dirty, as if it had been a mortal sin for which he couldn’t now phrase the need for absolution.
This story originated in my frustration that the poet Edna St. Vincent Millay died two years before I was born. The character Cheyenne Fleming deviated from Millay by becoming, I’m afraid, a much less interesting person than her original model – certainly poor Fleming’s sonnets can’t hold a candle (lit at both ends or not) to Millay’s! But then I think Millay was the best
sonnetist since Shakespeare, so I guess Fleming shouldn’t feel too bad.
It was an entertaining chore for me to write sonnets – one in the story, and three for inclusion in the limited edition from Subterranean Press – from the point of view of a fictional character, and so later I did it again with the protagonist of the novel
Three Days to Never.
The incident with the balloon man in the forecourt of the Chinese Theater really happened, and it was my wife who had the cigarette snatched from her mouth; the man was wearing a top hat, and she knocked it off. The used-book store, Book City, isn’t there anymore, unfortunately.
–T. P.
T HE H OUR OF B ABEL
A gust of rainy wind wobbled the old 350 Honda as it made a right turn from Anaheim Boulevard into the empty parking lot, but the rider swerved a little wider to correct for it, and the green neutral-light shone under the water-beaded plastic window of the speedometer gauge as he coasted to a stop in one of the parking spaces in front of the anonymous office building.
He flipped down the kickstand and let the bike lean onto it without touching his shoe to the gleaming black pavement, and he unsnapped his helmet and pulled it off, shaking out his gray hair as he stared at the three-story building. In sunlight its white stucco walls were probably bright, but on this overcast noon it just looked ashen.
He shifted around on the plastic shopping bag he had draped over the section of black steel frame where the padded seat had once been, and squinted across the street. Past the wet cars hissing by in both directions he could see the bar, though it had a different name now. Probably the last person he knew from those days had quit going in there twenty years ago.
He looked back at the office building in front of him and tried to remember the Firehouse Pizza building that had stood there in 1975. It had sat further back, it seemed to him, with a wider parking lot in front.
The spot where he used to park his bike was somewhere inside this new building now.
He reached a gloved hand below the front of the gas tank and switched off the engine.
“Is he coming in?”
The bald man at the computer monitor stared at the red dot on the map-grid. “I don’t –”
“Look out the window,” said Hartford Evian with exaggerated clarity.
“Oh, right.” Scarbee got up from the computer and crossed to the tinted window that overlooked Anaheim Boulevard, and peered down. “He’s just sitting on his motorcycle, with his helmet off.” He rubbed his nose. “It’s raining.”
“Was this visit on the schedule?”
“I suppose so. Why should they show
me
the schedule? It must have been.”
Evian had flipped open a cell phone and begun awkwardly punching numbers into it, when Scarbee added, “Now Kokolo just drove in.”
Evian swore and quickly finished pushing the tiny buttons.
“Perry,” he said a moment later, “don’t look at the guy on the motorcycle to your right, it’s Hollis.
Hollis.
Yes, that one. It’s not on any schedule
I
ever saw. Just walk in, ignore him.” After listening for a moment, he went on, “Wait, wait! Felise is with you? Tell Felise not to get out of the car!”
Scarbee was still looking out the window. “Felise is already out of the car,” he said.
“Get in here, both of you, quick, don’t look around,” said Evian, and then he snapped the phone closed. “Did Hollis look at her?”
“Well,” said Scarbee, “he looked over at both of them.”
Evian
This story originated in my frustration that the poet Edna St. Vincent Millay died two years before I was born. The character Cheyenne Fleming deviated from Millay by becoming, I’m afraid, a much less interesting person than her original model – certainly poor Fleming’s sonnets can’t hold a candle (lit at both ends or not) to Millay’s! But then I think Millay was the best
sonnetist since Shakespeare, so I guess Fleming shouldn’t feel too bad.
It was an entertaining chore for me to write sonnets – one in the story, and three for inclusion in the limited edition from Subterranean Press – from the point of view of a fictional character, and so later I did it again with the protagonist of the novel
Three Days to Never.
The incident with the balloon man in the forecourt of the Chinese Theater really happened, and it was my wife who had the cigarette snatched from her mouth; the man was wearing a top hat, and she knocked it off. The used-book store, Book City, isn’t there anymore, unfortunately.
–T. P.
T HE H OUR OF B ABEL
A gust of rainy wind wobbled the old 350 Honda as it made a right turn from Anaheim Boulevard into the empty parking lot, but the rider swerved a little wider to correct for it, and the green neutral-light shone under the water-beaded plastic window of the speedometer gauge as he coasted to a stop in one of the parking spaces in front of the anonymous office building.
He flipped down the kickstand and let the bike lean onto it without touching his shoe to the gleaming black pavement, and he unsnapped his helmet and pulled it off, shaking out his gray hair as he stared at the three-story building. In sunlight its white stucco walls were probably bright, but on this overcast noon it just looked ashen.
He shifted around on the plastic shopping bag he had draped over the section of black steel frame where the padded seat had once been, and squinted across the street. Past the wet cars hissing by in both directions he could see the bar, though it had a different name now. Probably the last person he knew from those days had quit going in there twenty years ago.
He looked back at the office building in front of him and tried to remember the Firehouse Pizza building that had stood there in 1975. It had sat further back, it seemed to him, with a wider parking lot in front.
The spot where he used to park his bike was somewhere inside this new building now.
He reached a gloved hand below the front of the gas tank and switched off the engine.
“Is he coming in?”
The bald man at the computer monitor stared at the red dot on the map-grid. “I don’t –”
“Look out the window,” said Hartford Evian with exaggerated clarity.
“Oh, right.” Scarbee got up from the computer and crossed to the tinted window that overlooked Anaheim Boulevard, and peered down. “He’s just sitting on his motorcycle, with his helmet off.” He rubbed his nose. “It’s raining.”
“Was this visit on the schedule?”
“I suppose so. Why should they show
me
the schedule? It must have been.”
Evian had flipped open a cell phone and begun awkwardly punching numbers into it, when Scarbee added, “Now Kokolo just drove in.”
Evian swore and quickly finished pushing the tiny buttons.
“Perry,” he said a moment later, “don’t look at the guy on the motorcycle to your right, it’s Hollis.
Hollis.
Yes, that one. It’s not on any schedule
I
ever saw. Just walk in, ignore him.” After listening for a moment, he went on, “Wait, wait! Felise is with you? Tell Felise not to get out of the car!”
Scarbee was still looking out the window. “Felise is already out of the car,” he said.
“Get in here, both of you, quick, don’t look around,” said Evian, and then he snapped the phone closed. “Did Hollis look at her?”
“Well,” said Scarbee, “he looked over at both of them.”
Evian
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