CHAPTER II. THE DUMP
I bare the naked truth.
I spoke too soon. No man ever steps into the same river twice? Look here, Heraclitus, we’re on the same page! The water grows cold; the weather will change.
And how! Unruly winds had risen, tipping over the garbage, fogging out the sun. But the gales of laughter died, the dropping temperature dispersing the drinkers. The flight had one return. A missing person was back.
The invitation? Her lips were now black, her scowl withdrew all welcome. Your painter will now drain the canvas, dull the plumage, cloud her eyes to gray. And I must turn her wine to water, the minuet to a dirge, the dance floor to a dump—like sailors fleeing a sinking ship, the waiters had abandoned the deck to the debris. A sliver of flesh was still in evidence, but no longer licking a glass in mischief, the tongue stuck out in contempt.
The party was over? The house might still be hopping, for all I knew. But the sliding door, through which boozing butterflies had flit, was now a shutter of prohibition, the discolored panes a shield of grimly glowing stain. I might also remark the rebuff of a metal chair, the distress of an empty glass, the trespass of the litter. A wasteland? Well, it was April, the cruelest month of poem. But the destination was not an outright desert—you might perceive a penal colony, the remaining bodies under guard. The sentry was stationed in a corner, alone on her feet, her black lips serving notice, sullen eyes spreading gloom. The lighthouse beam swept past my mooring, discovering my witness . . . exposing my guilt? I could not avert my gaze, pulled to her rocks over a forsaken table where shabby starlings were stabbing a plate of pastry shards. But the stony edifice scorned my stillborn greeting, as attainable as Olympic medal to a bedridden invalid.
The deck was dead. And buried were the blessings. A wreath of smoke was conspiring with the fog. A funeral pyre? Well, no bonfire warmed the campers, no grill whet the appetite. The culprit stood downwind. But though her eyes were empty, her stained fingers held the evidence, black lips proved the vice. I disapprove the habit? I did have a fit—a fit of coughing. The cool customer reclaimed his composure, to clear up any doubt.
You might presume a provocation. My fellow sufferers pretended not to care. Our scourge took a last drag, tossed the butt, tended to the business. With her foot. We could pretend no more. Trash! So what, you say? I will tell you what: You profess a love of books. A good lover pays attention!
A foot trod on the glare. A foot trampled out the fire. A foot twisted on the cinders. And the foot was bare . . . a fact I fully exposed, already! I caught the eye of a fellow remnant. The close witness had his mouth agape, cocktail in suspension, arm around his date.
“Monks walk on coals in India.” I am a man of worldly wisdom. “Maybe she’s a Buddhist?”
“She’s something else, for sure.” Great minds think alike? The well-heeled executive had ignored my casual insurrection. Now we had a bond.
What is a man to do?
Merrywood! . . . Some advice? . . . Beyond help!