whipping in the wind, and then they were gone.
But I was soon surrounded again—a group of career garbagemen made their ominous circle around me.
Brothers, I said, watching them carefully as I sat up and made a show of straightening my policeman's cap. They stared, blew smoke. One of them stabbed his garbage-stabber absentmindedly into the earth. Another coughed violently into his collar, startling birds into the air. The sky was inking up with birds, clouds of black-winged birds, the low grumbling heavens, the oily silken rustling: I felt sick. General conditions can change without warning: in one moment, the world hangs in the brain, fond and familiar as a painting of one's own, and in the next, garbagemen rip you from your dreams and filthy birds are cutting the face of day with their vectors. I could hear a train in the distance, departing for the Sheds.
I'm a policeman, I said unsteadily, and stood, backing away from the garbagemen—so long as I stayed moving, however slowly, I wasn't in their jurisdiction, and they knew it.
The city dump, which I had never visited, was a revelation—I wandered the heaps of refuse, steering clear of the workers who were raking trash from pile to pile. What a wealth to be found! I found some fresh canvas with which to line my boots—I wondered if I might find the incomparable gold of new warm boots hidden in one of the piles.
But I was distracted by the unpleasant odor of the Brothers of Mercy, which was all over my jacket. I went to a hidden spot along the riverbank and dunked my jacket into the oil-slicked and scummy water that pooled between the rocks. I removed my jacket only when exchanging it for a new one, and it seemed to me I'd had this one for several years. I squeezed the black water from it then slapped it clumsily against a rock, just as I'd seen the laundrymen do, all of my life in the park.
* * * *
Ben
He had spent the day with the tailor, consumed three pots of the old man's acrid, watery tea, eaten an entire tin of stale cookies, and grinned numbly through hours of ancient, endless, looping tales ("In those days, Ben, they called us clothmen . . .") only to lose his nerve when the tailor asked if there was anything he needed. “I'm fine,” he'd said. “Doing well, thanks,” and made a point of misbuttoning his black jacket, as if to politely contradict himself.
On his way back to the Bachelor House, Ben cut through the park, joining the evening drift of families headed for home, their frustrations domesticated by the sheer elemental force of a beautiful, perfect day. The shadows grew long; bachelors and young women hurried in the opposite direction, out for the night. He could smell the cologne and cedar soap of bachelors’ best intentions; the women left him in a wake of cool perfume.
Ben climbed the stairs to his room, impatient to be free of the black suit, to fall across his narrow bed and sleep and sleep and sleep. He kicked off his boots and saw that the other bachelor's door was open—he froze in horror. He was probably bound by law to say hello. The gap between the door and frame glowed with obligating light, but he wanted only to lie down and to think—think clearly—about things. He crept past the door toward bed.
"Hello?” Snared! There's no escape from a friendly greeting. “Hello?” the voice said again.
The bachelor was sitting on the floor, his pale pants rolled up to his knees. He was painting his ankles with a fine-haired brush. On his left leg was a pair of old-fashioned ships carving through blue swells. The right leg was the site of a conflict between two armies, one massive and clumped on a ridge, the other undermanned and dispersed, scattering into the pine shadows to escape a hail of bullets. Ben recognized the famous battle immediately. The bachelor painted. Ben watched uncomfortably from the door. The bachelor's hair was uncivilized, his lips tannin-dark with wine (a bottle stood nearby). He was gaunt, intent; he shifted
But I was soon surrounded again—a group of career garbagemen made their ominous circle around me.
Brothers, I said, watching them carefully as I sat up and made a show of straightening my policeman's cap. They stared, blew smoke. One of them stabbed his garbage-stabber absentmindedly into the earth. Another coughed violently into his collar, startling birds into the air. The sky was inking up with birds, clouds of black-winged birds, the low grumbling heavens, the oily silken rustling: I felt sick. General conditions can change without warning: in one moment, the world hangs in the brain, fond and familiar as a painting of one's own, and in the next, garbagemen rip you from your dreams and filthy birds are cutting the face of day with their vectors. I could hear a train in the distance, departing for the Sheds.
I'm a policeman, I said unsteadily, and stood, backing away from the garbagemen—so long as I stayed moving, however slowly, I wasn't in their jurisdiction, and they knew it.
The city dump, which I had never visited, was a revelation—I wandered the heaps of refuse, steering clear of the workers who were raking trash from pile to pile. What a wealth to be found! I found some fresh canvas with which to line my boots—I wondered if I might find the incomparable gold of new warm boots hidden in one of the piles.
But I was distracted by the unpleasant odor of the Brothers of Mercy, which was all over my jacket. I went to a hidden spot along the riverbank and dunked my jacket into the oil-slicked and scummy water that pooled between the rocks. I removed my jacket only when exchanging it for a new one, and it seemed to me I'd had this one for several years. I squeezed the black water from it then slapped it clumsily against a rock, just as I'd seen the laundrymen do, all of my life in the park.
* * * *
Ben
He had spent the day with the tailor, consumed three pots of the old man's acrid, watery tea, eaten an entire tin of stale cookies, and grinned numbly through hours of ancient, endless, looping tales ("In those days, Ben, they called us clothmen . . .") only to lose his nerve when the tailor asked if there was anything he needed. “I'm fine,” he'd said. “Doing well, thanks,” and made a point of misbuttoning his black jacket, as if to politely contradict himself.
On his way back to the Bachelor House, Ben cut through the park, joining the evening drift of families headed for home, their frustrations domesticated by the sheer elemental force of a beautiful, perfect day. The shadows grew long; bachelors and young women hurried in the opposite direction, out for the night. He could smell the cologne and cedar soap of bachelors’ best intentions; the women left him in a wake of cool perfume.
Ben climbed the stairs to his room, impatient to be free of the black suit, to fall across his narrow bed and sleep and sleep and sleep. He kicked off his boots and saw that the other bachelor's door was open—he froze in horror. He was probably bound by law to say hello. The gap between the door and frame glowed with obligating light, but he wanted only to lie down and to think—think clearly—about things. He crept past the door toward bed.
"Hello?” Snared! There's no escape from a friendly greeting. “Hello?” the voice said again.
The bachelor was sitting on the floor, his pale pants rolled up to his knees. He was painting his ankles with a fine-haired brush. On his left leg was a pair of old-fashioned ships carving through blue swells. The right leg was the site of a conflict between two armies, one massive and clumped on a ridge, the other undermanned and dispersed, scattering into the pine shadows to escape a hail of bullets. Ben recognized the famous battle immediately. The bachelor painted. Ben watched uncomfortably from the door. The bachelor's hair was uncivilized, his lips tannin-dark with wine (a bottle stood nearby). He was gaunt, intent; he shifted
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