elements and all the other charts the old beekeeper had mentioned, could go fuck themselves, and that whatever I had said about it in the past was untrue, and that, furthermore, he, John, had been absolutely fucking right that time to go berserk and beat the shit out of me. Shut up, said John. Correctly. Then we went back to the city.
IN THE CITY, THEN, IT WAS ALL WORSE AND ALL OVER AND ALL everything, but we were not quite there yet. We were not quite there when we began being there by dropping them off at her apartment, the car quiet for a moment as we all said good-bye. Then, still not quite arrived, John and I returned the car to the rental agency and walked back over the river to my apartment. It was much colder in the city, even if we were not quite there yet, than it had been in the country. It was cold and a wind was blowing, a real wind, and we had bags to carry and were underdressed. The river, even with all its real and reflected bridges receding off into the distance, looked unforgiving and slightly angry. If it is possible for a river to look angry. I think it is.
Then we had arrived.
As a boy, I lived for a time in a room that looked out across a small empty lot onto a high white wall somewhere in a very small town, somewhere. The wall was as wide as it was high and, itself windowless, filled my window entirely. It was to this large white wall that I woke each morning, and it was at this large white wall, dimly illuminated by service lights, that I looked each night. Sometimes, during the day, birds flew along the wall. Or threw their shadows onto it. But that was all. For years. In its near impeccable blankness, is what I would like to say, it produces a memory, this wall, that, upon conclusion of the incidents I would now like to relate, I found, and in fact continue to find, soothing.
Then, I repeat, we had arrived.
Both in the city and at my apartment, which had been taken to pieces.
John looked at me, then at the remnants of the apartment, then went berserk.
Fuck, I said, for my part. Several times.
When he was calmer, which was some minutes later, he asked for an explanation.
What he said was, yours or theirs?
Mine.
Yours?
Yes.
What the fuck?
I know.
You don’t know anything.
True.
You don’t know shit.
Yes.
He picked something up off the floor and said, I bought this nifty keepsake in a little market on the side of a mountain in the middle of a rainstorm.
He held up a piece of it.
He held up a piece of something else.
I said something.
He said, fuck you, then we kind of wrestled around a little until he was on top of me.
Uncle? he said.
Yeah, uncle, I said.
Say Uncle John.
I said it.
He got off.
He walked around a little.
Then he sat down.
Okay, he said. Okay, fine. All right.
I nodded.
He looked at me.
We sat there.
All right, so why did they do this?
I shrugged.
He grabbed the back of my neck, pulled me forward a little, and punched me.
So I told him. Everything.
He agreed with me, 100-fucking-percent as he put it, that my actions or nonactions or whatever the hell I wanted to call them had been stupid.
Nice work, Mr. Jackass, is exactly what he said.
I asked him if I could get him anything. Maybe a snack or something.
He said, yeah.
I said, what?
He said, shut up for fuck’s sake, stupid, what did you do with it?
I told him.
He looked at me.
So why haven’t they gotten it yet?
Because I think I may have put the wrong address on it.
Jesus, he said.
Speaking of stupid, or of stupidly, I am put in mind of the following anecdote once told to me, or actually twice. A former colleague was set the task, well within her expertise, of executing the following procedure: (1) removing someone’s kidney; (2) laying said someone on his / her back in a bathtub full of ice cubes; (3) placing a note on his / her chest, which would read along the lines of, if you would like to live please dial Emergency. Part 1 was approached carefully. Part 2 was accomplished
IN THE CITY, THEN, IT WAS ALL WORSE AND ALL OVER AND ALL everything, but we were not quite there yet. We were not quite there when we began being there by dropping them off at her apartment, the car quiet for a moment as we all said good-bye. Then, still not quite arrived, John and I returned the car to the rental agency and walked back over the river to my apartment. It was much colder in the city, even if we were not quite there yet, than it had been in the country. It was cold and a wind was blowing, a real wind, and we had bags to carry and were underdressed. The river, even with all its real and reflected bridges receding off into the distance, looked unforgiving and slightly angry. If it is possible for a river to look angry. I think it is.
Then we had arrived.
As a boy, I lived for a time in a room that looked out across a small empty lot onto a high white wall somewhere in a very small town, somewhere. The wall was as wide as it was high and, itself windowless, filled my window entirely. It was to this large white wall that I woke each morning, and it was at this large white wall, dimly illuminated by service lights, that I looked each night. Sometimes, during the day, birds flew along the wall. Or threw their shadows onto it. But that was all. For years. In its near impeccable blankness, is what I would like to say, it produces a memory, this wall, that, upon conclusion of the incidents I would now like to relate, I found, and in fact continue to find, soothing.
Then, I repeat, we had arrived.
Both in the city and at my apartment, which had been taken to pieces.
John looked at me, then at the remnants of the apartment, then went berserk.
Fuck, I said, for my part. Several times.
When he was calmer, which was some minutes later, he asked for an explanation.
What he said was, yours or theirs?
Mine.
Yours?
Yes.
What the fuck?
I know.
You don’t know anything.
True.
You don’t know shit.
Yes.
He picked something up off the floor and said, I bought this nifty keepsake in a little market on the side of a mountain in the middle of a rainstorm.
He held up a piece of it.
He held up a piece of something else.
I said something.
He said, fuck you, then we kind of wrestled around a little until he was on top of me.
Uncle? he said.
Yeah, uncle, I said.
Say Uncle John.
I said it.
He got off.
He walked around a little.
Then he sat down.
Okay, he said. Okay, fine. All right.
I nodded.
He looked at me.
We sat there.
All right, so why did they do this?
I shrugged.
He grabbed the back of my neck, pulled me forward a little, and punched me.
So I told him. Everything.
He agreed with me, 100-fucking-percent as he put it, that my actions or nonactions or whatever the hell I wanted to call them had been stupid.
Nice work, Mr. Jackass, is exactly what he said.
I asked him if I could get him anything. Maybe a snack or something.
He said, yeah.
I said, what?
He said, shut up for fuck’s sake, stupid, what did you do with it?
I told him.
He looked at me.
So why haven’t they gotten it yet?
Because I think I may have put the wrong address on it.
Jesus, he said.
Speaking of stupid, or of stupidly, I am put in mind of the following anecdote once told to me, or actually twice. A former colleague was set the task, well within her expertise, of executing the following procedure: (1) removing someone’s kidney; (2) laying said someone on his / her back in a bathtub full of ice cubes; (3) placing a note on his / her chest, which would read along the lines of, if you would like to live please dial Emergency. Part 1 was approached carefully. Part 2 was accomplished
Similar Books
![The Duke's Men [1] What the Duke Desires](https://fs.collectorofbookboyfriends.com/538367/thumbs/152x264/the-dukes-men-1-what-the-duke-desires.jpg)
