The next day the sky fell, not once, but twice, taking with it the awning over the Seder Grocers and the flagpole in front of the Waymart. Szczecinek Zachodnio Pomorskie, formally known as the King of Idleness, lived in a shanty shack made from old tiles and wood shims. He knew no one, not Joshua Ratingen, Monsignor Fontenay-sous-Bois, Richie Goulding, Reggie Wylie, Gertie MacDowell, Gertie MacDowell, Mrs. Mastiansky, Mr. J Stork (the proprietor), the lecher Anzoátegui Courbevoie, the Ilfov twins (of Bragadiru), Alberto Japer (the town fool), Alma Dejesus, the Split sisters, the Karpos brothers of Skopje, a boy named Romero, the Benfleet Essex boys or Molloy. The King of Idleness, as he was formerly known, lived out his measly life knotting baler’s twine into mittens and scarves. Some lives are best left to their own devices, alone in the dark counting backwards to one hundred and one, unlived and unheeded.
No one but the man in the hat knew the way back from there. Having been there many, many times he drew a map in his head that showed the way there and back. Once while returning back from there he ran into a boy with a Charlie leg, the boy balancing a basketful of potatoes on his head. When asked ‘…why are you balancing potatoes on your head…?’ the boy said ‘…on account of rutabagas are too heavy…’. ‘…I see…’ said the man in the hat, ‘…never undermine the hearty potato…’. ‘…yes…’ said the boy, ‘…potatoes are a gift from on high…’. ‘…and the lowly rutabaga a gift from on low…’ offered the man in the hat, squinting at the blue, blue sky. With that the boy with the Charlie leg went on his way, the day opening up before him like a warm apple pie. The world is full of such encounters, basketfuls. There’s no getting away from the fact that when the clock strikes noontime the Tamworth brothers strike a cord with the Chahar va Bakhtiari sisters, the sisters striking a cord with the Chakras Mahall sisters who are known for their inveigling and poorly posture. The man in the hat has no time for inveiglers and tom-tarts. His posture, though less poorly, has caused him considerable concern since the sky fell falling onto his head, cracking his neck and jimmying loose a cord or two. His grandmamma knowing better, staved off falling skies with the end of her char-broom, sweeping the crumbs under the Berber, a gift from Szczecinek Zachodnio Pomorskie in celebration of idleness and slow wittedness. Its never too soon to learn a new trick, the plum is in the plotting. Word had it a Berber stole the missing whore’s gloves, hiding it under his sun-hat and running willy-nilly away. Were they to catch him they’d sentence him to perish by hanging, not another word ever being said about the matter. Words are funny things, thought the man in the hat; such funny things words are. They’re fun funnier than slipping on a banana peal or keeling ass over tea kettle onto your aching back, that sort of funny funniness.
Awaking from troubled sleep Dejesus felt a crick in his neck, just below the bump on the back of his head and above the hunker of his shoulders. It was there, at the basal base of his neck, there where tendon cords and soft tissue attach to the hypothalamus, there. This had him thinking, yes it did, thinking about those mornings when he awoke to a violent storm in his head, the twisting and turning and churning that went on inside, yes inside his head, there. Trouble not he thought, fear is a useless thing, yes fear is. Perhaps when I awaken tomorrow morning I will feel better, at least less vexed, feeling, yes. I can feel the boil and roiling in the scamper of my head, the burn and churn, the blazing hot blazing sun burning, no scorching a hole in my head, the bottom of my head, where the basal base of my skull meets the hunker of my shoulders, there. Were I but a wee waif of a boy, a waifish boy, I’d surely be bouncing a ball or jacking the stickle and spit, yes certainly I would, of course. Not that stickle and spit or jacking the ball jack are things I am accustom to doing, no not I. After thinking thoughts round and round in the boil of his mind, Dejesus decided to awaken a second time, this time with a spry hop and skip to his cantor, a man reckoning on a good and pleasant day, yes.
No one but the man in the hat knew the way back from there. Having been there many, many times he drew a map in his head that showed the way there and back. Once while returning back from there he ran into a boy with a Charlie leg, the boy balancing a basketful of potatoes on his head. When asked ‘…why are you balancing potatoes on your head…?’ the boy said ‘…on account of rutabagas are too heavy…’. ‘…I see…’ said the man in the hat, ‘…never undermine the hearty potato…’. ‘…yes…’ said the boy, ‘…potatoes are a gift from on high…’. ‘…and the lowly rutabaga a gift from on low…’ offered the man in the hat, squinting at the blue, blue sky. With that the boy with the Charlie leg went on his way, the day opening up before him like a warm apple pie. The world is full of such encounters, basketfuls. There’s no getting away from the fact that when the clock strikes noontime the Tamworth brothers strike a cord with the Chahar va Bakhtiari sisters, the sisters striking a cord with the Chakras Mahall sisters who are known for their inveigling and poorly posture. The man in the hat has no time for inveiglers and tom-tarts. His posture, though less poorly, has caused him considerable concern since the sky fell falling onto his head, cracking his neck and jimmying loose a cord or two. His grandmamma knowing better, staved off falling skies with the end of her char-broom, sweeping the crumbs under the Berber, a gift from Szczecinek Zachodnio Pomorskie in celebration of idleness and slow wittedness. Its never too soon to learn a new trick, the plum is in the plotting. Word had it a Berber stole the missing whore’s gloves, hiding it under his sun-hat and running willy-nilly away. Were they to catch him they’d sentence him to perish by hanging, not another word ever being said about the matter. Words are funny things, thought the man in the hat; such funny things words are. They’re fun funnier than slipping on a banana peal or keeling ass over tea kettle onto your aching back, that sort of funny funniness.
Awaking from troubled sleep Dejesus felt a crick in his neck, just below the bump on the back of his head and above the hunker of his shoulders. It was there, at the basal base of his neck, there where tendon cords and soft tissue attach to the hypothalamus, there. This had him thinking, yes it did, thinking about those mornings when he awoke to a violent storm in his head, the twisting and turning and churning that went on inside, yes inside his head, there. Trouble not he thought, fear is a useless thing, yes fear is. Perhaps when I awaken tomorrow morning I will feel better, at least less vexed, feeling, yes. I can feel the boil and roiling in the scamper of my head, the burn and churn, the blazing hot blazing sun burning, no scorching a hole in my head, the bottom of my head, where the basal base of my skull meets the hunker of my shoulders, there. Were I but a wee waif of a boy, a waifish boy, I’d surely be bouncing a ball or jacking the stickle and spit, yes certainly I would, of course. Not that stickle and spit or jacking the ball jack are things I am accustom to doing, no not I. After thinking thoughts round and round in the boil of his mind, Dejesus decided to awaken a second time, this time with a spry hop and skip to his cantor, a man reckoning on a good and pleasant day, yes.
No comments:
Post a Comment