metaphor for what it means to clean the whole fucking thing up. It all happens in one building. He looked up at the oddly shaped Fabergé Restaurant.
“The Big Apple is the Big Egg, Jess. It’s fertile, it’s fragile, it’s filled with opportunity, but when it’s fertilized, it lands up in these bloody, noisy, filthy streets, and hopes for a place to repose. That’s what the pastoral farm is for, Jess. Repose, reflection, retreat.”
Jess examined him with admiration, illuminated by a few crass bulbs whose rays were able to sneak out of their rooms in order to find their own repose in this, Nate’s pastoral farm.
“Do you like Wordsworth?” asked Nate. Jess hesitated.
“Sure!”
“Do you know ‘Tintern Abbey’?” A rustling sound suddenly made them both aware of some urban creature who took ownership of this space. Alleyways like this one attracted skunks and raccoons, creatures that come to forage in the open bins, digging away, when homeless people aren’t around, in search of prized scraps.
“I have read Wordsworth,” Jess began.
Nate took in a poetic breath and turned towards Jess, darkened by the evening sky, illuminated by the wayward beams. “The day has come when I again repose, Jess, here, under this dark sycamore.” He paused. “This building here,” he motioned towards the nondescript, brick building that made up one of the walls of their little clearing. “Under this dark sycamore, and view these plots of cottage ground, these orchard tufts.” He motioned to the open space around them. “Gorgeous, no?”
“Yes,” she grinned. “Gorgeous!”
“These orchard tufts, which, at this season, with their unripe fruits,” he paused, “and eggs.” She smiled, as they both looked up at the egg restaurant before them. “Eggs, which at this season, with their, um, their unfertilized fruits. Did you like that? Unfertilized?”
“What is it supposed to mean?” asked Jessica.
“Unfertilized,” replied Nate. “Like Fabergé Restaurant. And like you and me.”
She blushed, but the scant light wouldn’t reveal it to his probing gaze.
“In Wordsworth’s version it’s ‘unripe.’”
“I guess he didn’t know about this pastoral farm,” said Jess.
It was Nate’s turn to redden, but his color, too, was imperceptible in the darkness.
“At this season,” he continued, “with their unripe fruits, among the woods and copses lose themselves. Also like us.”
“Copses?” she inquired.
“Um, bushes, clumps of trees. Like those.” He motioned towards other buildings, adjoining those that demarcated their little alleyway.
“It’s a really beautiful poem,” uttered Jess silently.
“Not done yet.” Nate knew when he was onto a good thing.
“Among the woods and copses lose themselves, nor, with their green and simple hue disturb the wild green landscape.”
“Do they ever!” exclaimed Jess, motioning back to the buildings surrounding them.
Nate was now looking at her intently, as though he wanted to make love to her with his gaze. Which he did. Uncertain of what could bring on such joyful copulation, he simply continued his soliloquy.
“This is my favorite part, Jess. Once again I see these hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, little lines of sporting wood run wild.”
“Beautiful! That is beautiful, Nate. Why is it your favorite part?”
“Because I love how he corrected himself but didn’t take away the first thought. I think about that sometimes when we are in there.” He motioned to the Fabergé egg. We taste something we’ve just made, and it’s good. We add a bit more, um . . .”
“Vanilla?”
“Vanilla, yes. We add more vanilla. And it’s better, but it’s also different. We know that it’s different, but the, um, the waffle doesn’t. We correct it, but now it’s not corrected, it’s just different. Nobody except us knows how it tasted before the extra dash of vanilla.”
All of New York grew silent.
“That’s really beautiful, Nate.”
He
“The Big Apple is the Big Egg, Jess. It’s fertile, it’s fragile, it’s filled with opportunity, but when it’s fertilized, it lands up in these bloody, noisy, filthy streets, and hopes for a place to repose. That’s what the pastoral farm is for, Jess. Repose, reflection, retreat.”
Jess examined him with admiration, illuminated by a few crass bulbs whose rays were able to sneak out of their rooms in order to find their own repose in this, Nate’s pastoral farm.
“Do you like Wordsworth?” asked Nate. Jess hesitated.
“Sure!”
“Do you know ‘Tintern Abbey’?” A rustling sound suddenly made them both aware of some urban creature who took ownership of this space. Alleyways like this one attracted skunks and raccoons, creatures that come to forage in the open bins, digging away, when homeless people aren’t around, in search of prized scraps.
“I have read Wordsworth,” Jess began.
Nate took in a poetic breath and turned towards Jess, darkened by the evening sky, illuminated by the wayward beams. “The day has come when I again repose, Jess, here, under this dark sycamore.” He paused. “This building here,” he motioned towards the nondescript, brick building that made up one of the walls of their little clearing. “Under this dark sycamore, and view these plots of cottage ground, these orchard tufts.” He motioned to the open space around them. “Gorgeous, no?”
“Yes,” she grinned. “Gorgeous!”
“These orchard tufts, which, at this season, with their unripe fruits,” he paused, “and eggs.” She smiled, as they both looked up at the egg restaurant before them. “Eggs, which at this season, with their, um, their unfertilized fruits. Did you like that? Unfertilized?”
“What is it supposed to mean?” asked Jessica.
“Unfertilized,” replied Nate. “Like Fabergé Restaurant. And like you and me.”
She blushed, but the scant light wouldn’t reveal it to his probing gaze.
“In Wordsworth’s version it’s ‘unripe.’”
“I guess he didn’t know about this pastoral farm,” said Jess.
It was Nate’s turn to redden, but his color, too, was imperceptible in the darkness.
“At this season,” he continued, “with their unripe fruits, among the woods and copses lose themselves. Also like us.”
“Copses?” she inquired.
“Um, bushes, clumps of trees. Like those.” He motioned towards other buildings, adjoining those that demarcated their little alleyway.
“It’s a really beautiful poem,” uttered Jess silently.
“Not done yet.” Nate knew when he was onto a good thing.
“Among the woods and copses lose themselves, nor, with their green and simple hue disturb the wild green landscape.”
“Do they ever!” exclaimed Jess, motioning back to the buildings surrounding them.
Nate was now looking at her intently, as though he wanted to make love to her with his gaze. Which he did. Uncertain of what could bring on such joyful copulation, he simply continued his soliloquy.
“This is my favorite part, Jess. Once again I see these hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, little lines of sporting wood run wild.”
“Beautiful! That is beautiful, Nate. Why is it your favorite part?”
“Because I love how he corrected himself but didn’t take away the first thought. I think about that sometimes when we are in there.” He motioned to the Fabergé egg. We taste something we’ve just made, and it’s good. We add a bit more, um . . .”
“Vanilla?”
“Vanilla, yes. We add more vanilla. And it’s better, but it’s also different. We know that it’s different, but the, um, the waffle doesn’t. We correct it, but now it’s not corrected, it’s just different. Nobody except us knows how it tasted before the extra dash of vanilla.”
All of New York grew silent.
“That’s really beautiful, Nate.”
He
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