illiterate."
"It's as if you've had me investigated," I said. "Watching
me come and go and I never knew it. It's an awful
feeling-"
"Do you hate me as much as you hate him?" A third pair
of feet paused, a second after ours, the sound adding a grace
note to our chord. A soldier, I thought, seeing no one; a
worker, some clerk leaving a store. A nominal curfew was
on; as a Dryco exec I could have probably stepped to the
curb and hailed a tank, had I wanted. We continued uptown
through ever-darker streets. Helicopters flew over, thrashing the city with sticks of light, searching out those with
whom they refused to share hegemony. Wind glued newspapers to our ankles as we walked, losing the day's words.
"I'm sorry," he said. "It's too easy to see what people
think."
"But you have to tell them?" I said. "People don't have
enough to worry about without strangers raping their
minds?"
"People never worry about what they should," he said,
"and so often rape happens with someone you thought you
loved. You wouldn't trust me if I weren't a stranger."
"Don't they hate you for this in your neighborhood?" I
asked. "Reminding people of what they want to forget?"
"It's a sin to see wrong and do nothing about it."
"So God's the greatest sinner?" I asked, the Bernard in
my soul leaping forth.
"Yes and no," he said. We passed an old post office
recycled years ago into a Health Service clinic. A long line
of silent people awaited entry into the waiting room. Brass
railings green with verdigris guarded its graffitied walls. A sign affixed to the granite tallied late additions to the six
billion.
NEEDLES AVAILIBLE DAILY
9AM1PM
Hope Will Find A Way
"Even They have to make the best of what They've
made," he continued. "Does it make sense that in a better
world this would be a better world?"
I wondered what might be expected of God-Godness if
Their apparent messenger could sound so transcendent.
"You see what you showed me all the time or only if you
want to?"
"How else?" he asked, laughing. A wild wind, an angel's
breath, swept his hair across his forehead, for a moment
taking twenty years from his look. "I've learned to live with
what comes to me."
"Can you see the future?"
"Can't you?" he asked, sweeping his arm out before us.
The familiar whoop of an oncoming siren sounded as an
infant's wail. Facing the street, we lifted our arms above our
heads. The mayor's limo rolled uptown, surrounded by
motorcycle cops, preceded and followed by flatbed trucks
carrying soldiers thrusting their rifles forth in every direction, pins in pincushions.
"He never visits my neighborhood," he said. "When they
pass I'm always tempted to keep walking as the hearingimpaired do-"
"You'd be shot as they're always shot," I said.
"Considering how he treats the innocent, how does your
Mister Dryden deal with the guilty?"
"Depends on who's guilty of what," I said. "He never
gets his own hands dirty." My earlier question returned to mind. "You never said if you could see the future. Can
you?"
"Some people's futures," he said.
"Whose?"
"Mine," he said. "Yours."
Reaching the corner of Duane Street South we stopped
for the light; someone else stopped. There was nothing
Thatcher had taught me so well as the acceptance of fear's
comfort. Seeing no one, I knew they were there.
"We're being followed," I said.
"No, we're not-"
"Listen."
Food wholesalers still plied their trade along Duane
Street from their old brick buildings; trucks idled beneath
overhanging metal awnings as teamsters loaded them with
milk and cheese. The din was conveniently loud.
"I don't hear anything," he said.
"Let's get out of here." A dark triangle of park lay
between Duane Street's legs. Within the small plot were
dozens of sleepers wrapped in the blankets upon which, the
next morning, they'd peddle magazines retrieved from
dentist's offices. Bernard said it was easier, now, to live in
Calcutta; it was never cold in Calcutta.
"It's as if you've had me investigated," I said. "Watching
me come and go and I never knew it. It's an awful
feeling-"
"Do you hate me as much as you hate him?" A third pair
of feet paused, a second after ours, the sound adding a grace
note to our chord. A soldier, I thought, seeing no one; a
worker, some clerk leaving a store. A nominal curfew was
on; as a Dryco exec I could have probably stepped to the
curb and hailed a tank, had I wanted. We continued uptown
through ever-darker streets. Helicopters flew over, thrashing the city with sticks of light, searching out those with
whom they refused to share hegemony. Wind glued newspapers to our ankles as we walked, losing the day's words.
"I'm sorry," he said. "It's too easy to see what people
think."
"But you have to tell them?" I said. "People don't have
enough to worry about without strangers raping their
minds?"
"People never worry about what they should," he said,
"and so often rape happens with someone you thought you
loved. You wouldn't trust me if I weren't a stranger."
"Don't they hate you for this in your neighborhood?" I
asked. "Reminding people of what they want to forget?"
"It's a sin to see wrong and do nothing about it."
"So God's the greatest sinner?" I asked, the Bernard in
my soul leaping forth.
"Yes and no," he said. We passed an old post office
recycled years ago into a Health Service clinic. A long line
of silent people awaited entry into the waiting room. Brass
railings green with verdigris guarded its graffitied walls. A sign affixed to the granite tallied late additions to the six
billion.
NEEDLES AVAILIBLE DAILY
9AM1PM
Hope Will Find A Way
"Even They have to make the best of what They've
made," he continued. "Does it make sense that in a better
world this would be a better world?"
I wondered what might be expected of God-Godness if
Their apparent messenger could sound so transcendent.
"You see what you showed me all the time or only if you
want to?"
"How else?" he asked, laughing. A wild wind, an angel's
breath, swept his hair across his forehead, for a moment
taking twenty years from his look. "I've learned to live with
what comes to me."
"Can you see the future?"
"Can't you?" he asked, sweeping his arm out before us.
The familiar whoop of an oncoming siren sounded as an
infant's wail. Facing the street, we lifted our arms above our
heads. The mayor's limo rolled uptown, surrounded by
motorcycle cops, preceded and followed by flatbed trucks
carrying soldiers thrusting their rifles forth in every direction, pins in pincushions.
"He never visits my neighborhood," he said. "When they
pass I'm always tempted to keep walking as the hearingimpaired do-"
"You'd be shot as they're always shot," I said.
"Considering how he treats the innocent, how does your
Mister Dryden deal with the guilty?"
"Depends on who's guilty of what," I said. "He never
gets his own hands dirty." My earlier question returned to mind. "You never said if you could see the future. Can
you?"
"Some people's futures," he said.
"Whose?"
"Mine," he said. "Yours."
Reaching the corner of Duane Street South we stopped
for the light; someone else stopped. There was nothing
Thatcher had taught me so well as the acceptance of fear's
comfort. Seeing no one, I knew they were there.
"We're being followed," I said.
"No, we're not-"
"Listen."
Food wholesalers still plied their trade along Duane
Street from their old brick buildings; trucks idled beneath
overhanging metal awnings as teamsters loaded them with
milk and cheese. The din was conveniently loud.
"I don't hear anything," he said.
"Let's get out of here." A dark triangle of park lay
between Duane Street's legs. Within the small plot were
dozens of sleepers wrapped in the blankets upon which, the
next morning, they'd peddle magazines retrieved from
dentist's offices. Bernard said it was easier, now, to live in
Calcutta; it was never cold in Calcutta.
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