sandbox was his sandbox and his only.
A security light in the backyard turned on when anything moved back there, so at night he had to loosen the light before he could play in his sandbox unnoticed. When he went out in the dark, he first sifted through the sand with a cat-box scoop. He didnât have a cat, but his neighbors did. A small yellow dump truck waited for cat droppings. The general drove it stealthily away and emptied it into the flowerbed. Cleaning the sandbox was a warm-up for serious play.
He sat bare-legged on the sand and made different forms, sometimes breasts and hips but usually sandcastles and forts. Being noticed on a night mission could spoil everything, so he played for a half hour but no longer. He avoided the sandbox on moonlit nights when people might see him. The darkest nights were his favorites. In pitch blackness all he had was the feel of the sand, the liquid sound of it flowing through his fingers and never fighting back. He liked the way it found new forms or followed the form of whatever pressed into it.
To cap off the evening, he rolled in the sand, letting it sooth his flesh and cling to him. He bathed in his sand, but when he got up, some of the sand followed him into the house and sprinkled itself over his rugs and furniture. Cleaning up the wayward sand was his daytime work. It didnât take that long, and usually there was only a cupful that he had to sweep up. When darkness returned, he carefully carried the cup of sand back to his sandbox where it belonged.
KEEPING ONEâS SECRET
This manâs secret was that he urinated wherever he pleased. Itâs not as if he was raised in a country where every street-side bush was like a fire hydrant to a beagle. It is true that he was raised on a farm where he learned to imitate the animals in their indiscriminate fertilizing of every spot where they stoodâbut that was years ago. Today he was an SUV-driving suburbanite who wore Ralph Lauren shirts to work.
The man who urinated wherever he pleased believed everyone had a secret and that his secret was less harmful than most. Instead of hiding a pint of whiskey in his desk, he urinated behind his open car door in a mini-mall parking lot. Rather than slipping off to a casino to waste money, he urinated in the corner of his garage. Whatâs your secret? he wondered when he met a tightlipped banker for a business loan. Do you look at porn sites on your office computer? Do you cheat on your taxes? And the flight attendant who smiled coyly as she handed out peanuts and pretzels, did she have a different lover at every overnight stop?
The urinator had not had the flu or a cold for ten years, not since he started urinating wherever he pleased. He didnât make a connection. He was not superstitious about his secret. All he knew is that the good life accompanied urinating wherever he pleased. On starry nights, he looked up smiling while he urinated from his upstairs bedroomâin an arc that avoided staining the house siding. Over the years he became so skilled in his ventures that he was never caught. When he seemed to be kneeling to pull weeds in his garden, would anyone wonder why the marigolds were sparkling when he walked away? When he stepped off the path in the city park and returned staring up like a bird-watcher, would anyone suspect that his look of contentment came from anything but spotting an Oregon junco?
Everyone had a secret, but most didnât know how to protect it. They were clumsy or reckless, like shoplifters who didnât notice the security cameras or who didnât know how not to look like a shoplifter. Other men who would like to urinate wherever they pleased made stupid mistakes, like standing with feet apart, with one hand in front and one hand on the hip. Keeping oneâs secret was not for fools. It required imagination and practice. Keeping oneâs secret was an art, or at least a highly developed craft.
THE POOR RICH YOUNG MAN
When
A security light in the backyard turned on when anything moved back there, so at night he had to loosen the light before he could play in his sandbox unnoticed. When he went out in the dark, he first sifted through the sand with a cat-box scoop. He didnât have a cat, but his neighbors did. A small yellow dump truck waited for cat droppings. The general drove it stealthily away and emptied it into the flowerbed. Cleaning the sandbox was a warm-up for serious play.
He sat bare-legged on the sand and made different forms, sometimes breasts and hips but usually sandcastles and forts. Being noticed on a night mission could spoil everything, so he played for a half hour but no longer. He avoided the sandbox on moonlit nights when people might see him. The darkest nights were his favorites. In pitch blackness all he had was the feel of the sand, the liquid sound of it flowing through his fingers and never fighting back. He liked the way it found new forms or followed the form of whatever pressed into it.
To cap off the evening, he rolled in the sand, letting it sooth his flesh and cling to him. He bathed in his sand, but when he got up, some of the sand followed him into the house and sprinkled itself over his rugs and furniture. Cleaning up the wayward sand was his daytime work. It didnât take that long, and usually there was only a cupful that he had to sweep up. When darkness returned, he carefully carried the cup of sand back to his sandbox where it belonged.
KEEPING ONEâS SECRET
This manâs secret was that he urinated wherever he pleased. Itâs not as if he was raised in a country where every street-side bush was like a fire hydrant to a beagle. It is true that he was raised on a farm where he learned to imitate the animals in their indiscriminate fertilizing of every spot where they stoodâbut that was years ago. Today he was an SUV-driving suburbanite who wore Ralph Lauren shirts to work.
The man who urinated wherever he pleased believed everyone had a secret and that his secret was less harmful than most. Instead of hiding a pint of whiskey in his desk, he urinated behind his open car door in a mini-mall parking lot. Rather than slipping off to a casino to waste money, he urinated in the corner of his garage. Whatâs your secret? he wondered when he met a tightlipped banker for a business loan. Do you look at porn sites on your office computer? Do you cheat on your taxes? And the flight attendant who smiled coyly as she handed out peanuts and pretzels, did she have a different lover at every overnight stop?
The urinator had not had the flu or a cold for ten years, not since he started urinating wherever he pleased. He didnât make a connection. He was not superstitious about his secret. All he knew is that the good life accompanied urinating wherever he pleased. On starry nights, he looked up smiling while he urinated from his upstairs bedroomâin an arc that avoided staining the house siding. Over the years he became so skilled in his ventures that he was never caught. When he seemed to be kneeling to pull weeds in his garden, would anyone wonder why the marigolds were sparkling when he walked away? When he stepped off the path in the city park and returned staring up like a bird-watcher, would anyone suspect that his look of contentment came from anything but spotting an Oregon junco?
Everyone had a secret, but most didnât know how to protect it. They were clumsy or reckless, like shoplifters who didnât notice the security cameras or who didnât know how not to look like a shoplifter. Other men who would like to urinate wherever they pleased made stupid mistakes, like standing with feet apart, with one hand in front and one hand on the hip. Keeping oneâs secret was not for fools. It required imagination and practice. Keeping oneâs secret was an art, or at least a highly developed craft.
THE POOR RICH YOUNG MAN
When
Similar Books
