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Authors: Roger Rosenblatt
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secretary to Mr. Lapham.”
Once, in a faint attempt at sabotage, I wrote to Krento himself and asked if he would like to quit Lapham’s employ and come work for me instead. I had never had an executive secretary before, I told him, but I was sure I could find several secretaries for him to execute. I could not pay what Lapham did, alas, but I could promise him the use of one excellent book that he might pick up and put down again as many times as he liked, as well as the best Devil Dogs andcold ravioli he had ever tasted in his life. He wrote back that he was grateful for my correspondence, and he also thanked me for it.
Bark bark bark bark bark . Hector goes off like a burp gun, eyes glazed in full dogdom. Bark bark bark . I yell at him to stop. Now the Mexicans join in, con gusto. Bang bang bang bang bang. Bang bang bang. Bark bark bark . There is nothing I can do about the Mexicans, but Hector?
“Could you possibly be any less cooperative?” I ask him.
He squares around to confront me. “Perhaps if you had sent me to business school, as I asked you to, and more than once, a lot more, I might have picked up some people skills.”
At one point he wanted to go to the Harvard Business School. Setting aside the practical difficulties of enrolling a dog in any educational establishment other than obedience school (which in his case would have been a joke), I tried to explain to him that all he would learn there was bottom-line thinking, rapaciousness, and corporate crime.
“I don’t mind learning those things,” he said. “I’m not like you. I want to make something of myself.” Then he licked his nose.
“I can teach you all you need to know right here.”
“I don’t believe in homeschooling,” he said. “Except for Bible classes.”
“Well, you’re not going to the Harvard Business School. You probably couldn’t get in, and in any case, it’s too expensive.”
“Very nice. Treat me like a dog, why don’t you?”
“You are a dog.”
“Well, then!” And with that, he proceeded to bark all night, as he is barking now.
A wind moves across the island like the dismissive or blessing gesture of a hand, and then is gone. One learns to appreciate the wind in later life, after all the sunsets have been oohed to death, and the sunrises greeted with stupendous boredom, and the size of the oceans commented upon ad infinitum, not forgetting the frothy whitecaps and the ever-receding horizon, and the moonlight too, of course, which is alternately sexy and melancholy, and the chirpings of birds, which are alternately sweet and delphic—after all the appropriate metaphors and similes have been delivered unto every eclectic feat or whim of nature, one wakes up to the quality of the wind, the beauty of which is that it is noticed only when it touches something else.
The dog, he barks. The House of Lapham, she bangs. Tempus fugit. Carpe diem. Cave canem. The clouds form Rorschach inkblots, which look to me like a row of cannon in a field.
What shall I wear for you, dear Chautauquans? I have toomany outfits to choose from: the blue blazer, white shirt, and charcoal-gray slacks ensemble; the blue blazer, white shirt, and medium-gray slacks ensemble; the blue blazer, white shirt, and light-gray slacks ensemble. I lay out the combination with the charcoal slacks, having discovered large holes in one of the two remaining pairs, and the crotch nearly vanished from the other. A few sorry threads stretch across the breach, like bamboo bridges in World War II.
It is of no importance. I realize that if all goes as it should tonight, this may be my last day on Noman, at least until I am released from custody.
“Good-bye, Blossom. Good-bye, Junior.” I stride through my house bidding personalized farewells to the furniture, the appliances, and the utensils. And I bestow an affectionate au revoir on Chloe, who appears unmoved.
“Why aren’t you saying good-bye to me?” asks Hector.
“Because you’re coming
Once, in a faint attempt at sabotage, I wrote to Krento himself and asked if he would like to quit Lapham’s employ and come work for me instead. I had never had an executive secretary before, I told him, but I was sure I could find several secretaries for him to execute. I could not pay what Lapham did, alas, but I could promise him the use of one excellent book that he might pick up and put down again as many times as he liked, as well as the best Devil Dogs andcold ravioli he had ever tasted in his life. He wrote back that he was grateful for my correspondence, and he also thanked me for it.
Bark bark bark bark bark . Hector goes off like a burp gun, eyes glazed in full dogdom. Bark bark bark . I yell at him to stop. Now the Mexicans join in, con gusto. Bang bang bang bang bang. Bang bang bang. Bark bark bark . There is nothing I can do about the Mexicans, but Hector?
“Could you possibly be any less cooperative?” I ask him.
He squares around to confront me. “Perhaps if you had sent me to business school, as I asked you to, and more than once, a lot more, I might have picked up some people skills.”
At one point he wanted to go to the Harvard Business School. Setting aside the practical difficulties of enrolling a dog in any educational establishment other than obedience school (which in his case would have been a joke), I tried to explain to him that all he would learn there was bottom-line thinking, rapaciousness, and corporate crime.
“I don’t mind learning those things,” he said. “I’m not like you. I want to make something of myself.” Then he licked his nose.
“I can teach you all you need to know right here.”
“I don’t believe in homeschooling,” he said. “Except for Bible classes.”
“Well, you’re not going to the Harvard Business School. You probably couldn’t get in, and in any case, it’s too expensive.”
“Very nice. Treat me like a dog, why don’t you?”
“You are a dog.”
“Well, then!” And with that, he proceeded to bark all night, as he is barking now.
A wind moves across the island like the dismissive or blessing gesture of a hand, and then is gone. One learns to appreciate the wind in later life, after all the sunsets have been oohed to death, and the sunrises greeted with stupendous boredom, and the size of the oceans commented upon ad infinitum, not forgetting the frothy whitecaps and the ever-receding horizon, and the moonlight too, of course, which is alternately sexy and melancholy, and the chirpings of birds, which are alternately sweet and delphic—after all the appropriate metaphors and similes have been delivered unto every eclectic feat or whim of nature, one wakes up to the quality of the wind, the beauty of which is that it is noticed only when it touches something else.
The dog, he barks. The House of Lapham, she bangs. Tempus fugit. Carpe diem. Cave canem. The clouds form Rorschach inkblots, which look to me like a row of cannon in a field.
What shall I wear for you, dear Chautauquans? I have toomany outfits to choose from: the blue blazer, white shirt, and charcoal-gray slacks ensemble; the blue blazer, white shirt, and medium-gray slacks ensemble; the blue blazer, white shirt, and light-gray slacks ensemble. I lay out the combination with the charcoal slacks, having discovered large holes in one of the two remaining pairs, and the crotch nearly vanished from the other. A few sorry threads stretch across the breach, like bamboo bridges in World War II.
It is of no importance. I realize that if all goes as it should tonight, this may be my last day on Noman, at least until I am released from custody.
“Good-bye, Blossom. Good-bye, Junior.” I stride through my house bidding personalized farewells to the furniture, the appliances, and the utensils. And I bestow an affectionate au revoir on Chloe, who appears unmoved.
“Why aren’t you saying good-bye to me?” asks Hector.
“Because you’re coming
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