self-evident, itâs because you havenât heard my story, which begins on the morning I noticed that the beaded seat cushion in the vacant lot was getting better instead of worse.
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*Â *Â *
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It was a Tuesday, a typical, that is to say beautiful, Alabama October morning. The leaves were just beginning to think about beginning to turn. Candy and I had been out late, parking at the Overlook on Squirrel Ridge, where I had unbuttoned all but the last little button on her uniform blouse before she stopped me with that firm but gentle touch on the back of my hand that I love so much. I had slept late, entangled in the most delicious dreams, and it was almost ten before I dragged myself off the leather couch I called a bed and stumbled, half-blind, across the corner lot to Hoppyâs Good Gulf.
âWhipper Willâs Yank,â said Hoppy, combining greeting, comment, and conversation into his usual laconic phrase. Hoppy wasnât much of a talker.
âRight,â I said, which was the only answer I had been able to devise.
â âNuff said,â he said, which was his way of signing off.
On my way back across the corner lot I stepped carefully over my old friend, the beaded seat cushion, which lay in its usual place, half-on and half-off the path. Loose beads were scattered in the dirt and grass around the neoprene strings that had once held them; it was like the reversed body of a beast whose skeleton (string) was less substantial than its flesh (beads). Perhaps it was the morning light (I thought), perhaps the dew hadnât yet dried off: But I noticed that the discarded seat cushion looked, or seemed to look, a little better rather than a little worse that morning.
It was weird. It was jarring because it was, after all, October, with the slow, quiet, golden process of ruin evident all around; and to me, that October, there was something personally gratifying about decline and decay, which was freeing up the woman I wanted to marry. Candy had agreed the night before up on Squirrel Ridge that, since her father was finally and securely ensconced in the nursing home, it was time to think about getting married. Or at least engaged. Sometime in the next week, I knew, she was going to allow me to propose. With all the privileges that entailed.
I decided it was my imagination (or perhaps my mood) that saw the beads reassembling themselves into a seat cushion. As always, I was careful not to kick them as I went on my way. Who was I to interfere with the processes of Nature? Back at the office I found two messages on Whipper Willâs ancient reel-to-reel answering machine: one from my best friend Wilson Wu announcing that he had located the Edge of the Universe, and one from Candy informing me that she would be twenty-minutes late for lunch at the âBonny Bag.â This second message worried me a little, since I could tell from the low moaning in the background that she was at Squirrel Ridge (the nursing home, not the mountain). I couldnât return either call since I didnât have outgoing, so I opened a Caffeine-Free Diet Cherry Coke from Whipper Willâs old-fashioned kerosene-powered office refrigerator, spread my Corcoranâs Alabama Case Law Review on the windowsill, and fell to my studies. When I woke up it was 12:20, and I panicked for a moment, thinking I was late for lunch. Then I remembered Candy was going to be late, too.
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*Â *Â *
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The Bonnie Baguette is a little sandwich shop much favored by lawyers and real estate people, most of whom tend to be old-line Huntsville folks who leave the Bypass to the NASA and university types. âI was worried,â I said as Candy and I both slid into the booth at the same time. âI could tell you were calling from Squirrel Ridge, and I was afraid that . . .â
Candy looked, as always, spectacular in her neatly pressed Parks Department khakis. Some girls are pretty without meaning to be.
Â
*Â *Â *
Â
It was a Tuesday, a typical, that is to say beautiful, Alabama October morning. The leaves were just beginning to think about beginning to turn. Candy and I had been out late, parking at the Overlook on Squirrel Ridge, where I had unbuttoned all but the last little button on her uniform blouse before she stopped me with that firm but gentle touch on the back of my hand that I love so much. I had slept late, entangled in the most delicious dreams, and it was almost ten before I dragged myself off the leather couch I called a bed and stumbled, half-blind, across the corner lot to Hoppyâs Good Gulf.
âWhipper Willâs Yank,â said Hoppy, combining greeting, comment, and conversation into his usual laconic phrase. Hoppy wasnât much of a talker.
âRight,â I said, which was the only answer I had been able to devise.
â âNuff said,â he said, which was his way of signing off.
On my way back across the corner lot I stepped carefully over my old friend, the beaded seat cushion, which lay in its usual place, half-on and half-off the path. Loose beads were scattered in the dirt and grass around the neoprene strings that had once held them; it was like the reversed body of a beast whose skeleton (string) was less substantial than its flesh (beads). Perhaps it was the morning light (I thought), perhaps the dew hadnât yet dried off: But I noticed that the discarded seat cushion looked, or seemed to look, a little better rather than a little worse that morning.
It was weird. It was jarring because it was, after all, October, with the slow, quiet, golden process of ruin evident all around; and to me, that October, there was something personally gratifying about decline and decay, which was freeing up the woman I wanted to marry. Candy had agreed the night before up on Squirrel Ridge that, since her father was finally and securely ensconced in the nursing home, it was time to think about getting married. Or at least engaged. Sometime in the next week, I knew, she was going to allow me to propose. With all the privileges that entailed.
I decided it was my imagination (or perhaps my mood) that saw the beads reassembling themselves into a seat cushion. As always, I was careful not to kick them as I went on my way. Who was I to interfere with the processes of Nature? Back at the office I found two messages on Whipper Willâs ancient reel-to-reel answering machine: one from my best friend Wilson Wu announcing that he had located the Edge of the Universe, and one from Candy informing me that she would be twenty-minutes late for lunch at the âBonny Bag.â This second message worried me a little, since I could tell from the low moaning in the background that she was at Squirrel Ridge (the nursing home, not the mountain). I couldnât return either call since I didnât have outgoing, so I opened a Caffeine-Free Diet Cherry Coke from Whipper Willâs old-fashioned kerosene-powered office refrigerator, spread my Corcoranâs Alabama Case Law Review on the windowsill, and fell to my studies. When I woke up it was 12:20, and I panicked for a moment, thinking I was late for lunch. Then I remembered Candy was going to be late, too.
Â
*Â *Â *
Â
The Bonnie Baguette is a little sandwich shop much favored by lawyers and real estate people, most of whom tend to be old-line Huntsville folks who leave the Bypass to the NASA and university types. âI was worried,â I said as Candy and I both slid into the booth at the same time. âI could tell you were calling from Squirrel Ridge, and I was afraid that . . .â
Candy looked, as always, spectacular in her neatly pressed Parks Department khakis. Some girls are pretty without meaning to be.
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