introduction of ravenous, rabid animals to a metropolis or two, a grand network of anonymous assassins. I’m working it all out, rubbing my hands together with private glee, putting my self-doubt and grandiosity alternately into perspective, trying
to construct a way to allow the remaining population a pure mourning, one that cannot blame, one that results, finally, in cleansing.This one, this idea, after many small ones, fills my mind. I cannot conceive of a better one, and I’m currently convinced it simply can’t be done. The weaseling I commit each day with the Cravens, with Vivian’s men, the way I resort to the law of all things to clean my neighborhood—none would be necessary if I could finish the scheme. Not an easy job, but it keeps me going, and for now it keeps my great shakes in place.
But truly, I confess I am not stupid enough to believe I can do a thing to help people on such a scale, especially as I am no good at networking and hold no fascist claim to fame. So I keep the scheme to the sphere of my mind, because I haven’t got it done, and because despite my best intentions, I am a good person, and can therefore be no more than an itch on a person’s butt, a salve on a pimple, a bane to my own existence. I’m done examining why. It’s so old hat, and it smells up a room.
II: ONE PERSON
Which is not to say that I am always by myself, and which is not to say I never question the time I spend. For instance, merely months ago, someone knocked on my door. It’s true, I ran upstairs, afraid that something had fallen from something, but I did, eventually, discover the cause of the banging and interaction ensued.
It was a fellow, an up-front one as it turned out (I admire up-front), seventeen as it turned out. I invited him in, and
he said, “Look, I’m not gonna dick around. Jeff next door, you know that kid, basically dared me to ask you out because he thinks I’ll fuck anything.” I considered. I straightened my stockings, which I wear even in the summer as part of my role, and asked him if he wanted tea. He said,“I drink coffee.” I said, “Okay. I have some here somewhere.”
The fellow’s name was Shannon, which as I remember can be difficult for a boy in school unless he is blessed with social acuity and popular acceptance, which this Shannon was. Good-looking in a contemporary way. Would make a pretty girl, but also played basketball.
It’s true, I am wizened, sullen, frustrated, crotchety, but although the world generally annoys me, I have not lost interest in it. “What does Jeff want you to do?” I asked, hoping my smile was as wry as intended. Shannon scratched an ear and leaned against my kitchen table.
“He wasn’t too clear, really,” Shannon said.“Everyone knows what you’re like. I guess old Jeff just said what he said. It’s the kind of thing, if I was seven, I’d of knocked and run away, that kind of thing. He’s laughing his ass off right now.”
“I’m sure,” I said.
I was still looking for coffee. Shannon walked around the room and then said he had to piss. I couldn’t find any coffee, so I put water on to boil. Shannon came back.
“I’m gonna take off, I guess,” he said.
“You’re not going to ask me out?” I scratched an ear and leaned against my kitchen counter.
“How old are you?” he said.
“Thirty-five,” I told him, settling for a balance between truths.
“Damn, girl. I’m in high school.” He considered. Then he said, “Okay, let’s go out. I’ll come over tonight.”
“It’s not like I’m eighty,” I said, feeling excited by the prospect of, well, a prospect I suppose. An inkling of kindness aimed at myself, I suppose, a lightness in my old bones.
So he came over that night. I opened the door to him and he said, “Let me in quick. I don’t want everyone to see.”
His hair was combed and wet. I’d taken my stockings off and dressed up the way I had in college when I went to the parties fraternities held at
to construct a way to allow the remaining population a pure mourning, one that cannot blame, one that results, finally, in cleansing.This one, this idea, after many small ones, fills my mind. I cannot conceive of a better one, and I’m currently convinced it simply can’t be done. The weaseling I commit each day with the Cravens, with Vivian’s men, the way I resort to the law of all things to clean my neighborhood—none would be necessary if I could finish the scheme. Not an easy job, but it keeps me going, and for now it keeps my great shakes in place.
But truly, I confess I am not stupid enough to believe I can do a thing to help people on such a scale, especially as I am no good at networking and hold no fascist claim to fame. So I keep the scheme to the sphere of my mind, because I haven’t got it done, and because despite my best intentions, I am a good person, and can therefore be no more than an itch on a person’s butt, a salve on a pimple, a bane to my own existence. I’m done examining why. It’s so old hat, and it smells up a room.
II: ONE PERSON
Which is not to say that I am always by myself, and which is not to say I never question the time I spend. For instance, merely months ago, someone knocked on my door. It’s true, I ran upstairs, afraid that something had fallen from something, but I did, eventually, discover the cause of the banging and interaction ensued.
It was a fellow, an up-front one as it turned out (I admire up-front), seventeen as it turned out. I invited him in, and
he said, “Look, I’m not gonna dick around. Jeff next door, you know that kid, basically dared me to ask you out because he thinks I’ll fuck anything.” I considered. I straightened my stockings, which I wear even in the summer as part of my role, and asked him if he wanted tea. He said,“I drink coffee.” I said, “Okay. I have some here somewhere.”
The fellow’s name was Shannon, which as I remember can be difficult for a boy in school unless he is blessed with social acuity and popular acceptance, which this Shannon was. Good-looking in a contemporary way. Would make a pretty girl, but also played basketball.
It’s true, I am wizened, sullen, frustrated, crotchety, but although the world generally annoys me, I have not lost interest in it. “What does Jeff want you to do?” I asked, hoping my smile was as wry as intended. Shannon scratched an ear and leaned against my kitchen table.
“He wasn’t too clear, really,” Shannon said.“Everyone knows what you’re like. I guess old Jeff just said what he said. It’s the kind of thing, if I was seven, I’d of knocked and run away, that kind of thing. He’s laughing his ass off right now.”
“I’m sure,” I said.
I was still looking for coffee. Shannon walked around the room and then said he had to piss. I couldn’t find any coffee, so I put water on to boil. Shannon came back.
“I’m gonna take off, I guess,” he said.
“You’re not going to ask me out?” I scratched an ear and leaned against my kitchen counter.
“How old are you?” he said.
“Thirty-five,” I told him, settling for a balance between truths.
“Damn, girl. I’m in high school.” He considered. Then he said, “Okay, let’s go out. I’ll come over tonight.”
“It’s not like I’m eighty,” I said, feeling excited by the prospect of, well, a prospect I suppose. An inkling of kindness aimed at myself, I suppose, a lightness in my old bones.
So he came over that night. I opened the door to him and he said, “Let me in quick. I don’t want everyone to see.”
His hair was combed and wet. I’d taken my stockings off and dressed up the way I had in college when I went to the parties fraternities held at
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