The Little Doorway

Where was I? Oh, here we are. Another dispatch from Scott Evers. Read for you by Geezer III.

— I said I was out with politicians today. rocket just went over and the coyotes started up. marvelous coordination there. hold on. i’m calling my brother.

There he is.

— fred.

— well well.

— i can barely hear you.

— good. then i can speak honestly.

Dangerous arrangement.

Ladies and gentlemen, this is my brother Fred. Younger by three years, older by disposition. He has had the same cough for approximately thirty years and treats all modern technology as though it arrived personally to inconvenience him.

— just don’t ask me how it’s going.

— thank you.

— i appreciate that.

He knows better.

— by not asking you’re already furnishing the room for the revelation.

— what?

— yes. preparing the stage.

— same thing.

—

— fred?

— can you hear me.

— mostly.

— mostly is all you’ll get then unless you intend to buy a proper phone.

I can hear the television in his apartment now.

Muted.

No. Mine’s muted.

His is on.

Or maybe both are on.

Three men with identical haircuts appear to be explaining the future to me.

— right.

— what i learned this time.

— oh christ.

— is that where we’re at.

—

—

The train arrives.

Every night at two-fifteen a train passes behind Fred’s apartment and apparently causes geological events.

— there it is.

— same time?

— remarkable.

— right through the kitchen?

— judgment day again.

— don’t start.

I’ve been hearing about this train for ten years.

I suspect the train has become larger in memory.

I suspect eventually it will come through his bedroom carrying livestock.

— what’d you have for supper.

—

There's the pause.

Longer now.

Tic tic tic.

— fred what’d you eat.

Silence.

— gasoline.

Ah.

There we are.

Ladies and gentlemen, Fred has discovered a marvelous new diet in which one simply fills the truck and abandons all interest in food.

— toast yesterday too?

— no no. don’t laugh.

I’m not laughing.

Not really.

— how much to fill it now.

— jesus christ.

—

— yes.

— yes that’s robbery.

— no i don’t care if that’s technically not robbery.

— if i remove your wallet while smiling it remains robbery.

He's laughing.

There he is.

I was beginning to worry.

— what else.

— what.

— what'd you cut this month.

—

— fred.

— no really.

— coffee?

— no.

— television?

— no.

— medication?

— jesus christ.

— food?

—

Ah.

There it is.

Ladies and gentlemen, there comes a point in every civilization where a man quietly begins removing things from his own life and calling it adjustment.

Not sacrifice. Not loss.

Adjustment.

You skip breakfast because breakfast was making entirely unreasonable demands upon the economy. You decide lunch was excessive in retrospect. You discover you never cared much for meat. Suddenly you've become some accidental monk living a life of admirable restraint.

Then the fellows on television explain that markets are healthy and confidence is strong.

Strong where exactly.

I would like directions.

—

— what?

—

— no, I heard you.

—

— wheat bread?

—

— well look at Rockefeller over here.

—

Ah.

Well that's the trouble isn't it.

— I would say humans can be remarkably beautiful but they gravitate toward power against their better judgment.

—

— what?

— people aren’t meant to be powerful?

— beautiful.

— yes.

— ultimate power in the hands of a poet and the world becomes like music.

—

— yes yes.

— poets can be monsters too.

— musical monsters.

— marvelous distinction.

There he is again.

Little dictator hiding in the poet.

— hold on.

— goddammit.

Dropped my pills.

Miracle.

Found them.

— where are you.

— driving?

— at two in the morning.

— why.

—

I know already.

I am smiling.

— helps you think.

Of course.

Fred has been driving around at night since he was nineteen years old.

Just movement.

Just road.

Just enough headlights to convince yourself things are still going somewhere.

—

— almost too late.

Quieter.

— almost isn’t late.

I close my eyes.

He always does this.

Always leaves the tiniest possible candle lit.

— somebody should.

—

— no.

— not you.

— never you.

—

—

— fred?

— you there.

—

— thought civilization collapsed.

— not yet?

— give it a minute.