Lovely Summer Smoke Deluged by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview

Chapter 18

The customary scalding summer was mild that year, with mid-day temperatures below 88 degrees. Frequent small showers further tempered the hot air and enabled the growing of many colorful flowering plants never previously seen; seemingly infinite varieties of reds, purples, yellows, oranges and whites. Not being trimmed, they grew straight up to four feet, blowing gently in the warm breezes.

At 11 AM, a 1962, four door, deep purple Thunderbird convertible

with its top open, rolled slowly down quiet Washington Road, passing the open lots and old houses in varying states of disrepair, none severe. The undisturbed and brilliant morning sun felt as if it was going to break the season’s trend and heat up the ground significantly,

as the waves rained down, clearly visible above the asphalt. The few small white cumulous clouds held up by the uniform light blue sky, didn’t dare threaten anything, perhaps fearful that some overheated conscription gung ho maniac in camouflage costume would shoot them down.

The open convertible made a right onto Connecting Drive blocked from a view of the river by the tall multi-colored plants at the edges. Not blocking its path was the absence of gates and instructional signs, but the rolling purple wagon

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didn’t seem to require any advice and it parked headfirst in a small alcove at the end of the road in quiet solitude.

The engine reluctantly grumbled to a halt, doors opened and closed and the two teenagers hit the firm ground. She seemed tiny with long straight black hair, parted in the middle, down to her puffy butt, held somewhat in place by a flowing blue bandana with white curving Art Nouveau designs for decoration.

He was 8 or 9 inches taller, had shoulder length light brown hair parted a bit to the left side over his eye, with bangs very susceptible to any wind, as nothing held it in place.

He said; “Hit you yet?”

She drowsily smiled and whispered; “Yeah,” her eyes half open or closed, depending on point of view.

He smiled back, saying; “Me, too.” His left hand took her right as they walked toward the river, hearing its churning rush in the stillness. He held a plastic tape player in his right hand and her left supported a wicker picnic basket topped by a folded yellow blanket. When he looked in her eyes, the small wire rimmed spectacles reflected back a kaleidoscope of wild brush flower colors, which he might be have been seeing differently through his own round wire rimmed rose colored ones.

He attempted to sing, butchering “that grow so incredibly high.”

She looked at him, displaying a small furrow in her brow, shook her head slightly, but made a small laugh, saying nothing.

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He again saw that his career would have to entail something other than singing. They triumphantly got to a high spot in the irregular surface, pausing a few minutes to enjoy the view of the river and the lightly treed valley. The gentle downhill trip proved much easier, the black fringe on her blushing red bellbottoms sweeping the brown dirt clean, as her black and white flip-flops protected her bare feet from any large stones.

They quickly came upon a yellow Ping-Pong sized Styrofoam ball and he picked it up. One side was embossed with two words;

“Prevent” and “Wildfires”, which surrounded Smokey the Bear’s serious face and wide eyed stare. The other side contained a triangle which said; “US Department of the Interior” on top, had trees and a much smaller triangular teepee in the middle and

“Bureau of Indian Affairs-Forestry” at the bottom. He liked it and put it in one of the pockets of his blue, short sleeved

“work” shirt.

Her white peasant blouse rippled in the breeze encountered as they approached the water, as did his button up lavender bells, a pleasant feeling as the day’s heat was becoming hard to bear in the motionlessness.

They had been side by side, hand in hand through the wide path, but as they turned south along the river, the path became narrow and they hesitated, quickly deciding to maintain their

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comfortable positions and walk through the tall grass and flowers.

After a few hundred feet, for some reason, all four of their eyes riveted on a six year old, twenty-five foot cottonwood growing at the very edge of the water. They both admired it and then looked at each other. Each knew that there was something important about it, but didn’t say anything, as their current state of mind made most words silly and unimportant. They stopped and he remembered their first meeting.

They walked another mile to where she knew a very wide and private section, where she stopped in a wooded glade and spread her yellow blanket, he for the first time seeing the luscious edibles now uncovered. They both sat and she spread cheese on some of the crackers, handing them to him, as she kicked off her flip-flops.

He said; “I’m going to get a Masters in Architecture and a PhD in Roofing. I’ll be able to keep my 2-S deferment longer.”

Posie laughed, touched his arm, pointed at the crackers and cheese and said; “Eat.”

Kale simultaneously pushed a button on his tape player and they heard Oliver sing “Jean.”

After lunch, they were still feeling extremely well and were bursting with colorful ideas and jokes.

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Kale said; “Let’s go to Sal’s and goof on the petit bourgeois remains.”

“Sounds good, babe.”

As they drove across town the unfettered sun baked their exposed skin, which they enjoyed as it made them feel as if they had just woken up, fresh and ready to go. But, it also reflected in waves across anything metal or shiny, making their view akin to viewing a gigantic photograph which had been improperly developed, the pleats in the print producing pure and polished, severely Isosceles triangular trajectories of illusory space masking what was behind it. They found that representative of most everything they knew in a poetic-artistic sense. Driving was not easy, but they found that hilarious.

They parked in front and saw Sal dispensing money to another man, who seemed to be holding his hand out longer than necessary. Sal was saying something and held his hands at his sides, as if he considered the transaction done, yet was compelled to further clarify. He looked toward Kale and Posie and shot his eyes to the sky. He said; “Gotta go; customers,”

and walked away from the sweating dissatisfied man in a plain white (now grayish) T-shirt. He put his arm on Kale’s shoulder and led them into the store, loudly saying; “And how are my best customers?”

T-shirt said; “Sal.”

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Sal responded; “We’ll talk soon,” and waved goodbye. Inside the store he exhaled heavily.

Kale said; “Business as usual, I suppose. The nickel and dimers always win in the long run.”

Sal shook his head and said; “This was no nickel and dimer.

He wanted an extra twenty bucks, just because I had him carry two more items than originally envisioned. Cripes.”

In their current state of mind Kale and Posie found the whole thing amusing beyond comment, but performed mock nodding agreement and didn’t look at each other for fear of cracking up.

Kale said; “So, my good friend, what kind of scintillating objects of expiry have you unearthed since our last visit?”

Sal looked at him cross-eyed, any response marred by his continued consternation over the twenty bucks. He said; “What?”

Posie intervened, saying; “Got anything sexy and dead?”

Sal found the words contradictory, except in the revolting sense of necrophilia he had once heard of in a joke he considered nauseating. He stared at Posie in an evaluative manner. He considered a rebuke of the young girl, but simultaneously considered that he might be rebuking her twenty bucks. In his practical interest he said; “Let me direct you to the tapestries. One has to do with the apocalypse and that might interest you.”

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Sal got in front and led the couple through the store, while they made “funny” contorted faces and hand signals, childishly pointing at the burgeoning bald spot. Their altered powers of perception saw it as an uneven abyss amidst wild, natural growth; the beginning of the comical end. Yet, Sal was just another businessman, on a centuries long list of billions who have gone prior and billions more yet to come. They wondered if they should feel guilty in laughing at his mannerisms and physical warts. That lasted less than a second and they disdainfully decided; “Hell, no.”

They passed through an area containing 1950’s furnishings and bric-a-brac, some called antiques of the future. The plastic laminated, faux blonde “wood” kitchen table replete with four matching chairs, caught their attention because the undulating surface reflected light, oddly as nature did. The craters were regularly in the dark and the miniscule molehills shone like the hopelessly acned face of the moon. Couches were not made for a comfortable nap and were comprised of a seemingly flimsy, possibly wooden frame with three independent, rectangular, single-colored cushions serving as the seat and three relatives forming the backrest. Wall hangings tended to the cutesy, the pictures having subject matter like wide-eyed animals and bumpkin children displaying uncontained excitement at sitting in their little red wagons. Perched above a console television with

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gigantic nobs and rabbit ears which imitated a console television with gigantic nobs and rabbit ears capable of showing moving pictures was an ambiguously colored picture of Jesus, looking down kindly and serenely lovingly at something the artist may have left out of the picture, personally autographed by Reverend Ike. It is said that one of Frank Sinatra’s houses, in Palm Springs was furnished in this general manner. One wonders if the price was right because the items fell off the truck. Posie mildly freaked when she thought she saw Jesus eyes follow her, as she abandoned him, in her journey to other parts of the store, finally attributing it to a delusion caused by something she had ingested. However, she was one hundred percent accurate in her perception, as Jesus’ eyes were made of an irregularly surfaced plastic, designed to cause that effect, all the rage a short time prior and the focal point of many suburban cocktail parties.

Sal kept walking, but Kale and Posie were intrigued by an area filled with Turkish Revival (rather unusual parlance as it never had an Initiation and subsequent death in America) Victorian furniture, burnished gold colors and tassels everywhere. They leaped onto the oversized monsters and watched the dust rise like apparitions evocative of dust devils.

“Whoooo;“ she said before commencing a sneezing fit and becoming tongue tied.

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“Whoooo yourself;” Kale added, apparently immune to the reviving old filth, tickled by her discomfort.

She found a handkerchief in her light blue summer dress and honked, somewhat spraying his self-assured face. He acted as if there were no exchange of bodily fluids and closed his eyes in contented abandonment.

Posie squinted and worked on her leaking nose until the dust had settled. She then rubbed her hand on the old couch, coming up with a supply of old grime, and proceeded to massage it into Kale’s mouth and nose. After an initial flinch, he laughed when he realized what she had done. In the voice of Laurel, he said; “That was eminently fair, Ollie,” and widely smiled, attempting to look as ludicrous as was possible, which was akin to gilding the lily, as his face was already host to drying nasal spray and finger streaks of Turkish residue.

Posie said; “Wipe your face before Sal sees you.”

“I’d rather make him jealous.”

She reached forward and wiped him with her handkerchief.

He said; “I liked that aroma, damn it.”

“Then, here, keep the handkerchief. You can’t walk around looking like that.”

Kale shrugged and said; “If you say so, Madame Bourgeois.”

She cuffed his head, and he protected himself by raising his hands and ducking. He said; “Just teasing, just teasing.”

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She noticed that her cuff had gotten some more grime on his face, but she decided to let him keep it. Her eyes were drawn to a stack of rolled-up Persian rugs lying on the floor. She went to them and rolled one open, elatedly saying; “Kale, look at this; The Attainment (of the Holy Grail!)”

While Kale, too, was enthused, his instinct was still to joke, and in a detached way he said; “Must have been done some time ago.”

She stared at his ridiculous face, dropped the rug, and said; “I assume you consider this old news.”

He nodded; “Yes.”

“Pray tell, where has it been hidden?”

Kale made a pained expression, like a calculus professor asked to explain multiplication tables, and said; “It’s not hidden. It’s in the flesh. ....... Well, I mean it could be hidden, depending on what one is wearing. ........ That is not to say that clothes are hiding places, though they could be, depending upon climate .........”

“Oh, shut up. I got the idea. But, I think you’re ignoring the mental aspect.”

“Hell. That’s even more difficult to explain than the physical. It’s like. .... You know. ...... Simultaneous sacrifice and self-interest. ...... like when ....... .”

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They heard Sal’s voice say; “Like when you look stupid with dirt all over your face and don’t know it.”

Kale instinctively wiped his face with his hands while Posie found the absurdity of the situation and made the slightest of smiles. She silently watched.

Sal entered the picture and said; “What in hell have you been doing?”

Kale had no answer he wanted to share with Sal and finally said; “Looking at rugs? ........ Don’t you ever clean these damn things?”

Sal said; “Yeah, yeah. I know I really should. But, you know, you get busy and there are a lot of more important things to do. ...... Tell you what; I’ll take thirty percent off. Which ones do you like?”

Kale asked for time to peruse the merchandise and Sal left them to their leisure, after putting in a parting; “Keep your nose clean.”

Following an inspection that left both of them covered with gray dust they called back Sal and Kale said; “You said thirty percent off. How about forty percent if we take three?”

Sal thought; “Damn nickel and dimers,” but smiled and said;

“Thirty-five is the best I can do. I’ll be losing money below that.”

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Kale said; “I thought you said that you get a whole house full of stuff for a hundred bucks. You’ve got these dirt bags marked for a hundred dollars and up, EACH.”

Sal agitatedly said; “It takes time for me to go there, load them, drive back and unload them again. Time is money. I have to make a living, too. And I suppose you expect free delivery.”

Kale said; “Well, yeah. But, I’ll have to help you carry them.”

Sal said; “At this price you should have to do it yourself.”

Kale said; “Some of them are thread bare. When walked on they will soon have holes.”

Sal said; “So hang them on the walls. The only ones walking there will be your cock-a-roaches.”

Posie assertively intervened; “All right, all right, all right. Both of you, just cut it. Thirty-five off, delivered.”

Kale opened his mouth to speak and Posie got his lower lip between her thumb and forefinger, saying; “Just shut up.”

Kale said; “I don’t have any cock-a-roaches, as he puts it.”

Posie waved her hand dismissively and said; “It’s irrelevant.”

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Kale said; “The hell it’s irrelevant. It’s not only a health hazard, it’s insulting.”

Posie exhaled noticeably and sat on the dirt bags.

Kale angrily looked at Sal, who was forty pounds heavier and fairly strong as a result of carrying around furniture for years. Sal thought he was on the verge of losing the sale of something hard to move, so he put his arm on Kale’s shoulder and said; “Sorry, I didn’t mean to say cock-a-roaches. The word just came. Let’s say flies. Everybody’s got them, right?”

Posie interjected; “You know the phrase; ‘I would like to have been a fly on the wall when blah, blah, blah happened.’”

Kale said; “All right, all right. They’re going on the walls, just like in the center hall.”

Posie looked to Sal and said; “We want The Attainment (of the Holy Grail.”

Sal wondered if some new nonsense were taking place and stared blankly. Posie pointed to it and Sal said; “The one with the three holies?”

Posie said; “Yes.”

Kale said; “The Apocalypse,” and pointed to it.

Sal said; “The big orange and black thing with the panels?”

Kale said; “Yes, and Lady Godiva.”

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Sal was on a roll and ventured; “The big orange and black thing with the ...... you know?” running out of steam before he could finish.

Kale looked at Sal and grinned, saying; “Yeah, with the you know.” He winked and Sal nodded, feeling in full understanding of the you know.

The merchandise was delivered to Kale’s room and the pair pondered placement of the present purchases.

Kale got a starting idea, saying; “I always sleep on my left side and I’d most like to be viewing Lady Godiva. So she has to go on that wall,” pointing to one peeling wall host to a painting.

Posie simultaneously grinned and grimaced at his rationale, then said; “There are other options. You can turn the bed in another direction or put your head where you formerly had your feet.”

“Do you see something wrong with Lady Godiva being on that wall?”

“No. I’m just saying that there are other options. Your reasoning for its placement lacks logic.”

Kale looked at the floor and tried to think of the easiest way to reply. He said; “I could also put it on the ceiling and

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quickly learn to sleep on my back. I think the point is that we have to start somewhere and that’s as suitable a place as any.”

“Fine. But, then don’t suggest that there is some sort of logic to it.”

“There is and there isn’t.”

“Do you have any idea of what you just said?”

Kale laughed and made no response.

Posie said; “You just want it both ways. Why can’t you merely say; ‘That’s the way I like it?’”

Kale put his arms around Posie’s waist and pulled her to him. He said; “By now, don’t you know that I like it two ways, three ways, eight ways, probably more?” She giggled as he led her to the mattress and it was some time before minds again considered the logic or illogic of the proper positioning points.

After one thousand rainbows quivered they installed the worn rugs on the vertical barriers, moving the lithographs to the floor leaning against them. The empty spaces at the edges were filled with aluminum foil, a la “The Factory,” and they played with the imperfect reflections they created.

Late that afternoon Kale and Posie shot out of his room thinking that a cataclysmic storm of retribution was over their heads, suspecting that they shouldn’t have made light of the

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Apocalypse. They were relieved to find that in actuality the thunder they heard was merely four, muffler free, foreign-looking, mini-sports cars calling attention to themselves by overstating their case, as they roared up the driveway gravel.

Kale and Posie recognized the Aston Martin, Alfa Romeo and Fiats.

Posie said; “Oh, wonderful. I hope we get to see more art films.”

With tongue in cheek, Kale responded; “What, precisely do you mean? Neo-realism, racy-B or authorial expressivity?”

Posie said; “Don’t you dare get like Arthur. ...... Racy-B.”

Hi and Bee listened to the noise storm from the safety of the porch, smiling in anticipation of the surprises possible watching performance artists. The kids waited at windows.

Engines dead, Ruben got out and assisted Katharine in doing the same. Her world weary posture would have been accepted and appreciated had she not affected an over-the-top performance incapable of impressing Charles Ludlum. Margarita, Jonathan, Luc and Sandrine met the impresario and diva at the front car and as a loosely-together-group they slowly approached the porch. Ruben seemed to be fanning Katharine’s totally masked face in an effort to keep it from running or it might have been the physical demonstration of a chastisement or dismissal. Luc and

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Sandrine seemed mildly amused at something, while Margarita and Jonathan visually surveyed their surroundings.

They climbed the steps, and afforded the comfort of the porch shade relaxed and exchanged greetings with Hi and Bee. The kids came out, Kale and Posie last, as she still thought that Katharine might be the Wicked Witch of the West. Each of the childless egomaniacs proffered their love of children, tepidly cuddling and saying things to teenagers that a ten year old would have found condescending. Still, with the exception of Posie, the kids silently forgave the faux pas, realizing that they were in the presence of typically selfish artists; worse ones no longer young and still struggling to be recognized and rewarded for their competence. Actually Luc and Sandrine enjoyed the creative, travelling life and didn’t obsess over acceptance, in the vein of the new rock bands emerging and saying that they just wanted to play their music. But, they also knew that everyone viewed them as ones desperate for commercial success, and if confronted with such a charge, refrained from arguing the pointless point.

The theatrical group showed more interest in the wine bottles left on tables in the center hall to the detriment of the roast beef, corn and other delicacies positioned nearby and to the jealousy of the kids who found no unwatched opportunity

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to abscond with a bottle and were stuck with the roast beef and corn.

After forty-five minutes a thoroughly sloshed Ruben sort of stood in front of the screen and announced that he would be showing a film they intended to market as a B-movie exciting to teenage boys and various other perverts. He heard a modicum of nervous laughter, including his own. Posie said; “Oooh,” hearing

“B-movie” and an intimation of a “Racy-B.” She saw Katharine smiling and looking her way, adjusted her dress to mid-calf level and stared at Ruben. Ruben said that he welcomed their thoughts after the showing. He waved and Jonathan rolled the film. The runny-colored opening was an aerial view of a city, descending (the view, not the city) to apartment house roof level, and then blaring the title in the screen-sized, blood red colored, dripping words; “Misunderstood Kid.” Only later would the viewers see that this was sarcasm.

“You know I don’t care. I do not fucking care. I really do not fucking care. I really do not fucking give the least bit of a fuck! Get it? Simple? Inglais? Quebecois?”

“Don’t use the F-word word around your mother,” came the reply with a tone only a hint beyond calm. Mom stood at the porcelain sink head down and upped her rub rate on the poor

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worn-out pot and had forgotten the context, if any, of the conversation which prompted the outburst.

Too hastily, excited by the possibility that he might be able to wangle motherly permission to tell Dad to fuck himself 28 year old Francis Applewhite brightly asked in a very questioning voice; “Then it’s okay if I talk like that to Dad?”

Mom actually had to think about that one a while, before seeming as if a train had run into her head, simultaneously saying an elevated; “No. ...... No! ...... Of course not.”

He shrugged and said; “Worth a shot.” He didn’t really care much either way. He didn’t really want to tell his father to fuck himself for his own benefit. He wanted to do it for his.

Like saying; “Go fuck yourself. Why don’t you ever give Mom a good kick in the ass?” thinking that the extra word would connote maturity and wisdom to the 53 year old gentleman, who seemed to think that his son was a bit of a nut after Frank announced that he was a Sorcerer with magical powers.

Presumptuous Dad wildly concluded that this was the result of Frank’s regular use of pot and acid from age 13 and paid no attention to the hard evidence demonstrated by his son’s ability to turn wine into water, accomplished by consuming a bottle’s contents, then, so not to be caught, refilling the bottle with the liquid his magical bodily process produced. The hardest part

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of the magic was remembering which bottle was water and which was wine.

Frank thought; “I wonder what he would reply if I really said that. I’m curious. He couldn’t attack me for saying fuck or fucking. He’d deal with the concept. At least that’s what I figure. Ah, he’d likely start with the religious shit, like

“Turn the other cheek,” and all that nice stuff. To hell with the whole idea. Fifty-three years of bad luck seems to suggest to this man that his number is overdue in coming up and the next step is likely the jackpot. I won’t bother trying to explain the simple rules of chance are not any more on his side now, than they have been for the last fifty-three years because he’d claim not to understand and we’d get bogged down in some stupid math discussion neither of us want.”

“Hey, mom. Want to see a trick?”

“No. .........” She grudgingly added; “Well, all right. But only if you promise to clean up afterwards.”

Frank walked out of the basement level apartment saying;

“Watch through the window. I’m going to make Mr. Pryor come out and futz with his gladiolas.” He stood at the open door for five seconds and right next door Mr. Pryor showed up with a watering can in hand and went to his garden.

Frank went back in and shut the door behind him, excited and laughing. He said; “See. See that!”

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Mom wasn’t looking, but suspected the likelihood that the result wasn’t a miracle. She said; “Sure he came out. He’s a lonely old fart.”

“You’re not supposed to say that word anymore.”

“What am I supposed to say? Senior citizen? He’s never looked like a citizen to me. I do magic too. When I say

‘Immigration’ he runs back inside”

“You don’t understand. There’s magic in words. If the old fart says or hears senior citizen often enough he will be happy.”

“Who gives a shit if the old fart is happy or not?”

Frank momentarily considered asking if it was okay to use the S-word, but through his well-honed deductive powers came to the conclusion that he would run into the same rigmarole as he did with F. Besides, he couldn’t think of the point in telling his father to go shit himself. He laughed to himself visualizing the sight, but didn’t think its usage conveyed the degree of disgust that the F-word did. He said; “Got a point. Listen; things are pretty flat here. Reminds me that I’m supposed to go see the love of my life.”

“Suit yourself. That slut’s probably got all the magic she can handle already.”

Uninterested in carrying on another stupid, useless conversation on a well-covered subject, Frank slowly walked to

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his dented 1959 cream Chevy, enjoying the moment for its lack of the ever present barrage of lonely, boring people. He often wished that he could turn off his magical powers and sometimes succeeded. The overcast mid-day ceiling enhanced the Augusta, Maine April continuation of another long, bleak winter.

He drove through the packed ice streets, the well-travelled avenues looking more like the residue from an auto repair shop than snow. He was fortunate to find a space in front of the slut’s three-story apartment building. As he backed in his wheels slid on the slimy dark stuff, easily leaving the Chevy in place, but at an odd angle. “Fuck it,” he thought as he viewed the front end slightly aimed at and in the road. “Maybe it will be easier to get out this time.”

Before he could knock Layla, the name she gave herself to replace Clementine, opened the door of her first floor front apartment. Frank was excited to see that she had changed clothes and was now wearing her thermal blue long johns with runners and matching top over her older white set. She blurted out; “I’m glad you’re here. I’m all out.” She scratched her armpit and unemotionally stepped out of her new wardrobe. She said; “You ready?”

Frank made an ugly face without trying and said; “Oh, shit.

You went through the ounce in a fucking week?” He walked inside to see who else might be privy to the conversation.

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She held the door half open and coaxed sweetly; “Oh, come on. Be an angel.” She brushed back the long brown hair hanging in his face.

Frank shut the door and said; “Are your sisters here?”

“No.”

“Well, let me get this out quickly before the magic kicks in and they show up. If this keeps happening I’ll bury it. I swear to God I’ll bury it in the fucking woods. What the hell was it this time?”

“Same old. You can get more.”

“Yeah, with a week’s salary! Do you have any idea what an ounce costs today?”

“I don’t know and I don’t care.” She yawned and cupped her hands under her breasts, helping to differentiate them from her stomach.

Frank stared at the cracked ceiling. He finally said;

“Okay, that’s it. My father told me that there are jobs for sorcerers in Louisiana. (His father said this hoping he would leave.) I saw a guy who is employed as one on TV. I’m leaving now.” He stormed out the door. (Actually the guy he saw on TV

was a saucier, but Frank misheard or heard what he wanted.)

“THE END” overtook the screen, which then went appropriately blank.

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Arthur couldn’t contain himself and blurted; “I suppose one could call that absurdist misery intended as comedy for buzzards, or preferably for those who wish to be amused with what buzzards find funny, insofar as it reveals what they are.

Very anti and very pro 60’s.”

Ruben remained seated, perhaps not having a choice in the matter and replied; “For those of you who are repelled at the thought of laughing at misery, I say grow up. ...... Actually we have a second set following which should be almost uplifting if one can hold their stomach contents down. Intended joke. It’s experimental in the way many things are in 1967. One might say

‘wow’ or one might say ‘trite.’ Perhaps the point is to say something. Thank you, Arthur.” He nodded and Jonathan rolled the next one. The black and white opening of a waterfall gradually added color until it appeared as if the colors were overly deep, seemingly painted on. In small blue letters the title; “Arrays,”

unobtrusively came and went.

Raymond Renfrew and his Irish setter, Catalina embarked on their usual morning walk. Catalina was hot as it was a cloudless summer morning, probably seventy degrees at sunrise, climbing steadily over the past hour. They visited a sizable park bordering the Raritan River and both got cooled off in the shallows. After walking they sat under a weeping willow and took

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in the view; wood land and fields in full bloom and a twenty foot waterfall in the noisy river.

Hunger suggested they return home, so they re-traced their steps. To their surprise and chagrin someone had placed a boulder in the middle of the only road home; a boulder that would qualify as a mountain in the land of the wee people. They walked right up to it and saw that it went straight up, making it impossible to climb without the benefit of special equipment, not in their possession. Ray and Catalina looked in both directions and the stupid rock extended as far as the eye could see.

Catalina looked up at Ray’s face. She was nervous and hungry, had no ideas of her own, and expected him to do something to resolve the situation. He sat on another rock, held Catalina’s leash in his left hand, while his right supported his chin; Rodin in heat. As Catalina nervously panted he thought.

In a space of time that seemed much too long to panting Catalina, he realized that he had five options; he could go over it, through it, blow it up, go around it or wait for whoever put it there to remove it.

He brightly re-remembered that he did not have the equipment to go over it and besides, even if he could Catalina was stuck. Going through it seemed accomplishable only by a ghost and he didn’t bring his or Catalina’s. To blow it up he

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would have to use his last stick of dynamite and he couldn’t be sure that he would not injure someone on the other side, himself or Catalina. They could die of dehydration or malnourishment waiting for the inconsiderate perpetrator to return. So they decided to go around it, through trees whose canopies offered some shade and flickering light. Catalina led, starting to the left. They arduously stumbled along the thick undergrowth, prompting Raymond to tell Catalina; “This has to end somewhere.

Nothing goes on forever. Maybe we’ll catch the bastard who put it here.” In solid black and white, “THE END” came suddenly.

Arthur said; “As you had previously mentioned .......”

Hi cut off Arthur mid or early sentence, saying; “Thank you, Arthur. Why don’t we give some others an opportunity to register an opinion before you offer your defining characterization? Posie, what did you think?”

Posie was still a bit freaked over Katharine’s unwanted attention and didn’t want to be the center of it, or anyone else’s except Kale. She really didn’t pay any attention to the short film and had no opinion of it. She dismissively said; “I don’t know. It was all right, but I wouldn’t go the least bit out of my way to see it.”

Kale correctly read her mindset and decided to interject, in the hope it would save Posie from an unwanted follow up. He said; “Very much like some Brit film I saw. I don’t recall the

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name as it didn’t intrude on my all-time favorite list. In this one any early-in-the-game long haired, ‘rebellious’ actor maniacally drove a sports car through suburban streets, only to discover that they were all dead ends. Why he didn’t know that at the outset was unexplained. It went on for more than an hour.

To the credit of ‘Arrays,’ it was mercifully short.”

Hi said; “I don’t see the two films as having precisely the same point.”

Kale interrupted to say; “It’s a bit banal to say that something is not precisely the same as something else. Of course there are differences. That seems obvious and not worthy of mention. I was speaking of the essence.”

Hi patiently waited for Kale to finish and pointedly responded; “What one takes from something is subjective. It’s obvious to me that different people will take different meanings from the two films. Don’t you think?”

Kale said; “If they’re morons.”

Hi said; “So anyone who does not share your informed point of view is a moron?”

Kale was tempted to clearly say; “Yes,” but remained silent in deference to what he saw as the unpopular opinion.”

Considering he had might have effectively corrected Kale, and certain that he had done so on the all-important surface, he

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said; “In ‘Arrays’ success is arduous, but possible. In your un-named film there is defeat.”

Kale said; “That depends on whether or not the sports car driver smashes up and dies or if he is merely in a momentary state of stasis. I don’t remember how it ended.”

Hi sarcastically said; “That’s convenient. Tory, would you like to chime in?”

Tory appeared to be waiting for more information and seemed to prefer waiting. She gritted her teeth and did some kind of lip maneuver which said; “I don’t know.” She looked toward Otis, who rescued her by saying; “Extremely short and not much of a story. Boulders just don’t pop out from nowhere.”

Ruben questioningly said; “No?”

Otis said a convincing; “No. We don’t even have a machine that can move something that size.”

Ruben had trouble phrasing his response and came up with;

“You’re either being extremely literal or making a failed attempt at humor.”

Otis said; “I realize that I was addressing technicalities where technicalities are a secondary or tertiary consideration.

But, wouldn’t it be more entertaining to tell a longer story of what the boulder, the path and the thick undergrowth actually stand for? Perhaps, even show what they find?”

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Katharine answered in an impatient tone, saying; “They find life,” her tiny shoulder shrug, suggesting a sentence continuation of; “Of course,” and perhaps; “Imbecile.”

Ruben calmly said; “When you say ‘Wouldn’t it be more entertaining, etc. etc.’ you’ve answered your own question and informed me of your dislike. Our attempt to present a story with which one could substitute their own experiences with boulders of different constitutions obviously failed to engage you.” With a bland tone which contained a suggestion of sarcasm, he added;

“I am literally distraught at your negative viewpoint.” Luc and Sandrine rudely laughed out loud, then put their hands over their mouths to facilitate a speedy stifle.

Having had to wait for his turn, ostensibly giving him time to think prior to speaking, Arthur said; “It’s the skeleton of a timeless story. In terms of commercial potential I believe it will seem trite, as you put it, to an informed crowd. Its best hope is that it becomes a “cult” favorite to those less so. On another level, I think that boulder does need improvement. That it is made of paper mache is painfully obvious.”

Ruben said; “Didn’t you consider the possibility that the boulder was purposely made to look flimsy, thereby suggesting more hope for success than Sisyphus.”

Arthur remained silent and stared indifferently.

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Arthur engaged Ruben as the group was leaving. With all the cheery good-byes being affected or effected, the din precluded surveillance when he put his arm around the older man and said;

“I can get you two explosive books. They’re today. They’re extremely sexy, with scenes not yet seen or accepted in the mainstream. They cannot be accused of obscenity (a consideration in archaic 1967) as they are written in such a way that the audience knows exactly what is going on, but the author can legitimately say; ‘That’s not what I said.’”

“You’ve seen them?”

“Yes.” (He lied.)

“You’re forgetting that we work in film. Actions are right there.”

“I assume that you have heard of jump-cutting?”

“Let me take a look.”

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