Page 2 - The Myth and the Moment
P. 2

Morning



          Bang!  Crash!  I’m  a  bull  in  a  china  shop!  China  bulls,  go  smash!
        Bang! I did exactly as you ordered, Doctor. Yes, good bull, good boy.
        Now, take two tablets and call me in the morning. No! They’re too
        big: I can’t swallow them. I’ll smash them down! Crash! See, I broke
        your word. Then I’ll smash you, bad bull, bad boy. Bang! No, don’t
        hit me! Don’t—
          Bang!  Bang!  Bang!  Unnh.  Don’t  hit  me.  Oh,  what  a  nightmare!
        Eyelids: unstick! Daylight? Eyelight. Daylids. What’s that banging?
          “You in there, Evangelino? You got fifteen seconds to get out here
        and then I’m going to hang up the phone.”
          The landlady.  Sunday  morning.  Another ultimatum  from the  old
        tomato. “I’m coming, Mrs. Fulcrone. Just give me a minute. Who is
        it?”
          “How the hell should I know? This ain’t an answering service, you
        old bum. Just be grateful I bother to pick up that pay phone at all.”
          Stuff the lame old limbs into the trousers—luckily not a garment
        of  ambiguous  orientation.  Same  for  the  deck  shoes—no,  tennis
        shoes—no, sneakers—no, running shoes—ah, can’t keep up with the
        trivial terminology of the times. What time is it? Bright enough to be
        nine a.m. But it could be earlier: the desert winds have scoured the
        basin of all haze and fog; going to be hot again today, maybe over a
        hundred. Key’s in the pocket, good. Never bright in the hall. Haven
        for photophobic vermin and lodgers. Same old carpet worn down in
        a curving path toward the phone; couldn’t get lost in here. Plenty of
        bread  crumbs  to  follow,  too.  Well-scribbled  wall-scribblings  muted
        by  the  aptly-named  fifteen-watt  ‘miser’  bulb:  Mene,  mene,  tekel:  you
        have been weighed and found wanting—by the welfare state. Echh,
        better wipe the mouthpiece. And the earpiece.
          “Hello?”
          “Nathan?  It’s  Al  Hodges.  Get  ready  to  roll.  We’ve  got  an
        emergency up in Trousdale.”
          Great. The boss has to roust me out of bed on my day off.
          “But it’s Sunday. Can’t we take care of it tomorrow?”
          “Didn’t you hear me? I said it was an emergency. Obviously, I am
        going to have to pay you extra for this.”
          And what will you charge the client, dear boss?

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