Joseph
cut off a quarter of his thumb peeling potatoes. But it’s a good idea to finish
what you start. While Joseph’s thumb healed he rode the elevator: there were no
hand rails, no mirrored ceilings.
“Sir,” he greeted Kirby, when Kirby stuck
his hand between the elevator doors.
“How are you?”
“Pained.”
Joseph nodded. “I cut off a quarter
of my thumb today, peeling potatoes.”
Kirby frowned and nodded. Nodding is
polite, you know. Even if you don’t understand, you’re pretending to
understand.
The elevator shook a little because
of the wind.
“What kind of a pain do you feel?”
Joseph thought it might be nice to ask.
“Piecemeal. Like each piece of me has
a different pain.”
“Well let’s make steak and I can
sketch you. That way if you die or something then you can have a sketch of
yourself.”
Kirby thought that would be nice. “I
should like to write a will soon, also.”
Joseph nodded. “Let’s just have a
luncheon on the balcony. I’m famished, friend.”
They ate all types of cheese on the
balcony and the sky looked like a colored pencil. Cheese should be crumbly, like
souls just before confession. Crumbly like bread tossed out to seagulls on the
green ravine bay. Joseph and Kirby spent a while peering down on passing heads,
discussing phrenology as a pseudoscience. It was obvious from Kirby’s square
skull that he had a tortured past
the most annoying women were the
giggly ones with light feet and small noses.
Joseph asked Kirby about his loves.
“You know what I’ve found,” Kirby
croaked, “when someone asks you a question it’s really because they want to
answer.”
Kirby has soul, you know. At nine o’clock
every night he hums “moon river” on the patio, then he turns off the lights and
goes to bed.
Joseph sketched Kirby in blue
colored pencil, because the monster sky threw up over everything today. The sky
tasted like blueberry pie, dripped blue ash wax. It was hard to swallow, like
diamonds growing up out of mud. Joseph loved the whole world and none of it, because
it didn’t love him back.
“How’s your thumb doing?” Kirby
asked.
“It’s fine. It’s pretty scabbed over
now.”
“Did you eat the potatoes after you
peeled them?”
“No, they got bloody.”
“No, they got bloody.”
“Cold water does the trick,”
“Gross, Kirby.”
“You’re the gross one with a missing
thumb.”
Joseph finished the portrait. It
looked like Kirby. Good.
“It’s nice, I really like it,” said
Kirby. Kirby nodded.
Joseph nodded and glared up at a
milky sky. “Well it’s almost ten,” he yawned and left, saying all sorts of
goodbye. He heard moon river ticking in rhythm with the nods.
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