When supposest thou will he
realize that he's never going to get anything?"
Grubbing at my door. Whang!
The faces stood in the doorway, looking me down. The expression of the
faces identically turnkeyish, i.e., stupidly gloating, ponderously and
imperturbably tickled. Look who's here, who let that in?
The right body collapsed sufficiently to deposit a bowl just inside.
I smiled and said: "Good morning, sirs. The can stinks."
They did not smile and said: "Naturally." I smiled and said: "Please give
me a pencil. I want to pass the time." They did not smile and said:
"Directly."
I smiled and said: "I want some water, if you please."
They shut the door, saying "Later."
Klang and footsteps.
I contemplate the bowl which contemplates me. A glaze of greenish grease
seals the mystery of its content, I induce two fingers to penetrate the
seal. They bring me up a flat sliver of cabbage and a large, hard,
thoughtful, solemn, uncooked bean. To pour the water off (it is warmish
and sticky) without committing a nuisance is to lift the cover off _Ca
Pue_. I did.
Thus leaving beans and cabbage-slivers. Which I ate hurryingly, fearing a
ventral misgiving.
I pass a lot of time cursing myself about the pencil, looking at my
walls, my unique interior.
Pages:
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52