Redeemed Area

Do you know where you live? Abner is getting too old to drive but won’t admit. The other day he got in his car to go buy some cough drops of a kind they don’t make anymore. And the drugstore has been incorporated into a mall about seven miles away with only about half the stores rented. There are three other malls within a four-mile area. All the houses are owned by the same guy, who’s been renting them out to college students for years, so they are virtually uninhabitable. A smell of vitriol and socks pervades the area like an open sewer in a souk. Anyway the cough drops (a new brand) tasted pretty good—like catnip or an orange slice that has lain on a girl’s behind. That’s the electrician calling now— nobody else would call before 7 A.M. Now we’ll have some electricity in the place. I’ll start by plugging in the Christmas tree lights. They were what made the whole thing go up in sparks the last time. Next, the light by the dictionary stand, so I can look some words up. Then probably the toaster. A nice slice of toast would really hit the spot now. I’m afraid it’s all over between us, though. Make nice, like you really cared, I’ll change my chemise, and we can dance around the room like demented dogs, eager for a handout or they don’t know what. Gradually, everything will return to normal, I promise you that. There’ll be things for you to write about in your diary, a fur coat for me, a lavish shoe tree for that other. Make that two slices. I can see you only through a vegetal murk not unlike coral, if it were semi-liquid, or a transparent milkshake. I have adjusted the lamp, morning’s at seven, the tarnish has fallen from the metallic embroidery, the walls have fallen, the country’s pulse is racing. Parents are weeping, the schools have closed. All the fuss has put me in a good mood, O great sun.