Charlie sat on the bench, looking up at the sky. He muttered something."Huh?"
"What?"
I drifted off into my thoughts. I was thinking about an abandoned farm house before he spoke.
"What is there to know? What is said often passes by the mind like the breeze that swirls in the streets below an apartment window. Go ahead, try looking out the window sometime. The papers move silently, swirling like marionettes, don't they? Chasing each other in circles, turning a corner and passing out of view. The next block gets a show. The casual observer wonders if these are the very papers that are eventually caught and trapped in the bundles stacked up at the stationary store on the corner. A man follows this paper parade with a broom and a shovel. At a few cents a pound, he makes enough to purchase bread for his family on the way home. He steps on more paper on the way, crushing it beneath the heel of his boot. He refuses to take his work home." He folds his hands on his lap and looks at his shoes. "They say the horrors of the paper mills can only be imagined. One can picture the bespectacled shopkeeper, suspenders and a white shirt with sleeves rolled up to the elbows, subduing the rustling papers in a dark, poorly ventilated room. Swinging around, he grabs the bundle with both arms and turns, plunging it into a vat of ice cold water, pressing it down, straining to hold it below the surface. Bubbles rise around his arms. Sweat drips from his brow. The room falls silent, the waters still. A smile reaches up into his face, gripping it tightly. He cannot look away. " He shook his head. "The horrors, the inhumanity." He loosened his tie. "In the meantime, the wind has passed along, and he has no idea. I have no idea. You have no idea."
I think the parlor had an old couch. A bird's nest lay on the floor. Now it is empty again.
"This is what we want. We would rather populate our world with litter that speaks than another one of us." He watches a woman running down the sidewalk, followed by a small dog in a sweater. "Now it chases us down alleys at night and we are terrified. It frightens little children when you draw a mask on it. Older people recoil at the sight of red words. Even small print causes night sweats."
I think I see the couch again. "You know, I was thinking -"
"So-" he looks at my face. "So we remain one step behind those who speak. Yet we insist that the papers move on their own accord. Wind - who knows it? Abrading rocks, dehydrating souls, skeletonizing forests, blowing out the sun. Who wants to know it?" He combs his hair with his fingers. "Is this what you want?"
"Huh?"
"What?"
"You know, I was thinking -"
"- I knew an old woman who thought that if she listened closely, she could hear voices on the wind from far away lands. She grew up in the plains, on a farmstead. One year, the wind blew out the windows in her house. Took the doors off the hinges. Filled the house with dust. Pulled the corn out of the ground, roots and all. Turned her bread to toast. So hot it melted the shingles on the roof. Turned her father's face to leather. Mother's hair to straw. Then one day it picked her up and carried her to Washington. Her parents were left behind. That is what she said - that is what she said she heard years later. She doesn't remember a thing herself; she doesn't think anyone said anything. She was only nine at the time." He looks into the distance. "To this day she stands at her window overlooking the apple orchards in the Willamette valley waiting for a windy, spring day, hoping that she will hear the voices of her mother and father." He pauses and looks at my face again.
"What did you say?""What?"
I drifted off into my thoughts. I was thinking about an abandoned farm house before he spoke.
"What is there to know? What is said often passes by the mind like the breeze that swirls in the streets below an apartment window. Go ahead, try looking out the window sometime. The papers move silently, swirling like marionettes, don't they? Chasing each other in circles, turning a corner and passing out of view. The next block gets a show. The casual observer wonders if these are the very papers that are eventually caught and trapped in the bundles stacked up at the stationary store on the corner. A man follows this paper parade with a broom and a shovel. At a few cents a pound, he makes enough to purchase bread for his family on the way home. He steps on more paper on the way, crushing it beneath the heel of his boot. He refuses to take his work home." He folds his hands on his lap and looks at his shoes. "They say the horrors of the paper mills can only be imagined. One can picture the bespectacled shopkeeper, suspenders and a white shirt with sleeves rolled up to the elbows, subduing the rustling papers in a dark, poorly ventilated room. Swinging around, he grabs the bundle with both arms and turns, plunging it into a vat of ice cold water, pressing it down, straining to hold it below the surface. Bubbles rise around his arms. Sweat drips from his brow. The room falls silent, the waters still. A smile reaches up into his face, gripping it tightly. He cannot look away. " He shook his head. "The horrors, the inhumanity." He loosened his tie. "In the meantime, the wind has passed along, and he has no idea. I have no idea. You have no idea."
I think the parlor had an old couch. A bird's nest lay on the floor. Now it is empty again.
"This is what we want. We would rather populate our world with litter that speaks than another one of us." He watches a woman running down the sidewalk, followed by a small dog in a sweater. "Now it chases us down alleys at night and we are terrified. It frightens little children when you draw a mask on it. Older people recoil at the sight of red words. Even small print causes night sweats."
I think I see the couch again. "You know, I was thinking -"
"So-" he looks at my face. "So we remain one step behind those who speak. Yet we insist that the papers move on their own accord. Wind - who knows it? Abrading rocks, dehydrating souls, skeletonizing forests, blowing out the sun. Who wants to know it?" He combs his hair with his fingers. "Is this what you want?"
"Huh?"
"What?"
"You know, I was thinking -"
"- I knew an old woman who thought that if she listened closely, she could hear voices on the wind from far away lands. She grew up in the plains, on a farmstead. One year, the wind blew out the windows in her house. Took the doors off the hinges. Filled the house with dust. Pulled the corn out of the ground, roots and all. Turned her bread to toast. So hot it melted the shingles on the roof. Turned her father's face to leather. Mother's hair to straw. Then one day it picked her up and carried her to Washington. Her parents were left behind. That is what she said - that is what she said she heard years later. She doesn't remember a thing herself; she doesn't think anyone said anything. She was only nine at the time." He looks into the distance. "To this day she stands at her window overlooking the apple orchards in the Willamette valley waiting for a windy, spring day, hoping that she will hear the voices of her mother and father." He pauses and looks at my face again.
"Never mind."
He gets up and walks away.
I shout, "Say, there used to be a man in that couch!"
2 comments:
I think the parlor had an old couch. A bird's nest lay on the floor. Now it is empty again.
"This is what we want. We would rather populate our world with litter that speaks than another one of us."
"So we remain one step behind those who speak. Yet we insist that the papers move on their own accord.
Wind-Who knows it?...
Who wants to know it?"
I think I see that couch again. "Say, there used to be a man in that couch!"
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