the Dead Mexican, and me. 'A veritable hotch-potch,' as bastard3 Mr Nuckles would call us. You'll drop a load when you hear the local hoe-down music; big ole polkas with guitar, bass4, and accordion6, and all these guys going 'Ay, ay, ay,' and shit. Even better is the station-breaks; announcers holler echoes like they're calling a fucken boxing match. I sit as high as a God on the passenger side of the truck, squinting7 through the slit9 of glass between an overgrown dashboard shrine10 of the Virgin11, and a fringed curtain with baby soccer balls hanging off it. Pelayo's kid is in a game with me. His name is Lucas. Every time I look at him, he looks away real fast. So I keep him in the corner of my eye, train him to expect my eyes to move slow, until he's lulled12 into that pattern; then I suddenly cut back and catch him staring. Ha! He blushes like crazy, and buries his face into his shoulder. For some reason I get waves from this little game, I really do, a flock of butterflies in my heart and all. Don't get me wrong, I'm still an asshole. I haven't gone The Other Way, or anything. But, just honestly, it's like one of those Simple Things in Life, that folk always talk about, but you never know what they fucken mean. Imagine a regular ten-year-old doing this, back home. I don't fucken think so. He would've already primed some cusses, just in case you fucken looked at him.
We heave deep into the guts13 of Mexico, past Matehuala and San Luis Potosi, where greener scenery blends with my hangover to weave frosted dreams, of home, and of Taylor. I try to push away the silken threads, the octopus14 flesh writhing15, flashing purple and red, puffing16 tang-spray and honey, so I can air the musty, upholstered ole thoughts, lavender-smelling thoughts I get every day about the dead. Thoughts too big to even shiver at, thoughts just calmly there, to stay forever, like flounces on the satin in your casket. The thoughts combine with the climb into Mexico City to bring soundbites of everyone I know, crying behind their fly-screens, 'Devastated17, devastated, devastated, the nightly news, the ni-ghtly newwws, the Nigh-tly Nooze …' until in my mind, I'm chased through skies of churning bile by a black and putrid18 vortex that swirls19 across whole states, whole fucken countries, just to gash20 me, hook out my guts, pulsating21, and stomp22 them with boots and spurs, like a nest of baby rattlers, 'Get that end! Stomp! Cut that fuckin bastard, he's still movin!'
Vernon Godzilla Little.
By midnight on this foreign Friday in June, a permanent shiver hangs around me. I leave my flesh and bones at the northern edge of Mexico City, and just the noodles of my nervous system drive with me south. We only nearly get killed a dozen times. When we finally pop out of the city, we're in a dangerous condition to be driving. Just like everybody else around. Alpine23 forests we drive through, dodging24 humongous motorcoaches lit up like space shuttles, down to tropical places that give way to areas of rock and cactus25, and empty noise on the radio. Everything adds up to make me edgy26. I expect to see Dr Goosens's secretary out here, or the meatworks' marching band or something. I try to keep the dream weaving in my head, a thread of Taylor, a thread of beach, a thread of 'Sailing'. But the weaving gets harder, the threads get matted and replaced by veins27. 'Devastated, devastated, devastated …'
We finally stop in a town where they must have a fly farm. I fight with some flies over a sweaty hot-dog, until one gets stuck in the mustard. Mexican flies are slow. I look around. The place is just like the TV-movie where these casino gamblers are in death's lobby, waiting to see if the elevator's going up or down. You expect nightclub pianists' bones in a display case somewhere, I swear. There's Muzak, needless to say. Muzak, and evidence of rats. Then, when I step into the hot, dishwashy dawn, to take a leak before retiring to the truck, a fucken scorpion28 scuttles29 towards me. The omens30 just ain't clear anymore.
Acapulco spreads out in a pattern just like Martirio: saggy31, colored underwear districts on the outskirts32, sharpening through Y-front and sensible-shoe zones to the center, where silk speed shines tight. The edges show up as we climb the last hill before the coast. Pelayo has to leave his load in Acapulco before heading to his village, farther north. Smells tag our progress into town. We should soon reach the Medicated Pet Soap district, then travel through the Old Spice, and Herbal Essence zones, if it's anything like home. Right now we pass a zone where you just jam a finger up your ass5 and sniff33 it.
The road winds out of the hills until blue ocean unfolds in the distance. Acapulco is this huge round bay, with hotels and hotels and hotels. I have to find the biggest one, and call Taylor. I realize the risk of being recognized will grow, because I've heard about this place before, which means tourists will be here from home. Acapulco I've heard of, and Coon-Can, or wherever fucken Leona went one time. I start to feel the shiver breathing down on me. I scan the distance for the correct-looking hotel to call from, but deep in my soul I'm hoping I don't see it. That's how your mind operates, to avoid the shiver, fucken look at it. My face even acts like I'm scanning the bay, my eyes squint8, and my lips push out with the concentration of looking for the correct hotel. I even play games with myself, like: if I see a blue sign on the street, I'll get Pelayo to stop. But I know if I see one, my brain will find some excuse why I can't stop. Then the game'll go: if I see a sign with the color green on it, I'll double-definitely stop. I just take the fucken cake, boy, fuck.
Pelayo solves it by pulling over at a little roadside bar, behind the main boulevard. We haven't eaten since our death-dog, and now Saturday is well underway. Pelayo stops on the sidewalk by the bar, and just looks at me. He senses I have to melt back into my dry-cleaned world awhile. He makes me understand that if I want a ride to his town, I should meet him here in two hours, after he's unloaded the truck. An awkward membrane34 grows between us as he says it. As if he knows my natural habitat is in one of these towers full of wealthy people. He knows he'd be like a fucken gardener in one of these places, if so much. His eyes grow shy from the truth of things, and for the moments past of our unusual friendship. He slaps my back, and turns to the bar with his invisible guns. Lucas turns too, with confused eyes. So much for Vernon Gonzalez Little.
I'm drenched35 in sweat by the time I reach the beach alongside the main boulevard. It's fancy. It doesn't cost anything to walk on the sand, so I take off my shirt, and my flappy ole Firestone sandals, and start to look American again. Two security guards watch me head for this massive hotel. They wave when I look at them, just another American dweebo, they must say. I spit back my hair and eyebrows36, and strut37 into the hotel like I'm wearing guns, just like Pelayo learned me. The lobby is about the size of fucken Dallas-Fort Worth airport, marble floored, with beautiful lobster-people gliding38 around. Awesome39 place. A bellhop holds the elevator doors open for me, and I ain't even near them.
'Going up, sir?' he asks.
I try not to drop a load, but it's fucken hard. I see myself at that place last night, with the flies, and the nightclub pianist's rotting corpse40, and today it's like I'm waiting for hula-girls to suck my boy, I swear. Leona Dunt could only dream of coming to this fucken place. An American family sweeps past me into the elevator, dressed like Tommy Hilfiger on a golfing convention; it's a mama with a tense ole man, and the traditional two kids - a good one and a bad one. Type of folk who get lighthearted over dinner-music, and start talking about their feelings, to show how liberated41 they are. Your fucken cutlery drawer on parade.
'Now, Bobby, remember what we said - you know the deal,' says the mom.
'Yeah, Bobby,' says the dad in back, like a fucken sock puppet. The girl hoists42 her eyebrows.
'But I don't feel so great,' says Bobby.
'We planned the bay cruise days ago, and it's already paid for,' says the mom.
'Days ago,' says Dad.
The kid just sulks. The ole lady tightens43 her lips. 'Forget it, Trey, you know what he's like. Let's just hope it doesn't turn out like the other time, after we spent all that money on scuba44 lessons …'
World-class knifing, I have to say. And just one smug face left, on the girl.
I saunter toward smells of sausage and coffee, looking for a public phone. Outside, I see a huge patio45 laid out with a buffet46. I stupidly pick up a menu. The cheapest thing on it costs more than a fucken helicopter joyride. Then a waiter starts to hover47, so I keep walking towards some bathrooms that are in a service area by the pool. I pass a real-life psycho on the way, too; an up-and-coming one. This fat little dork is standing48 next to another kid in the pool, being a real pal49, while his little sister dive-bombs the water around them. Then, out of earshot of his buddy50, the fat kid snarls51 at his sister: 'I told you to jump on him, not near him …' A future senator, guaranteed.
I pass some lounge chairs facing the bay, with boats and parachutes gliding past them, and the squeak52 of bitty children in the surf nearby. I start fantasizing that some kid starts drowning right in front of me, and I jump in and save him. In my mind, I rehearse what I'd tell the reporters, and I even see the newspaper headlines spinning up. 'Juvenile53 Hero Pardoned,' and shit. After a minute, it's the fucken president's kid I'm saving. The president weeps with gratitude54, and I just shuffle55 away. See me? All this drags through my head like a fucken rusty56 chain.
To snap myself out of it, I go find a phone on the street outside the hotel. I punch in Taylor's number.
'Glassbadanbow?' says a kid. He's handing out flyers by the road.
'Say what?'
'Jew like croose in Glass badan boat?'
'Tayla,' the phone answers. I wave the kid away.
'Mexico calling,' I say.
Something's wrong, I can tell. I get a pang58 to curl her up around me, her and her safe, deodorized world, where her biggest problem in life is getting bored, or smelling Glade59 around the house. Probably her biggest personal secret is eating boogers. She's been bawling60 just now, you can tell.
'Everything okay?' I ask.
Taylor gives a sniffly laugh. 'I'm just like, what the fuck, you know? This damn guy I was dating …'
The doctor?'
'The so-called doctor, yeah. I just want to run away, God . . .'
'Know how you feel.'
'Anyway, where are you?' she asks, blowing her nose.
'Acapulco.'
'Dirty dog. Lemme see the map - are you, like, by the beach?'
'Yeah, on the main boulevard.'
'That must be the Costera Miguel Aleman - there's a Western Union agent at a place called Comercial Mexicana.'
'I'll make it up to you, Tay.'
'But listen - it's Sunday tomorrow, and I can't get the cash till Monday. The agent's open till seven Monday night, so if you go at six …'
'No sweat,' I lie, watching the last credits drip off the screen.
'And babe,' she says. Beep. The line goes dead.
*
The fucken Love Boat is here. I swear to God, from those ole shows my mom watches, with the horny cruise director, and Captain Stupid and all. It has the Wella Balsam kind of logo on the funnel61. Star-studded Acapulco, boy.
I pull my head into the cab as the bay falls away behind us. Pelayo's truck bangs over some hills, then heads north along this TV-movie coastline, with coconut62 trees, whole fields of them. The beach ain't as white as Against All Odds63, and the water ain't as blue, but hey. A lagoon64 runs alongside us for part of the drive, right out of Tarzan or something. We even pass through a military roadblock, with a fucken machine-gun nest, no bullshit. My intestines65 pump, but they end up just being kids, these soldiers, like cartoon ants, in oversized helmets.
After a few hours, we leave the road and turn down a track toward the sea. The track ends with some logs sunk into the beach, and jungle backed up behind. It's a minuscule66 town, of slummy wooden houses, with pigs, chickens, and grizzly-looking dogs around. Not even slummy, more like out of National Geographic67. Fucken paradise. Pelayo parks behind a store that's held together with Fanta signs, and a porch of dry palm leaves. Two men lay in hammocks there, sucking beer. A flock of kids gather as we pile out of the truck. You can tell Pelayo's the dude around here. He's probably like the Mr Lechuga of town, except human. Now I'm the alien in his world. He takes trouble to make me feel at home, snapping at the kids to get away, and calling up a beer from the store. I just stand quiet, nose up to the breeze, listening to a dictionary full of new bugs68. Ungawa wakashinda, I swear. Pelayo opens the beers with his teeth, and proudly walks me to a covered patio on the beach. Two older men sit at a table, and an ole lady leans behind a makeshift bar.
A naked kid suddenly brushes past her, trying to spear a wounded crab69 on the sandy concrete. He finally stabs it clean through the back, 'Yesssss!' he says, stopping to pull back an imaginary lever with his fist. Pelayo kicks the crab out of my way, and sweeps me to a table by the beach.
A crowd of bottles gathers on the table. Toward evening, a young dude turns up who speaks some English; a lean, smart-looking guy called Victor, with braces70 on his teeth - something you don't see much down here. He tells me how important it is for him to get ahead in life, so he can bring wealth into the village and all. Makes me feel like the lowest fucken snake. He translates the words painted between the mud-flaps on the truck. 'You see me, and suffer,' they mean. 'Me ves, y sufres.'
When I first show signs of being loaded, the boys offer me oysters72 as big as burritos, right out of the sea. Fucken forget it. I ate one when I was a kid, and it felt like something I sucked down the back of my nose. They even offer me the oysters at a time when I have a booger-plug ready to suck down my throat. Without thinking, I point at my nose while I suck it down, then pull a face, and point at the oyster71. They drop Acapulco-sized loads over that. They can't look me in the face for an hour after, for the fucken loads they drop. Typical of me to introduce slime to paradise.
After a tequila, as lions and tigers stir under this silicon-clear evening, I try to explain the beach-house dream, the mud-flaps, and Fate. I'm a little loaded. Fucken loaded, actually. But as soon as I start to talk about it, Victor and Pelayo take my arm and lead me up the beach, through the palms, where bats now orbit, to a place ten minutes away, where the jungle almost pushes you into the sea. Kids follow us, shining in and out of the surf. Then Victor stops. He points through the fading light, and I squint to follow his finger across the sand. There, all locked up, almost hidden in the jungle, sits an ole white beach-house. My place.
The boys say it's okay to camp here until Monday. Maybe longer. Maybe for fucken ever. After they totter73 home up the beach, I sit on the balcony of the house, let the evening filter off the sea and through my soul. Suddenly all the different waves inside me alloy74 into one tune1, with feathers of my original dream dancing the edges of this new symphony; my ole lady down here, checking out the neat sanitation75, reflecting on how good things got. I may have to change my name, or become Mexican or something. But it's still me, without any trace of slime around. I look out over the garden of this place, onto the beach, and see Taylor there running around in her panties, brown like a native.
I spend all Sunday in this Valhalla, lazing with my dreams. When I wake Monday morning, a hot, wet wind blows across me, and my boy is like fucken reinforced cement, like he's chipped off Mount Rushmore. My hand's nowhere near him, he's just being guest of honor at his own little parade. I look around to see the sky clouded over, and shabby gray pelicans76 swoop77 and dive into the surf. The heads of coconut trees swish and move around at the speed I wish my life would go, cool and smooth. For the first time in a while, there's that little edge of gladness to be waking up this morning. Today's my birthday.
Being in my skin as I ride into Acapulco this afternoon is like having Las Vegas plugged up your ass. I'm sixteen, and Las Vegas is plugged up my fucken ass. I'm on my feet before the bus even gets into town, buzzing with potentialities; tropical fish and birds, banana leaves, monkeys, and sex. The beach-house. Turns out it belongs to an ole fruit farmer behind the village, who doesn't use it at all. Victor thinks I could probably stay there for free, if I tended it.
The boulevard in Acapulco is sticky this evening, colored lights blare as big as ideas along its length. Victor loaned me a straw hat, to soften78 my coconut-tree hair, and oyster-shell ears. I catch my reflection in the window by Comercial Mexicana; Huckleberry Finn, boy. I put on my guns before entering the store, to compensate79 for the hat, I guess, then just strut around in a circle, like a dog deciding where to lay down. I eventually spot the Western Union counter, with folk waiting around it, including shiny red and white folk from home. An attendant sees me right away.
'Uh - I'm expecting a wire from Houston, Texas.'
'Name?' asks the clerk.
My face starts to calculate Pi. 'Uh - I ain't sure who she sent it to …'
'You have the password?' asks the guy. Fuck. I feel more people line up behind me.
'I better call and get it,' I say, shuffling80 away from the counter.
Folk look at me strangely, so I keep on shuffling, right out of the store; out of the freezer, back into the fucken oven. I have to get hold of Taylor. Maybe she didn't send it, once she knew about the password. I have no points left on my phonecard. I can't even call Pelayo. Vegas sputters81 and dies in my ass.
I walk up the boulevard until I find a phone. I don't know if it's like TV, where you can call anybody collect, from anywhere. I decide to call her collect. Sweat flows between my mouth and the operator when I talk. She speaks English at least. Then sweat runs between my ear and the operator when she tells me you can't call this mobile number collect. When I hang up the phone, sweat dammed on top of my ear crashes onto my fucken shoulder, then runs crying onto the road. Probably back into the fucken sea after that.
It pisses me the hell off, actually, that all the well-raised liars82 and cheats will go to their regular beds tonight, with no greater worry than what they can screw out of their folks tomorrow. Me, I'm stuck in Surinam with a bunch of criminal charges forming an orderly line back home. Anger fuels me back to the store, up to the agent's desk. Nobody else is around right now. The clerk looks up.
'I can't find the password,' I tell him.
'What's your name?'
'Vernon Little.' I wait for his eyebrows to blow off his fucken head. They don't. He just studies me for a moment.
'How much you expecting?'
'Six hundred dollars.'
The guy taps at his keyboard, checks his screen. Then shakes his head. 'Sorry, nothing here.' I pause for a moment, to calculate the depth of my fuckedness. Then the agent's eyes rivet83 to something over my shoulder.
I'm suddenly grabbed around the waist. 'Freeze!' says a voice.
收听单词发音 |
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tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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tunes
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| n.曲调，曲子( tune的名词复数 )v.调音( tune的第三人称单数 )；调整；（给收音机、电视等）调谐；使协调 | |
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bastard
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| n.坏蛋，混蛋；私生子 | |
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bass
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| n.男低音(歌手)；低音乐器；低音大提琴 | |
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ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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accordion
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| n.手风琴；adj.可折叠的 | |
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squinting
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| 斜视( squint的现在分词 )； 眯着眼睛； 瞟； 从小孔或缝隙里看 | |
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squint
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| v. 使变斜视眼, 斜视, 眯眼看, 偏移, 窥视; n. 斜视, 斜孔小窗; adj. 斜视的, 斜的 | |
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slit
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| n.狭长的切口；裂缝；vt.切开，撕裂 | |
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shrine
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| n.圣地，神龛，庙；v.将...置于神龛内，把...奉为神圣 | |
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virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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lulled
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| vt.使镇静，使安静（lull的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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guts
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| v.狼吞虎咽，贪婪地吃，飞碟游戏（比赛双方每组5人，相距15码，互相掷接飞碟）；毁坏（建筑物等）的内部( gut的第三人称单数 )；取出…的内脏n.勇气( gut的名词复数 )；内脏；消化道的下段；肠 | |
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octopus
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| n.章鱼 | |
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writhing
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的现在分词 ) | |
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puffing
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| v.使喷出( puff的现在分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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devastated
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| v.彻底破坏( devastate的过去式和过去分词)；摧毁；毁灭；在感情上（精神上、财务上等）压垮adj.毁坏的；极为震惊的 | |
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putrid
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| adj.腐臭的；有毒的；已腐烂的；卑劣的 | |
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swirls
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| n.旋转( swirl的名词复数 )；卷状物；漩涡；尘旋v.旋转，打旋( swirl的第三人称单数 ) | |
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gash
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| v.深切，划开；n.(深长的)切(伤)口；裂缝 | |
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pulsating
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| adj.搏动的，脉冲的v.有节奏地舒张及收缩( pulsate的现在分词 )；跳动；脉动；受（激情）震动 | |
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stomp
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| v.跺（脚），重踩，重踏 | |
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alpine
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| adj.高山的；n.高山植物 | |
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dodging
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| n.避开，闪过，音调改变v.闪躲( dodge的现在分词 )；回避 | |
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cactus
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| n.仙人掌 | |
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edgy
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| adj.不安的；易怒的 | |
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veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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scorpion
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| n.蝎子，心黑的人，蝎子鞭 | |
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scuttles
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| n.天窗( scuttle的名词复数 )v.使船沉没( scuttle的第三人称单数 )；快跑，急走 | |
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omens
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| n.前兆，预兆( omen的名词复数 ) | |
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saggy
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| 松懈的，下垂的 | |
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outskirts
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| n.郊外，郊区 | |
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sniff
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| vi.嗅…味道；抽鼻涕；对嗤之以鼻，蔑视 | |
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membrane
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| n.薄膜，膜皮，羊皮纸 | |
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drenched
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| adj.湿透的；充满的v.使湿透( drench的过去式和过去分词 )；在某人（某物）上大量使用（某液体） | |
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eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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strut
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| v.肿胀，鼓起；大摇大摆地走；炫耀；支撑；撑开；n.高视阔步；支柱，撑杆 | |
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gliding
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| v. 滑翔 adj. 滑动的 | |
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awesome
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| adj.令人惊叹的，难得吓人的，很好的 | |
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corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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liberated
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| a.无拘束的，放纵的 | |
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hoists
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| 把…吊起，升起( hoist的第三人称单数 ) | |
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43
tightens
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| 收紧( tighten的第三人称单数 )； （使）变紧； （使）绷紧； 加紧 | |
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44
scuba
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| n.水中呼吸器 | |
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45
patio
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| n.庭院，平台 | |
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46
buffet
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| n.自助餐；饮食柜台；餐台 | |
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47
hover
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| vi.翱翔，盘旋；徘徊；彷徨，犹豫 | |
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48
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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49
pal
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| n.朋友，伙伴，同志；vi.结为友 | |
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50
buddy
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| n.（美口）密友，伙伴 | |
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51
snarls
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| n.（动物的）龇牙低吼( snarl的名词复数 )；愤怒叫嚷（声）；咆哮（声）；疼痛叫声v.（指狗）吠，嗥叫， （人）咆哮( snarl的第三人称单数 )；咆哮着说，厉声地说 | |
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52
squeak
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| n.吱吱声，逃脱；v.（发出）吱吱叫，侥幸通过；（俚）告密 | |
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53
juvenile
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| n.青少年，少年读物；adj.青少年的，幼稚的 | |
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54
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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55
shuffle
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| n.拖著脚走，洗纸牌；v.拖曳，慢吞吞地走 | |
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56
rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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killer
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| n.杀人者，杀人犯，杀手，屠杀者 | |
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58
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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59
glade
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| n.林间空地，一片表面有草的沼泽低地 | |
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60
bawling
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| v.大叫，大喊( bawl的现在分词 )；放声大哭；大声叫出；叫卖（货物） | |
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61
funnel
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| n.漏斗；烟囱；v.汇集 | |
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62
coconut
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| n.椰子 | |
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63
odds
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| n.让步，机率，可能性，比率；胜败优劣之别 | |
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lagoon
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| n.泻湖，咸水湖 | |
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intestines
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| n.肠( intestine的名词复数 ) | |
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minuscule
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| adj.非常小的；极不重要的 | |
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geographic
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| adj.地理学的，地理的 | |
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68
bugs
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| adj.疯狂的，发疯的n.窃听器( bug的名词复数 )；病菌；虫子；[计算机]（制作软件程序所产生的意料不到的）错误 | |
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69
crab
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| n.螃蟹，偏航，脾气乖戾的人，酸苹果；vi.捕蟹，偏航，发牢骚；vt.使偏航，发脾气 | |
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braces
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| n.吊带，背带；托架( brace的名词复数 )；箍子；括弧；（儿童）牙箍v.支住( brace的第三人称单数 )；撑牢；使自己站稳；振作起来 | |
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71
oyster
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| n.牡蛎；沉默寡言的人 | |
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72
oysters
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| 牡蛎( oyster的名词复数 ) | |
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73
totter
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| v.蹒跚， 摇摇欲坠；n.蹒跚的步子 | |
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alloy
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| n.合金，(金属的)成色 | |
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sanitation
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| n.公共卫生，环境卫生，卫生设备 | |
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pelicans
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| n.鹈鹕( pelican的名词复数 ) | |
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77
swoop
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| n.俯冲，攫取；v.抓取，突然袭击 | |
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78
soften
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| v.(使)变柔软；(使)变柔和 | |
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79
compensate
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| vt.补偿，赔偿；酬报 vi.弥补；补偿；抵消 | |
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80
shuffling
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| adj. 慢慢移动的, 滑移的 动词shuffle的现在分词形式 | |
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81
sputters
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| n.喷溅声( sputter的名词复数 )；劈啪声；急语；咕哝v.唾沫飞溅( sputter的第三人称单数 )；发劈啪声；喷出；飞溅出 | |
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82
liars
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| 说谎者( liar的名词复数 ) | |
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83
rivet
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| n.铆钉；vt.铆接，铆牢；集中(目光或注意力) | |
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