This week’s sentence was taken from Edith Wharton’s ‘The Age of Innocence’.
It was:
‘“Tell me what you do all day,” he said, crossing his arms under his tilted-back head, and pushing his hat forward to screen the sun-dazzle.’
Lunch
Central Park in the early 1960s; no mimes, no joggers, no Goddamned cellphones.
Bliss.
Sunny lunchtime in May.
Light so bright it bleached the sky. So fast it slammed into the lake and exploded on impact.
A million sparkling shards, flickering ricochets burning blind-spots, searing the retinas of anyone foolish enough to look.
Down by the lake: two guys in ties.
One lay back on the grass and breathed deep.
“Tell me what you do all day,” he said, crossing his arms under his tilted-back head, and pushing his hat forward to screen the sun-dazzle.
His companion sat looking the other way, watching office girls in summer frocks flounce through their lunch-break.
Greene peered up at him from under the brim of his fedora.
"I mean other than look at girls."
Matching grins.
"I'm a commercial artist."
"No shit?" he paused, "Notwithstanding that, my question remains."
Gray laughed.
"Notwithstanding? You're kidding! Who says notwithstanding these days?"
"I do. Notwithstanding that, what do you do all day, Mister Commercial Artist?"
"I paint those." he pointed his chin at the groups of girls. "I sit all day at a drawing board and make young housewives' dreams come true."
"Son, you know jack shit about housewives' dreams."
A guilty chuckle.
"Yeah, I know. But somebody's gotta make 'em yearn for that crap."
Greene raised his head.
"Dishwashers? Rotisseries? Laundromats? Who needs a dishwasher? That's what the housewife is for. What's she gonna do after dinner? Come and yak at her husband? Leave the poor guy alone, sweetie. Wash the Goddamned dishes."
Gray shook his head, laughing softly.
"You trying to put me out of a job? The world's changing. Housewives apparently have 'leisure time' now."
"You're scaring me, kid. Cut it out."
Gray's blue eyes met Greene's brown. He smiled.
"So what do you do all day, Mister Mysterious?"
"I'm not a cop, if that's what you're worried about."
Gray looked away, relief falling off him like sweat.
"I'm pleased to hear it. Notwithstanding that, my question remains."
Greene couldn't help but laugh.
"You've got a cheek, kid. I like that."
The younger man grinned at him, raising an eyebrow coquettishly.
"Notwithstanding that …"
"You really wanna know what I do? I hang around the park cruising for queers. What do you think?"
"Well I was kinda wondering."
"I'm a writer."
Gray nodded and shifted towards him, his fingers playing with the grass.
"So, Mister Writer man. I don't see you as a crusading journalist, rousting guys like me for the gutter press. What sort of things do you write?"
"I write short stories."
Gray looked a little disappointed.
"No Great American Novel, then?"
"Not yet. Just little slices of New York life."
Gray gazed at him for a long time.
"So what am I? Research?"
"No, son; you're just a figment of my imagination."
Greene got up and stretched. Alone but for the office girls he tipped his hat to them and strolled off through the trees, disappearing into the dappled shade.
Tuesday, 29 September 2009
Saturday, 19 September 2009
April Love
This week's sentence was suggested by Katie and is from a short story called 'Dall', from the book Cowboys Are My Weakness by Pam Houston:
“I don't shoot animals and I hate cold weather, so maybe I had no business following Boone to the Alaska Range for a season of Dall sheep hunting.”
April Love
I don't shoot animals and I hate cold weather, so maybe I had no business following Boone to the Alaska Range for a season of Dall sheep hunting.
He'd badgered me for years to go with him until I had no excuses left.
Besides, what's a guy to do when he retires? Sit indoors with the wife? Janelle hates me getting under her feet.
"What's so exciting about shooting sheep?" I’d asked. "The ones around here are so dumb you could walk up and throttle them."
We sat in Boone's den, gazing at all his trophies. I wondered just how many rams' horns a guy needs. Dozens, if Boone was any guide.
"Ah, but these are wild sheep! Mountain sheep!" He had been depressingly enthusiastic. "They live on inaccessible crags and have fantastic eyesight; they can spot us from miles off so stalking them is nailbiting stuff!"
I had reminded him of this fact when our 4x4 got stuck in a herd of the creatures wandering lazily across the road near the lodge.
"Shall I git ma gun?" I joked.
"No, but you can get your fat butt out there and shoo these buggers off the road."
The lodge I liked.
Great food, plenty of beer, warm beds and a roaring log fire.
The first day's ride out to base camp had been glorious: pristine blue skies, glittering lakes, the lodge's friendly horses meandering through truly breathtaking mountain scenery. I had to confess to Boone that my own idea of hunting poon down in Cancún was probably not in the same league.
But then the weather turned and there I was, camped out with a dozen other crotchety old fools, visibility down to ten yards, horizontal sleet and a gusting gale that made peeing a real treat.
"Danny, what on earth possessed your parents to name you Daniel?"
"They knew I'd grow up to be a great backwoodsman and tracker just like my namesake."
"But you're a retired water-cooler salesman from Minneapolis. I'm pretty certain Daniel didn't drive a 4x4 with GPS or go hunting decked out in Gore-tex. Shouldn't we be wearing buckskins with dead raccoons on our heads?"
"That was Davy Crockett."
"Maybe they should have named you Davy, or something less likely to give my fat butt frostbite."
He chuckled. "You mean Pat? Jeez! Though did you know Pat's descended from Daniel himself?"
"Yeah, Danny, but you ain't!"
"What was it he sang?"
"Who? Pat or Daniel?"
"Heh-heh."
Suddenly the sound of crooning drifted across the campsite:
"April love is for the very young
Every star's a wishing star …"
"Hey Danny!" from another tent. "This ain't Brokeback fuckin' Mountain!"
And then we were all of us singing and laughing our asses off and the beer went round and the next morning the weather broke and you could see forever.
We're in our fifth season now.
Every August I head north to where the company is just grand and the scenery the closest I'll ever get to Heaven.
“I don't shoot animals and I hate cold weather, so maybe I had no business following Boone to the Alaska Range for a season of Dall sheep hunting.”
April Love
I don't shoot animals and I hate cold weather, so maybe I had no business following Boone to the Alaska Range for a season of Dall sheep hunting.
He'd badgered me for years to go with him until I had no excuses left.
Besides, what's a guy to do when he retires? Sit indoors with the wife? Janelle hates me getting under her feet.
"What's so exciting about shooting sheep?" I’d asked. "The ones around here are so dumb you could walk up and throttle them."
We sat in Boone's den, gazing at all his trophies. I wondered just how many rams' horns a guy needs. Dozens, if Boone was any guide.
"Ah, but these are wild sheep! Mountain sheep!" He had been depressingly enthusiastic. "They live on inaccessible crags and have fantastic eyesight; they can spot us from miles off so stalking them is nailbiting stuff!"
I had reminded him of this fact when our 4x4 got stuck in a herd of the creatures wandering lazily across the road near the lodge.
"Shall I git ma gun?" I joked.
"No, but you can get your fat butt out there and shoo these buggers off the road."
The lodge I liked.
Great food, plenty of beer, warm beds and a roaring log fire.
The first day's ride out to base camp had been glorious: pristine blue skies, glittering lakes, the lodge's friendly horses meandering through truly breathtaking mountain scenery. I had to confess to Boone that my own idea of hunting poon down in Cancún was probably not in the same league.
But then the weather turned and there I was, camped out with a dozen other crotchety old fools, visibility down to ten yards, horizontal sleet and a gusting gale that made peeing a real treat.
"Danny, what on earth possessed your parents to name you Daniel?"
"They knew I'd grow up to be a great backwoodsman and tracker just like my namesake."
"But you're a retired water-cooler salesman from Minneapolis. I'm pretty certain Daniel didn't drive a 4x4 with GPS or go hunting decked out in Gore-tex. Shouldn't we be wearing buckskins with dead raccoons on our heads?"
"That was Davy Crockett."
"Maybe they should have named you Davy, or something less likely to give my fat butt frostbite."
He chuckled. "You mean Pat? Jeez! Though did you know Pat's descended from Daniel himself?"
"Yeah, Danny, but you ain't!"
"What was it he sang?"
"Who? Pat or Daniel?"
"Heh-heh."
Suddenly the sound of crooning drifted across the campsite:
"April love is for the very young
Every star's a wishing star …"
"Hey Danny!" from another tent. "This ain't Brokeback fuckin' Mountain!"
And then we were all of us singing and laughing our asses off and the beer went round and the next morning the weather broke and you could see forever.
We're in our fifth season now.
Every August I head north to where the company is just grand and the scenery the closest I'll ever get to Heaven.
Sunday, 13 September 2009
Becoming
This week's sentence was taken from Jack Kerouac's 'On The Road'.
It was:
'I woke up as the sun was reddening; and that was the one distinct time in my life, the strangest moment of all, when I didn't know who I was — I was far away from home, haunted and tired with travel, in a cheap hotel room I'd never seen, hearing the hiss of steam outside, and the creak of the old wood of the hotel, and footsteps upstairs, and all the sad sounds, and I looked at the cracked high ceiling and really didn't know who I was for about fifteen strange seconds.'
Because of the length of the sentence, this week contributors were allowed to not count it in their 500 word total.
Becoming
I woke up as the sun was reddening; and that was the one distinct time in my life, the strangest moment of all, when I didn't know who I was — I was far away from home, haunted and tired with travel, in a cheap hotel room I'd never seen, hearing the hiss of steam outside, and the creak of the old wood of the hotel, and footsteps upstairs, and all the sad sounds, and I looked at the cracked high ceiling and really didn't know who I was for about fifteen strange seconds.
Even as I shuddered and stretched and heaved myself up off the stained mattress I had to say it aloud to convince myself.
"I am Samuel Charles Mackinson." whatever the hell that meant.
Walking to the window the linoleum, worn down to the thread in patches, felt clammy against my bare feet.
The thin curtains were the colour of a bruise. Carefully avoiding the grease-grey stains from hundreds of hands I twitched them aside and looked the world square in the sunset.
Sunset always gets me.
This one took that filthy street of run-down tenements and flophouses and made it beautiful. I blinked until my eyes caught up with the glare.
A light the colour of apricots glistened on damp asphalt, glittered off broken glass, smearing gasoline rainbows across puddles and potholes; the tangled, rusting latticework of fire escapes cast jagged spiderweb shadows over cracked concrete and hot ochre bricks.
I breathed it all in.
Rush-hour. Pavement packed with people, the roar of traffic deafening even from three floors up. Cutting through it all, the banshee screech of the el train taking the bend at the end of the street a little too fast; a blaring, roaring and clattering cacophony.
Music to my ears.
I hit the sidewalk as sunset surrendered to a bright new world of garish green and ruby neon, its hum and sputter a mile-wide bug-zapper drawing in the nightflies, drawing in Sam Mackinson.
Day shift over, the city came to life.
Corner bar. Refresher. The coffee felt good, the scotch felt better.
Burning a hole in my pants pocket the crumpled brown envelope containing my instructions for getting here and most of the wad of cash that came with them, together with the key to a locker at the bus station.
I took my time and let the crowds thin.
The depot was deserted but for a ragtag of bleary-eyed overnight travellers, backpackers and sleeping bums; a vast shed, its darkness relieved by pools of sickly fluorescent lowlighting, the whole place rank with the stink of stale piss, exhaust fumes and delays.
Rows of lockers; pale green tin. I tried to focus; the events of the past few weeks coming together like a slow-motion car wreck and making about as much sense. A psychedelic whirlwind of flickering images dizzied me:
Sam Mackinson, fresh-faced fly-boy, running CIA opium out of Cambodia under Nixon's nose; a 'deniable asset' abandoned when the shit came down.
‘M.I.A.’
But somebody it seemed had not forgotten me - a guardian angel. Hustled across the Laotian border and out via Vientiane, smuggled to San Dago, I’d hitched cross-country and now here I stood in this filthy bus terminal: dazed, exhausted … nobody.
I looked at the key. The key to my future.
Checking all round I opened the locker and took out the briefcase.
The pistol was there. The money. The apartment key. A number to call and a name: 'Bartleby'.
Walking out into the shining night I knew who I was.
It was:
'I woke up as the sun was reddening; and that was the one distinct time in my life, the strangest moment of all, when I didn't know who I was — I was far away from home, haunted and tired with travel, in a cheap hotel room I'd never seen, hearing the hiss of steam outside, and the creak of the old wood of the hotel, and footsteps upstairs, and all the sad sounds, and I looked at the cracked high ceiling and really didn't know who I was for about fifteen strange seconds.'
Because of the length of the sentence, this week contributors were allowed to not count it in their 500 word total.
Becoming
I woke up as the sun was reddening; and that was the one distinct time in my life, the strangest moment of all, when I didn't know who I was — I was far away from home, haunted and tired with travel, in a cheap hotel room I'd never seen, hearing the hiss of steam outside, and the creak of the old wood of the hotel, and footsteps upstairs, and all the sad sounds, and I looked at the cracked high ceiling and really didn't know who I was for about fifteen strange seconds.
Even as I shuddered and stretched and heaved myself up off the stained mattress I had to say it aloud to convince myself.
"I am Samuel Charles Mackinson." whatever the hell that meant.
Walking to the window the linoleum, worn down to the thread in patches, felt clammy against my bare feet.
The thin curtains were the colour of a bruise. Carefully avoiding the grease-grey stains from hundreds of hands I twitched them aside and looked the world square in the sunset.
Sunset always gets me.
This one took that filthy street of run-down tenements and flophouses and made it beautiful. I blinked until my eyes caught up with the glare.
A light the colour of apricots glistened on damp asphalt, glittered off broken glass, smearing gasoline rainbows across puddles and potholes; the tangled, rusting latticework of fire escapes cast jagged spiderweb shadows over cracked concrete and hot ochre bricks.
I breathed it all in.
Rush-hour. Pavement packed with people, the roar of traffic deafening even from three floors up. Cutting through it all, the banshee screech of the el train taking the bend at the end of the street a little too fast; a blaring, roaring and clattering cacophony.
Music to my ears.
I hit the sidewalk as sunset surrendered to a bright new world of garish green and ruby neon, its hum and sputter a mile-wide bug-zapper drawing in the nightflies, drawing in Sam Mackinson.
Day shift over, the city came to life.
Corner bar. Refresher. The coffee felt good, the scotch felt better.
Burning a hole in my pants pocket the crumpled brown envelope containing my instructions for getting here and most of the wad of cash that came with them, together with the key to a locker at the bus station.
I took my time and let the crowds thin.
The depot was deserted but for a ragtag of bleary-eyed overnight travellers, backpackers and sleeping bums; a vast shed, its darkness relieved by pools of sickly fluorescent lowlighting, the whole place rank with the stink of stale piss, exhaust fumes and delays.
Rows of lockers; pale green tin. I tried to focus; the events of the past few weeks coming together like a slow-motion car wreck and making about as much sense. A psychedelic whirlwind of flickering images dizzied me:
Sam Mackinson, fresh-faced fly-boy, running CIA opium out of Cambodia under Nixon's nose; a 'deniable asset' abandoned when the shit came down.
‘M.I.A.’
But somebody it seemed had not forgotten me - a guardian angel. Hustled across the Laotian border and out via Vientiane, smuggled to San Dago, I’d hitched cross-country and now here I stood in this filthy bus terminal: dazed, exhausted … nobody.
I looked at the key. The key to my future.
Checking all round I opened the locker and took out the briefcase.
The pistol was there. The money. The apartment key. A number to call and a name: 'Bartleby'.
Walking out into the shining night I knew who I was.
Tuesday, 8 September 2009
Blue Bayou
This week's sentence was taken from Bruce Chatwin's 'The Songlines':
At the bar, a big man with a purple birthmark on his neck was methodically swilling Scotches through his rotted teeth, and talking to the police patrolman whom we had met the day before at Burnt Flat.
Blue Bayou
Taking a booth by the window, I eased my ass into the pink bucket seat, flicked open the wipe-clean menu and checked the room.
Chrome and plastic; neon beer lights; sizzle and clatter through the kitchen hatch; the short-order cook preparing to load the arteries of the half-dozen early-bird diners dotting the joint and coughing smoke into their newspapers.
Mackinson nodded in time with the ancient jukebox and smiled.
"Roy Orbison. Nice."
At the bar, a big man with a purple birthmark on his neck was methodically swilling Scotches through his rotted teeth, and talking to the police patrolman whom we had met the day before at Burnt Flat.
"Scotch for breakfast. That's gonna kill him."
I had to chuckle.
"Jeez, Mac. Keep it down."
The waitress glided over: pink gingham, name-tag: 'ARLENE', good legs.
She oozed class - of a sort I liked - from her mousy roots to her plastic boots.
Sepia-stained teeth and fingertips clashed with ‘Harem Nites’ lips and the kind of pink, sparkly nails and turquoise eyeshadow that little girls used.
She popped her gum and slapped her mouth at us a couple of times.
"Ready to order?"
I smiled. A regular trailer park princess. I wanted her so bad.
Mackinson friendly: "Two coffees, honey; two OJ, two specials; eggs over easy.
Do you have a payphone I can use?"
"End of the bar." she tilted her head and a sudden wave of bottle-blonde ponytail cascaded onto her shoulder. The blinds painted her in stripes of sunrise and I winced, watching her wiggle back across the room and wishing I'd come here under different circumstances.
"Mac." I glanced upward and he stopped scratching his head, heeding my warning. These wigs were getting itchy. I suppressed a grin; he looked kinda distinguished with grey hair, glasses and moustache.
“I’ll call him.”
As he rose I shook open the Post to distract myself from the ache of Arlene.
Jeez! Gas just hit 64¢ a gallon! One of these days we're gonna have to do something about those fuckin' Arabs.
On the phone to Bartleby, Mackinson watched the fat cop waddle out into the car park and mount his patrol bike. It was quite a balancing act.
When the engine noise receded he gave me the nod.
I got up and stretched. Mackinson was easing his pistol from his belt and checking the room for backup. I walked over to the big man at the bar. He glanced up and saw me.
Too late.
As he stiffened in shock I shot him twice in the face then once behind the ear when he fell.
"Done." Mackinson hung up the phone on Bartleby, yanked the wire from the wall and we sauntered out while the other diners were still struggling to get under their tables.
I took a last glance back at Arlene where she crouched, weeping behind the bar.
Shame.
We drove away with Mackinson humming Blue Bayou; Arlene's cheap perfume mingled with cordite on my breath.
At the bar, a big man with a purple birthmark on his neck was methodically swilling Scotches through his rotted teeth, and talking to the police patrolman whom we had met the day before at Burnt Flat.
Blue Bayou
Taking a booth by the window, I eased my ass into the pink bucket seat, flicked open the wipe-clean menu and checked the room.
Chrome and plastic; neon beer lights; sizzle and clatter through the kitchen hatch; the short-order cook preparing to load the arteries of the half-dozen early-bird diners dotting the joint and coughing smoke into their newspapers.
Mackinson nodded in time with the ancient jukebox and smiled.
"Roy Orbison. Nice."
At the bar, a big man with a purple birthmark on his neck was methodically swilling Scotches through his rotted teeth, and talking to the police patrolman whom we had met the day before at Burnt Flat.
"Scotch for breakfast. That's gonna kill him."
I had to chuckle.
"Jeez, Mac. Keep it down."
The waitress glided over: pink gingham, name-tag: 'ARLENE', good legs.
She oozed class - of a sort I liked - from her mousy roots to her plastic boots.
Sepia-stained teeth and fingertips clashed with ‘Harem Nites’ lips and the kind of pink, sparkly nails and turquoise eyeshadow that little girls used.
She popped her gum and slapped her mouth at us a couple of times.
"Ready to order?"
I smiled. A regular trailer park princess. I wanted her so bad.
Mackinson friendly: "Two coffees, honey; two OJ, two specials; eggs over easy.
Do you have a payphone I can use?"
"End of the bar." she tilted her head and a sudden wave of bottle-blonde ponytail cascaded onto her shoulder. The blinds painted her in stripes of sunrise and I winced, watching her wiggle back across the room and wishing I'd come here under different circumstances.
"Mac." I glanced upward and he stopped scratching his head, heeding my warning. These wigs were getting itchy. I suppressed a grin; he looked kinda distinguished with grey hair, glasses and moustache.
“I’ll call him.”
As he rose I shook open the Post to distract myself from the ache of Arlene.
Jeez! Gas just hit 64¢ a gallon! One of these days we're gonna have to do something about those fuckin' Arabs.
On the phone to Bartleby, Mackinson watched the fat cop waddle out into the car park and mount his patrol bike. It was quite a balancing act.
When the engine noise receded he gave me the nod.
I got up and stretched. Mackinson was easing his pistol from his belt and checking the room for backup. I walked over to the big man at the bar. He glanced up and saw me.
Too late.
As he stiffened in shock I shot him twice in the face then once behind the ear when he fell.
"Done." Mackinson hung up the phone on Bartleby, yanked the wire from the wall and we sauntered out while the other diners were still struggling to get under their tables.
I took a last glance back at Arlene where she crouched, weeping behind the bar.
Shame.
We drove away with Mackinson humming Blue Bayou; Arlene's cheap perfume mingled with cordite on my breath.
Wednesday, 2 September 2009
Berlin. Afternoon of November 10, 1938. The Butler Hüber Awakes …
This week's sentence is from Cicero's 'Second Philippic Against Mark Antony'.
"The household found these repulsive goings on completely unendurable."
Berlin. Afternoon of November 10, 1938. The Butler Hüber Awakes …
Jerked out of his reverie Hüber blinked at the light and sucked his old lips.
Raising a hand slowly to wipe the drool from the corner of his mouth he heard now the tinkling of the shattered glass and knew what had woken him.
Rheumy eyes roamed the room.
Across whitewashed walls long turned grey splashed a creamy yellow wedge of dusty late-afternoon sunlight, its apex pointing accusingly at Hüber where he sat jammed into a spartan chair that seemed a very part of his own spidery frame.
His gaze settled on the distorted image of the window thrown by the setting sun.
Not yet, he mused. Plenty of time.
Faint and muffled through the mired, grimy glass, sounds sneaked inside his sanctuary: thuggish jeering; the clatter of running boots on cobbles.
Sturmabteilung, Hüber grimaced with distaste. Too rowdy for Schutzstaffel.
That would be the bakery again, though who would have thought there might be anything left to smash after last night?
Nice old lady. They took her husband this morning according to the kitchen tittle-tattle. The maids had whined about having to walk further now to fetch bread.
Hüber shook his head and sighed. Filthy brownshirts going about their filthy business.
The household found these repulsive goings on completely unendurable.
Somehow though, he knew they would endure it all - both the household and the servants downstairs – and with admirable Prussian stoicism.
His master after all was a solid German citizen and so could show no public sympathy for the plight of the Jüden. Those untermensch may have been bearable in the old Republic but they had no place in the new Reich. You don’t argue with the party line. At least not in a nice, respectable household.
This respectable household just wished things could be done with a modicum more decorum; nobody had managed to get a wink of sleep last night.
Hüber of course held no opinion; he knew his place.
Dozing in his chair below stairs, watching the wall and waiting.
Not yet.
Once the wedge of sunlight touched the corner wainscotting it would be time.
Time for him to disentangle himself from the chair, to creak his weary way up the small bare back stair - old knees cracking like the ancient treads - and to array his master in evening dress.
The sunlight crawled across the wall.
Plenty of time …
Nervous footsteps.
A maid flitted through to the kitchen to fetch water, averting her gaze from him as was only proper.
Vaguely distressing sounds brushed softly at his ears, seemingly beseeching him from the street.
Weeping …
The old baker’s wife.
What could you do?
He repeated to himself.
What could you do?
Hüber glanced at the clock and shrugged.
He would do nothing.
All of them would do nothing.
Blanking out the sounds from the street, he hunched his scrawny neck deeper into the greasy, threadbare felt collar of his jacket, closed his eyes and tried to slip back unnoticed into his dream.
"The household found these repulsive goings on completely unendurable."
Berlin. Afternoon of November 10, 1938. The Butler Hüber Awakes …
Jerked out of his reverie Hüber blinked at the light and sucked his old lips.
Raising a hand slowly to wipe the drool from the corner of his mouth he heard now the tinkling of the shattered glass and knew what had woken him.
Rheumy eyes roamed the room.
Across whitewashed walls long turned grey splashed a creamy yellow wedge of dusty late-afternoon sunlight, its apex pointing accusingly at Hüber where he sat jammed into a spartan chair that seemed a very part of his own spidery frame.
His gaze settled on the distorted image of the window thrown by the setting sun.
Not yet, he mused. Plenty of time.
Faint and muffled through the mired, grimy glass, sounds sneaked inside his sanctuary: thuggish jeering; the clatter of running boots on cobbles.
Sturmabteilung, Hüber grimaced with distaste. Too rowdy for Schutzstaffel.
That would be the bakery again, though who would have thought there might be anything left to smash after last night?
Nice old lady. They took her husband this morning according to the kitchen tittle-tattle. The maids had whined about having to walk further now to fetch bread.
Hüber shook his head and sighed. Filthy brownshirts going about their filthy business.
The household found these repulsive goings on completely unendurable.
Somehow though, he knew they would endure it all - both the household and the servants downstairs – and with admirable Prussian stoicism.
His master after all was a solid German citizen and so could show no public sympathy for the plight of the Jüden. Those untermensch may have been bearable in the old Republic but they had no place in the new Reich. You don’t argue with the party line. At least not in a nice, respectable household.
This respectable household just wished things could be done with a modicum more decorum; nobody had managed to get a wink of sleep last night.
Hüber of course held no opinion; he knew his place.
Dozing in his chair below stairs, watching the wall and waiting.
Not yet.
Once the wedge of sunlight touched the corner wainscotting it would be time.
Time for him to disentangle himself from the chair, to creak his weary way up the small bare back stair - old knees cracking like the ancient treads - and to array his master in evening dress.
The sunlight crawled across the wall.
Plenty of time …
Nervous footsteps.
A maid flitted through to the kitchen to fetch water, averting her gaze from him as was only proper.
Vaguely distressing sounds brushed softly at his ears, seemingly beseeching him from the street.
Weeping …
The old baker’s wife.
What could you do?
He repeated to himself.
What could you do?
Hüber glanced at the clock and shrugged.
He would do nothing.
All of them would do nothing.
Blanking out the sounds from the street, he hunched his scrawny neck deeper into the greasy, threadbare felt collar of his jacket, closed his eyes and tried to slip back unnoticed into his dream.
The Deathbed Confession Of The Monster "Dive" as witnessed and transcribed by Ms. Mary Shelley
This week's sentence was taken from Mary Shelley's 'Frankenstein':
"When I found so astonishing a power placed within my hands, I hesitated a long time concerning the manner in which I should employ it".
The Deathbed Confession Of The Monster "Dive"
as witnessed and transcribed by Ms. Mary Shelley
I dedicate this confession to my inamorata Katie, for it was she who located the fateful artefact in question, she who presented it to me, and it is she - in addition to your good selves, the remainder of humanity - who must live with the consequences of my subsequent actions.
Pray allow me the opportunity of this brief testimony, notwithstanding my fear perforce that you will never see it in your hearts to forgive me for what I have done.
Suffice that the inopportune happenstance of such a marvellous machine falling within the orbit of my influence is a misfortune the world shall rue for long ages to come.
And yet …
When I found so astonishing a power placed within my hands, I hesitated a long time concerning the manner in which I should employ it.
The sheer enormity of responsibility it implied staggered the mind and I reeled, dizzy with shock, yet the thing lay within my grasp; it only remained for me to stretch out my hand and direct its power howsoever I willed.
I touched it.
How could I not?
I defy any among you to state on oath that you would have acted to the contrary.
The metal was warm from the sun and the moment my fingertip brushed it a sudden shock of realisation thrilled through me; the certain knowledge that this gift could be used once and once only, and that its effect would rely solely upon my own conscious choice.
That choice was laid bare before me, and what a dreadful doom lay in the choosing.
Should I - Could I? - endeavour to save humankind from itself?
For such a machine surely had this dream within its gift: in a single stroke to bring about an end to war, to hatred, to bigotry and persecution, to inequality and injustice.
Yet doubt gnawed at my fragile ego …
Were I to direct such awesome power for the good of the world would its effect consequently become so diluted as to not benefit me directly?
My parched, greedy soul screamed to keep this monstrous and wonderful discovery a furtive secret, perverting its power for the sole gratification of my own desire.
Yet if I did so, would that not equate by omission to using the thing for Evil?
I quailed before the very magnitude of my dilemma.
Again, if I prevaricated, might - in the meantime - another then discover the thing and take such opportunity to use it for their own purposes, depriving both the world - and more pertinently myself - of the glories of its beneficence?
Mea culpa.
I am but a man and as such am driven by greed and lust.
I am weak.
The temptation to reserve this gift unto myself overmastered my too feeble resistance; the choice was made.
Humankind must therefore suffer still the Purgatory of a loveless, conflicted world while I covet this gift and the wonder it brings.
I pushed the button …
The Marvellous Machine
"When I found so astonishing a power placed within my hands, I hesitated a long time concerning the manner in which I should employ it".
The Deathbed Confession Of The Monster "Dive"
as witnessed and transcribed by Ms. Mary Shelley
I dedicate this confession to my inamorata Katie, for it was she who located the fateful artefact in question, she who presented it to me, and it is she - in addition to your good selves, the remainder of humanity - who must live with the consequences of my subsequent actions.
Pray allow me the opportunity of this brief testimony, notwithstanding my fear perforce that you will never see it in your hearts to forgive me for what I have done.
Suffice that the inopportune happenstance of such a marvellous machine falling within the orbit of my influence is a misfortune the world shall rue for long ages to come.
And yet …
When I found so astonishing a power placed within my hands, I hesitated a long time concerning the manner in which I should employ it.
The sheer enormity of responsibility it implied staggered the mind and I reeled, dizzy with shock, yet the thing lay within my grasp; it only remained for me to stretch out my hand and direct its power howsoever I willed.
I touched it.
How could I not?
I defy any among you to state on oath that you would have acted to the contrary.
The metal was warm from the sun and the moment my fingertip brushed it a sudden shock of realisation thrilled through me; the certain knowledge that this gift could be used once and once only, and that its effect would rely solely upon my own conscious choice.
That choice was laid bare before me, and what a dreadful doom lay in the choosing.
Should I - Could I? - endeavour to save humankind from itself?
For such a machine surely had this dream within its gift: in a single stroke to bring about an end to war, to hatred, to bigotry and persecution, to inequality and injustice.
Yet doubt gnawed at my fragile ego …
Were I to direct such awesome power for the good of the world would its effect consequently become so diluted as to not benefit me directly?
My parched, greedy soul screamed to keep this monstrous and wonderful discovery a furtive secret, perverting its power for the sole gratification of my own desire.
Yet if I did so, would that not equate by omission to using the thing for Evil?
I quailed before the very magnitude of my dilemma.
Again, if I prevaricated, might - in the meantime - another then discover the thing and take such opportunity to use it for their own purposes, depriving both the world - and more pertinently myself - of the glories of its beneficence?
Mea culpa.
I am but a man and as such am driven by greed and lust.
I am weak.
The temptation to reserve this gift unto myself overmastered my too feeble resistance; the choice was made.
Humankind must therefore suffer still the Purgatory of a loveless, conflicted world while I covet this gift and the wonder it brings.
I pushed the button …
The Marvellous MachineThe Luck Of The Irish
This week's sentence was from James Joyce's 'Ulysses':
At this intelligence, in which he seemingly evinced little interest, Mr. Bloom gazed abstractedly for the space of a half a second or so in the direction of a bucketdredger, rejoicing in the farfamed name of Eblana, moored alongside Customhouse quay and quite possibly out of repair, whereupon he observed evasively: "Everybody gets their own ration of luck, they say."
The Luck Of The Irish
"As a dodo, Mister Bloom … as a veritable dodo. A very unlucky turn of events."
At this intelligence, in which he seemingly evinced little interest, Mr. Bloom gazed abstractedly for the space of a half a second or so in the direction of a bucketdredger, rejoicing in the farfamed name of Eblana, moored alongside Customhouse quay and quite possibly out of repair, whereupon he observed evasively:
"Everybody gets their own ration of luck, they say."
"Aye, so they do, Mister Bloom, so they do, but good or bad; there's the rub."
Bloom nodded, warily.
"She's a fickle mistress to be sure."
He waited for his companion to continue, contriving at the same time to glance with feigned nonchalance at the liner waiting beyond the Eblana; the liner bound for New York and new life.
The steward by the boarding ramp was checking his watch.
"Now take as an example our recently departed acquaintance Master Dædalus. Some might say that before she frowned so unmercifully, Lady Luck had cast her smiling countenance upon him."
"How so, Inspector?"
"It seems that, just prior to his untimely and tragic demise at the hand of person or persons unknown Master Dædalus had come into possession of what might be described as a very considerable fortune … a fortune that it appears has … disappeared.”
Bloom swallowed hard. Finding the Inspector waiting on the dock was shock enough, but now …
"Master Dædalus lies in the mortuary with his throat slit. His run of luck has, it seems run out.
Of course some folk contrive to make their own luck, do they not, Mister Bloom?”
He paused.
“Now that's a pretty heavy pair of suitcases you're toting. Would you be, by any chance, heading for that ocean liner? And would these cases be stuffed with Master Dædalus' missing money?
I think you should hand me your ticket and boarding pass, Mister Bloom. It's a different voyage you'll be making today."
The jig was up.
Or was it?
Reluctantly Bloom fished out his documents and handed them over.
At the same time he let the blade drop from his sleeve into his palm.
One stab was all he needed.
Yes, Inspector - he thought – Some people make their own luck …
Before he could act, however, out from the shadow of the Custom House stepped a uniformed policeman. The Inspector turned to him.
"Constable, would you be so kind as to place Mister Bloom under arrest."
Bloom panicked. He took a step backwards, and a second, then turned and fled for his life, the constable in hot pursuit.
The Inspector looked down at the heavy cases.
He looked at the boarding pass and ticket in his hand.
He paused for a moment’s contemplation, turning his face up to the rain.
It was always raining in Cork.
Aye, Mister Bloom, you have to make your own luck.
A purser checked his papers at the top of the boarding ramp.
"Welcome aboard the Titanic, Mister Bloom."
At this intelligence, in which he seemingly evinced little interest, Mr. Bloom gazed abstractedly for the space of a half a second or so in the direction of a bucketdredger, rejoicing in the farfamed name of Eblana, moored alongside Customhouse quay and quite possibly out of repair, whereupon he observed evasively: "Everybody gets their own ration of luck, they say."
The Luck Of The Irish
"As a dodo, Mister Bloom … as a veritable dodo. A very unlucky turn of events."
At this intelligence, in which he seemingly evinced little interest, Mr. Bloom gazed abstractedly for the space of a half a second or so in the direction of a bucketdredger, rejoicing in the farfamed name of Eblana, moored alongside Customhouse quay and quite possibly out of repair, whereupon he observed evasively:
"Everybody gets their own ration of luck, they say."
"Aye, so they do, Mister Bloom, so they do, but good or bad; there's the rub."
Bloom nodded, warily.
"She's a fickle mistress to be sure."
He waited for his companion to continue, contriving at the same time to glance with feigned nonchalance at the liner waiting beyond the Eblana; the liner bound for New York and new life.
The steward by the boarding ramp was checking his watch.
"Now take as an example our recently departed acquaintance Master Dædalus. Some might say that before she frowned so unmercifully, Lady Luck had cast her smiling countenance upon him."
"How so, Inspector?"
"It seems that, just prior to his untimely and tragic demise at the hand of person or persons unknown Master Dædalus had come into possession of what might be described as a very considerable fortune … a fortune that it appears has … disappeared.”
Bloom swallowed hard. Finding the Inspector waiting on the dock was shock enough, but now …
"Master Dædalus lies in the mortuary with his throat slit. His run of luck has, it seems run out.
Of course some folk contrive to make their own luck, do they not, Mister Bloom?”
He paused.
“Now that's a pretty heavy pair of suitcases you're toting. Would you be, by any chance, heading for that ocean liner? And would these cases be stuffed with Master Dædalus' missing money?
I think you should hand me your ticket and boarding pass, Mister Bloom. It's a different voyage you'll be making today."
The jig was up.
Or was it?
Reluctantly Bloom fished out his documents and handed them over.
At the same time he let the blade drop from his sleeve into his palm.
One stab was all he needed.
Yes, Inspector - he thought – Some people make their own luck …
Before he could act, however, out from the shadow of the Custom House stepped a uniformed policeman. The Inspector turned to him.
"Constable, would you be so kind as to place Mister Bloom under arrest."
Bloom panicked. He took a step backwards, and a second, then turned and fled for his life, the constable in hot pursuit.
The Inspector looked down at the heavy cases.
He looked at the boarding pass and ticket in his hand.
He paused for a moment’s contemplation, turning his face up to the rain.
It was always raining in Cork.
Aye, Mister Bloom, you have to make your own luck.
A purser checked his papers at the top of the boarding ramp.
"Welcome aboard the Titanic, Mister Bloom."
Señor Marroquin And The Gift Of Flight
This week's sentence: from Mario Vargas Llosa's 'Aunt Julia And The Scriptwriter' was:
"But with the passage of the years Lucho Abril Marroquin was to tell himself that of all the instructive experiences of that morning the most unforgettable had not been either the first or the second accident but what happened afterwards."
Señor Marroquin And The Gift Of Flight
But with the passage of the years Lucho Abril Marroquin was to tell himself that of all the instructive experiences of that morning the most unforgettable had not been either the first or the second accident but what happened afterwards.
Accidents should by their very nature be instructive, but the wisdom gleaned from such events is rarely revealed in a flash and will often only emerge after a long and bitter struggle with the subject's consciousness.
Lucho, however, had learned his first lesson fast; in that blissful eternity - actually only a few short seconds - between discovering that he was flying and discovering that he was no longer flying.
Regrettably he was unable to put this instructive lesson into immediate effect, which was a pity, as acting on it would certainly have prevented the second accident and in consequence, its consequences.
The lesson Lucho learned that morning was one that perhaps he should have already known.
And it is this:
Collision with fast-moving and heavy objects should be avoided if at all possible.
It was not that Lucho had stepped off the kerb without looking, indeed he had looked and had seen the bus approaching. His mind, however, had other things on it right then and had simply filed the information at the bottom of the pile, meaning to look at it later.
The impact had been oblique, providing passengers on board the bus with the startling vision of a middle-aged man flying in a graceful arc right over the perimeter fence of the adjacent fairground.
On another day, Lucho may have welcomed the opportunity to get in free but on this occasion he was understandably distracted.
One cannot truthfully ascribe much prescience to the porcine mind and so we should not apportion blame to the pride of the county, the famous Diving Pig as it shuffled forward and dropped from the high board just as Lucho flew over the fairground fence and hit the side of the pool with such force as to rupture it and drench the surrounding crowd with the ensuing tsunami.
Landing as he did, full on his back on the wet blue plastic of the pool's base Lucho had just enough time to register the approach of three hundred and fifty pounds of squealing panic before the pig hit him in the face.
Learning that he was dead came as a great surprise to Lucho.
Learning that there is an afterlife even more so.
The most unforgettable and startling discovery of that morning, however, was the revelation that this - and only this - precise set of circumstances (which perhaps explains the scarcity of such apparitions) is how Angels are made.
Lucho Abril Marroquin stared aghast at the wreckage of his body, now inextricably mingled with the burst carcass of the once famous Diving Pig.
He glanced at the crowd: some screaming, some laughing, all drenched.
He gazed awestruck at his magnificent wings and flapped them experimentally.
There was a faint whiff of bacon.
"But with the passage of the years Lucho Abril Marroquin was to tell himself that of all the instructive experiences of that morning the most unforgettable had not been either the first or the second accident but what happened afterwards."
Señor Marroquin And The Gift Of Flight
But with the passage of the years Lucho Abril Marroquin was to tell himself that of all the instructive experiences of that morning the most unforgettable had not been either the first or the second accident but what happened afterwards.
Accidents should by their very nature be instructive, but the wisdom gleaned from such events is rarely revealed in a flash and will often only emerge after a long and bitter struggle with the subject's consciousness.
Lucho, however, had learned his first lesson fast; in that blissful eternity - actually only a few short seconds - between discovering that he was flying and discovering that he was no longer flying.
Regrettably he was unable to put this instructive lesson into immediate effect, which was a pity, as acting on it would certainly have prevented the second accident and in consequence, its consequences.
The lesson Lucho learned that morning was one that perhaps he should have already known.
And it is this:
Collision with fast-moving and heavy objects should be avoided if at all possible.
It was not that Lucho had stepped off the kerb without looking, indeed he had looked and had seen the bus approaching. His mind, however, had other things on it right then and had simply filed the information at the bottom of the pile, meaning to look at it later.
The impact had been oblique, providing passengers on board the bus with the startling vision of a middle-aged man flying in a graceful arc right over the perimeter fence of the adjacent fairground.
On another day, Lucho may have welcomed the opportunity to get in free but on this occasion he was understandably distracted.
One cannot truthfully ascribe much prescience to the porcine mind and so we should not apportion blame to the pride of the county, the famous Diving Pig as it shuffled forward and dropped from the high board just as Lucho flew over the fairground fence and hit the side of the pool with such force as to rupture it and drench the surrounding crowd with the ensuing tsunami.
Landing as he did, full on his back on the wet blue plastic of the pool's base Lucho had just enough time to register the approach of three hundred and fifty pounds of squealing panic before the pig hit him in the face.
Learning that he was dead came as a great surprise to Lucho.
Learning that there is an afterlife even more so.
The most unforgettable and startling discovery of that morning, however, was the revelation that this - and only this - precise set of circumstances (which perhaps explains the scarcity of such apparitions) is how Angels are made.
Lucho Abril Marroquin stared aghast at the wreckage of his body, now inextricably mingled with the burst carcass of the once famous Diving Pig.
He glanced at the crowd: some screaming, some laughing, all drenched.
He gazed awestruck at his magnificent wings and flapped them experimentally.
There was a faint whiff of bacon.
The Job
This week's sentence was taken from Paul Auster's 'City Of Glass', from his marvellous "The New York Trilogy", and it was:
"Then, suddenly, with great clarity and precision, he saw Bartleby's window and the blank brick wall before him."
The Job
Then, suddenly, with great clarity and precision, he saw Bartleby's window and the blank brick wall before him.
The wall.
Always the same.
It stared him down.
Browbeat him.
The early morning sun burned the bricks a violent orange that hurt his eyes but it was not the squinting brilliance that he found intimidating.
It was the purity.
The very blankness.
The effrontery of it all.
It was Bartleby …
For blocks all around, every surface within reach of an outstretched arm was a scribbled tangle of graffiti. Layer after layer of tags and murals and adolescent brag and bluster festooned and swagged across wall and window, shutter and trashcan.
Yet no paint touched Bartleby's wall.
Ever.
The bright bricks briefly dazzled him; a malevolent, blazing tabula rubra. He shaded his eyes against their glare.
The wall was around fifty feet long and went up three storeys. Bartleby's window sat just off centre on the middle floor; a stark, black hole into nothingness.
He couldn't see in.
There were no other windows.
There was no door; at least not out front.
He stood across the street and waited as he always waited in what had once been the doorway of a laundry but was now - like so much else here - utterly derelict; trashed, tagged, beaten and left for dead.
He looked at the payphone.
The only undamaged payphone for ten blocks; it stood at one end of Bartleby's pristine wall.
He waited.
He never had to wait long. Somebody would be behind the window watching him; maybe even Bartleby himself, though somehow he doubted that.
The phone would ring three times and he would leave, returning home to find in his mailbox the familiar A4 manila envelope containing a quantity of cash and Bartleby's enigmatic instructions.
The payphone rang.
He left.
He never walked straight back to his apartment but invariably varied his route in a determined attempt at discontinuity.
Some days he would stop for latte and a bagel; others he would browse the bookstores or linger at the library; maybe buy some groceries.
Today he walked to the nearest Metro station and caught a train to the park.
At this hour there were still empty benches. He sat in the shade of a plane tree, waited for a hefty jogger to pound past and opened his attaché case.
Trying not to think of what would be waiting for him at the apartment he read a couple of chapters of Auster's New York Trilogy.
He liked these stories. He liked to lose himself in the characters' Odyssean wanderings; the repetitive interactions between strangers; the vaguely mysterious yet ultimately futile assignments that ruled their lives.
Much like his own …
The envelope was there in his mailbox.
Back in the apartment he closed the blind against the sun and poured himself a stiff scotch, then sat with the envelope on his lap and reached for his letter-opener.
Taking out the single sheet of paper he began to read.
"Then, suddenly, with great clarity and precision, he saw Bartleby's window and the blank brick wall before him."
The Job
Then, suddenly, with great clarity and precision, he saw Bartleby's window and the blank brick wall before him.
The wall.
Always the same.
It stared him down.
Browbeat him.
The early morning sun burned the bricks a violent orange that hurt his eyes but it was not the squinting brilliance that he found intimidating.
It was the purity.
The very blankness.
The effrontery of it all.
It was Bartleby …
For blocks all around, every surface within reach of an outstretched arm was a scribbled tangle of graffiti. Layer after layer of tags and murals and adolescent brag and bluster festooned and swagged across wall and window, shutter and trashcan.
Yet no paint touched Bartleby's wall.
Ever.
The bright bricks briefly dazzled him; a malevolent, blazing tabula rubra. He shaded his eyes against their glare.
The wall was around fifty feet long and went up three storeys. Bartleby's window sat just off centre on the middle floor; a stark, black hole into nothingness.
He couldn't see in.
There were no other windows.
There was no door; at least not out front.
He stood across the street and waited as he always waited in what had once been the doorway of a laundry but was now - like so much else here - utterly derelict; trashed, tagged, beaten and left for dead.
He looked at the payphone.
The only undamaged payphone for ten blocks; it stood at one end of Bartleby's pristine wall.
He waited.
He never had to wait long. Somebody would be behind the window watching him; maybe even Bartleby himself, though somehow he doubted that.
The phone would ring three times and he would leave, returning home to find in his mailbox the familiar A4 manila envelope containing a quantity of cash and Bartleby's enigmatic instructions.
The payphone rang.
He left.
He never walked straight back to his apartment but invariably varied his route in a determined attempt at discontinuity.
Some days he would stop for latte and a bagel; others he would browse the bookstores or linger at the library; maybe buy some groceries.
Today he walked to the nearest Metro station and caught a train to the park.
At this hour there were still empty benches. He sat in the shade of a plane tree, waited for a hefty jogger to pound past and opened his attaché case.
Trying not to think of what would be waiting for him at the apartment he read a couple of chapters of Auster's New York Trilogy.
He liked these stories. He liked to lose himself in the characters' Odyssean wanderings; the repetitive interactions between strangers; the vaguely mysterious yet ultimately futile assignments that ruled their lives.
Much like his own …
The envelope was there in his mailbox.
Back in the apartment he closed the blind against the sun and poured himself a stiff scotch, then sat with the envelope on his lap and reached for his letter-opener.
Taking out the single sheet of paper he began to read.
Prodigal
This week's sentence - from Vladimir Nabokov's 'Lolita':
"And again next day a thinly populated sky, losing its blue to the heat, would melt overhead, and Lo would clamour for a drink, and her cheeks would hollow vigorously over the straw, and the car inside would be a furnace when we got in again, and the road shimmered ahead, with a remote car changing its shape mirage-like in the surface glare, and seeming to hang for a moment, old-fashionedly square and high, in the hot haze."
Prodigal
And again next day a thinly populated sky, losing its blue to the heat, would melt overhead, and Lo would clamour for a drink, and her cheeks would hollow vigorously over the straw, and the car inside would be a furnace when we got in again, and the road shimmered ahead, with a remote car changing its shape mirage-like in the surface glare, and seeming to hang for a moment, old-fashionedly square and high, in the hot haze.
Now, far ahead, floating way above the horizon lay a blue line that spoke of the Sierras.
Another long day of burning heat stretched ahead of us; the sun blistering the car's ancient paintwork, beating like hammers on the hot metal, baking Lo and Mary and me as the wheezing remains of the air-conditioner sucked our mouths and throats dry of what little moisture we might have hoarded.
I recalled the last time we'd driven west.
Aunt Sarah's funeral.
The shrivelled up faces of relatives I'd not seen in twenty years staring disapprovingly at the boy who'd gone east to make his fortune, now returned like the prodigal in his tired clothes and junkheap car with that pinch-faced woman of his and their poor little girl in hand-me-downs.
Now here we were again, making a final marathon pilgrimage across this vast and unforgiving continent, back to the bosom of my loving family, the sneers and sniffy asides: "I always said he'd come to nothing."
Nothing.
I glanced across at Lo.
My shot at redemption.
She at least would appreciate the weather out here.
I felt a momentary shiver of pleasure in the stifling heat; a fleeting chill of bitter winter winds howling off Lake Michigan, biting at my baby's fingers; fern fronds of frost creeping across the insides of the windows in our dank refrigerator of an apartment.
I almost missed it.
I almost missed the roar and clatter of the el, shaking our restless sleep as we huddled together for warmth.
Warmth …
Here the sun burned the colours from the world.
We sat: me hunched over the wheel, Mary sagging into her seat, drained, Lo leaning forward, her pale grey eyes missing nothing; a mute triumvirate as the parched world rolled by us and the old engine droned.
Here a flyblown motel; a single black dog watching us from the dusty parking lot; an empty pool.
There a trailer set back from the highway; threadbare wire fence corralling a world in miniature; baked clothes limp on a washing line; the rusted corpses of cars littering the yard.
And after all the miles; after all the years; our own trailer and a part-time job for me, stacking shelves in my uncle's store.
My old life …
Lo's new life …
I watched the distant line of the mountains slowly drift downward, knowing that when it finally fell and locked itself to the landscape there would be no turning back, and secretly wishing it would stay, hanging up there in the haze forever.
"And again next day a thinly populated sky, losing its blue to the heat, would melt overhead, and Lo would clamour for a drink, and her cheeks would hollow vigorously over the straw, and the car inside would be a furnace when we got in again, and the road shimmered ahead, with a remote car changing its shape mirage-like in the surface glare, and seeming to hang for a moment, old-fashionedly square and high, in the hot haze."
Prodigal
And again next day a thinly populated sky, losing its blue to the heat, would melt overhead, and Lo would clamour for a drink, and her cheeks would hollow vigorously over the straw, and the car inside would be a furnace when we got in again, and the road shimmered ahead, with a remote car changing its shape mirage-like in the surface glare, and seeming to hang for a moment, old-fashionedly square and high, in the hot haze.
Now, far ahead, floating way above the horizon lay a blue line that spoke of the Sierras.
Another long day of burning heat stretched ahead of us; the sun blistering the car's ancient paintwork, beating like hammers on the hot metal, baking Lo and Mary and me as the wheezing remains of the air-conditioner sucked our mouths and throats dry of what little moisture we might have hoarded.
I recalled the last time we'd driven west.
Aunt Sarah's funeral.
The shrivelled up faces of relatives I'd not seen in twenty years staring disapprovingly at the boy who'd gone east to make his fortune, now returned like the prodigal in his tired clothes and junkheap car with that pinch-faced woman of his and their poor little girl in hand-me-downs.
Now here we were again, making a final marathon pilgrimage across this vast and unforgiving continent, back to the bosom of my loving family, the sneers and sniffy asides: "I always said he'd come to nothing."
Nothing.
I glanced across at Lo.
My shot at redemption.
She at least would appreciate the weather out here.
I felt a momentary shiver of pleasure in the stifling heat; a fleeting chill of bitter winter winds howling off Lake Michigan, biting at my baby's fingers; fern fronds of frost creeping across the insides of the windows in our dank refrigerator of an apartment.
I almost missed it.
I almost missed the roar and clatter of the el, shaking our restless sleep as we huddled together for warmth.
Warmth …
Here the sun burned the colours from the world.
We sat: me hunched over the wheel, Mary sagging into her seat, drained, Lo leaning forward, her pale grey eyes missing nothing; a mute triumvirate as the parched world rolled by us and the old engine droned.
Here a flyblown motel; a single black dog watching us from the dusty parking lot; an empty pool.
There a trailer set back from the highway; threadbare wire fence corralling a world in miniature; baked clothes limp on a washing line; the rusted corpses of cars littering the yard.
And after all the miles; after all the years; our own trailer and a part-time job for me, stacking shelves in my uncle's store.
My old life …
Lo's new life …
I watched the distant line of the mountains slowly drift downward, knowing that when it finally fell and locked itself to the landscape there would be no turning back, and secretly wishing it would stay, hanging up there in the haze forever.
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