Free Vicky Swanky Is a Beauty by Diane Williams Page B

year was it? Hmmm. Must have been summer because he introduced me to sweet corn and he had Platt, who lived to be twenty-two years of age and who died shortly after I got married—a cat.
    He was sitting in front of the fire going through his briefcase that was filled with office business and now and then he’d toss pages and pages into the fire and then he would stop, he’d pet Platt and say— The poor pussy, such a bad life for a cat!

    One day after he had gone through a large amount of papers to be tossed and when he had chucked them into the fire—there was a lesson for us. We were chased out of the house by a rough sound and we looked up at the chimney and saw a violet broom of fire sticking out of the chimney. It just burned itself out and nothing was hurt, but that’s how a lot of his houses burned down.
    Some people speak of an energy stream in a village site or sacred place.
    I put my arms around him, released him.
    Such business as his! A corner of his stair hall was covered by old dry leaves that yield all by themselves.

ON THE JOB
    He looked like a man whose leader has failed him time after time, as he asked the seller awkward questions—not hostile. He was looking for a better belt buckle.
    The seller said, You ought to buy yourself something beautiful! Why not this?
    He paid for the buckle, which he felt was brighter and stronger than he was. His sense of sight and smell were diminishing.
    He could only crudely draw something on his life and just fill it in—say a horse.
    “Can I see that?” he said, “What is that?”
    It was a baby porringer.
    At the close of the day, the seller counted her money, went
to the bank—the next step. She hates to push items she doesn’t approve of, especially in this small town, five days a week, where everything she says contains the mystery of health and salvation that preserves her customers from hurt or peril.
    That much was settled, as the customer entered his home, approached his wife, and considered his chances. Hadn’t his wife been daily smacked across the mouth with lipstick and cut above the eyes with mascara?
    She had an enormous bosom that anyone could feel leaping forward to afford pleasure. She was gabbing and her husband—the customer—was like a whole horse who’d fallen out of its stall—a horse that could not ever get out of its neck-high stall on its own, but then his front legs—their whole length—went over the top edge of the gate, and the customer made a suitable adjustment to get his equilibrium well outside of the stall.
    “It’s so cute,” he said to his wife, “when you saw me, how excited you got.”
    His wife liked him so much and she had a sweet face and the customer thought he was being perfectly insincere.
    He went on talking—it was a mixed type of thing—he was lonely and he was trying to get his sheer delight out of the way.

MOOD WHICH GRIPPED ME
    To a ludicrous degree I could have been in a very good mood looking forward. I am going to be married—followed by dessert, fruit, and bonbons in dishes.
    And my furniture cheers me up. We sat in side chairs, packed with springs or foam, accompanied by a moth, who lounged.
    It turned out Wayne had been missing me. He was depressed and had, therefore, come to my enclosure after many months.
    So Wayne and I now loitered at the edge of the room, ahead of my marriage to Jim.
    Over across the—how can I make this wonderful?—the large turf bog!—the sky showed fewer than a hundred birds and at its near top, zero.

    Wayne said caringly –It hurts me that I can’t stay because I was unfaithful once or twice.
    Wayne! Stay! Jim said.
    I was too restless to save time. I leaned against dear Hallam, and Ardolph—isn’t he wise?—a divine spear?—a linden on a hill!—a man from the east who has come to the west. He is well born, noble, a home-loving wolf.
    Wayne said, Lady, you owe me up the wazoo! He resumed his departure which is such a gloomy tradition.
    Another one of my