We turn into a corkscrew up. It's a new sort of a junkyard. I can't decide now if it was a gardening or an auto lot.

I'm with my father, and he goes somewhere, and I another direction. He knows what he's doing, but so do I. That's my story.

I stop along an open corridor. Gramby, the Rhodesian I see on the beach where Scoob and I go, runs up to me. He is quite friendly, and I've never seen him that way, towards human nor animal. While I pet him, here comes Scoobie, prancing. He cuts me off from Gramby.

(Here they both are during a regular Saturday at the beach.)

Now I must rush about to stabilize. I have been away, or my belongings have been stored. I have to gather them again. I drive about. I stop and my stepdad Clarence tells me the water in my bed will never be warm enough to sleep on by tonight.

I must agree this is so. I have struggled with waterbeds and heaters. However, mine isn't a waterbed. I open a cabinet and find the headboard, the railings of an old oak bedstead (maybe the one I had thirty years ago).

Back flitting across town. I approach an intersection in dim light. I turn here, right, reconsider, no, wait, maybe not. I have signaled and there is an auto following close behind. I make the turn, then, to avoid collision with the following auto, and there is another in the other lane waiting to enter the intersection I am trying now to vacate. I am turning right, and so when the other vehicle moves, I just catch the edge of it, because my momentum and indecision have carried me into the opposite lane.

We all dismount and drift at odd intervals across the double road I have just left and enter a bar. Nobody says anything, until the bartender speaks. Mumbling something official. I say, oh, yes, of course, it's all my fault.

Tomorrow, he says. I ask, you mean we come back tomorrow? Right here? Yes, of course, he answers, as if I should know how a citizen deals with a traffic accident. (Is there a bar then on every block in this city?)

I hear some commentary about the dark sulky one who drove the ride following me. They hold him partly responsible for following too close. In the bar they are all familiar with the conditions of the accident. I begin to warm to the idea of guilt lifting from my shoulders. The eternal gradient from immediate shock and sorrow to self-preservation we are all familiar with.

Nobody checks for damages, which I assume is slight. We all go our separate ways.

I am sitting before a large monitor. There are all these names, spread evenly across the screen, like a web of unconnected diamonds. Each has just a name. I am to understand these are all Puerto Ricans. It's a whole screen of Puerto Ricans. You would see just the name Julio DelGato and on mouseover you would see his identity, `gardener,' and a comment, `no sabe nada.'

I am amazed by all this. I say to someone near, "Hey, I have...lots of Puerto Ricans over here!" and she moves slightly away. I am in a public place, possibly a coffee shop with a bank of networked computers, and nobody cares about the Puerto Ricans.

There's no order to the display. I see `former governor' for one and `renegade' for another. It isn't alphabetical, and there are no dates, so I don't know if it's chronillogical. I see now there is a slide bar on the right and the pointer is infinitesimal and it doesn't even show movement as I click down the vast array of Puerto Ricans.

Maria del Gardenes de Esplante doesn't like chile. Javier Platapata isn't home much. Poco Gordo has a new knife.

Is every Puerto Rican ever on this page? I try to read the URL but it isn't showing. Just a large screen of Puerto Ricans.

I can look down the street and just see the main worksite. It's along a road like that of my old home town, only extended for blocks (my town only had a square). It is nearly noon, and I must leave the satelite office then for the main one.

Gene comes in. He's my sub. He'll handle it for me. No, he won't. He's apologetic. He cannot work today. So sorry.

I look about. There are two "volunteers" lounging around. Okay, they'll have to do. I leave it with them.

I proceed down the road. The main office is near the river, and I see the river is in flood. It is a quiet flood, but wide. I cannot reach the office. I am on Front Street, and thinking, we are in the time just before panic. Someone walks along a levy and does not want to be seen as in a lather and he's so cool and the ground washes out from under his feet.

I pass a store. There's still a TV blasting. I see my boss on the screen! He is expostulating for the cameras, shaking his head in that silly melodramatic preening like MacCarthy used to.

The boss is bewailing the branch office, the one I left, being closed.

He is radiating opprobrium to shift the heat. Boy, this is not up to his standards! He goes on, lambasting the door with the sign "Closed" on it. He's a short little guy and feels he must compensate, I suppose.

Reality: I did work for a long time in a civil service position with two sites, and I traveled from one to the other, sometimes in the same day, and I had a couple of junior-sized bosses who tried to gain height through pure bluster. The scenes of my dreams are like I only heard about them on the radio, like the Bat Cave or Jack Benny's vault. Nothing more than vaguely resembles the actual scene. I don't know why that is. I suspect it's because I have little visual memory.

Maybe Tchaikovsky is not such a good idea after all...

What was that?

I’m awake now. But what woke me?

My mind congeals around the recital. I am to play the piano for an informal Saturday afternoon gathering in my neighborhood. The thought burns in my belly.

Everyone is so friendly here. Yet no one has a name. I thus don’t offer my own. The buildings are two-storey townhouses, yet strangely yellow-orange, adobe perhaps, and there are even these imbricated tile roofs, like in the southwest. But we are in the northeast.

One smiles at me from the walkway before my yard, and I return the greeting. Ah, he says, the weather is changing. He indicates with a glance the fallen leaves under the oak of a neighbor. He moves away, leaving me to study the leaves in the yard.

I am awakened that very night by a truck operating on the street outside. There is no motor traffic on our red-bricked narrow roadway except for service vehicles, most often moving vans. I stare at the ceiling and listen.

In the morning, the house of the leaves is vacant.

Perhaps I should play some Tchaikovsky. After all, since the fall of the wall, there should be no sensitivity. It must be something light, brief, with a positive air about it.

I worry.

I realize in a flash what has awakened me. The wind. And not just the wind, but what the wind blows, which is branches, which means possible trash on the roof.

The clock is ticking.

I don’t have to live here if I don’t like it. I can call the moving van myself. There would be no known consequence to moving away. After all, after a careful vetting by the Township Association, I moved in of my own free will.

My hand is on the door. I take a breath. What if I meet someone, some nameless other? He will be dressed as I am, in a robe from Abercrombie. It’s acceptable to venture out of doors before dawn in your robe.

But what will he say? (And, another question often occurs, why is it always a `he’? I see the moving vans bring the sort of attractive furnishings which mean women, and childrens playthings, so why is it I only meet men like me on the road? I am alone in my life; why is that?) And what will I say in reply?

This requires some thought. Jobs are in the news. Unemployment and job loss are prominent. This is both good and bad. Good because it means our set has less labor cost due to productivity gains, outsourcing, or downsizing. It tends to render such labor as we require less expensive. This is good.

But it means also possible trouble this election season. There are more of them than there are of us, although they seem extremely gullible generally. And it’s always election season. The Party (no one need ask which) carries a countenance of vexed optimism. There, that’s the expression. It’s good to set your face before you venture out of doors.

I have been living here for six months. I was good once, three weeks after I moved in. I was very good that day. I retrieved my newspaper in the acceptable manner and two others encountered me. One smiled and said, “Looks like a famine in Africa. The IMF expects to deplete their funding this year.” He is looking at the headlines, his brow knitted. He speaks in almost a murmur. I can just make him out across the narrow roadway.

“It’s artificial and counterproductive to keep feeding what is failing,” I say. His smile broadens. We all three turn, almost in military precision, and retrace the studied path to our separate doors.

There is a loud knock on my door in the evening. The other is there, the one who did not speak. He speaks now.

“Do you really believe that? I have to know. Do you, really?”

He is staring at me. He seems very exasperated. Also, there is a bottle in his hand. I remain quiet, expectant, waiting for him to explain himself. I even nod, encouragingly.

He slams the door. Late in the night, I hear a crash from across the street. I lay in the dark and stare at the ceiling and don’t move.

I hear the trucks before dawn. When I go out for the paper, there is no broken window, but the house is vacant. I go back inside at the regular pace.

What did he mean by that? A psychotic, most likely. Do I really believe what? What difference can any of that possibly make? What good does it do? Shouldn’t you leave behind those childish quizzes after your sophomore year? Why does he ask me that?

Maybe Tchaikovsky is not such a good idea after all. Maybe a Rogers and Hart medley would be more appropriate.

I take another breath. Turn the knob.

I am interviewing for my newspaper. I am thinking to myself, once my trade was considered romantic albeit scruffy. The Front Page. Stop the Presses! Get me Rewrite! But now just look.


My subject describes himself as a Brandy Snifter, and he has no patience with those "heatherns" who confuse him with a drinking glass. "Can a glass detect acidity from Akron?" he demands. That's his prize achievement. He reported the brewery in Ohio which did not clean the Windex from its vats.

He's an athlete, as well as an aesthete, he tells me. What he does, all day long, is open select brands of brandy and sniff the contents. He asks if I want to take his picture. He weighs nearly four hundred pounds, and I'm thinking maybe that artist for the Wall Street Journal might make him presentable. He guesses my reservations. After all, he says, some pitchers and many defensive linemen aren't exactly svelte. He wants his story placed in the sports pages, with the liquor and firearm and Russian wife ads.

"Tell about Akron," he says. "Like that Julia Roberts movie. I nailed 'em on Windex!"