All the Other Places ... continued

The only light in the living room came from a safety lamp better than seventy yards from his front door. His neighbor had suspended it from the top of a telephone poll, and, although it was on the opposite side of the street, in front of his neighbor's driveway, it was bright enough to cast a bluish haze into his living room. More than once he had considered borrowing a pellet-gun from one of the neighborhood kids so that he could put an end to the lamp. He would be doing at least three people on the street a favor. He wondered how much his neighbor would actually mind his shooting out the lamp. But there were some nights when he appreciated the light and the way it infused the living room. It had a certain numbing effect. He could stand or sit perfectly silent and still, amidst the light, and feel as if at any moment he would be suspended into the air, himself becoming translucent and ndistinguishable.

He looked down at his arms and legs, his skin paler in the light than it actually was. He looked around the room -- the couch, the end tables, the disfigured chair, the rug, the pictures. Things seemed almost better in the haze, their appearance was a little less worn down, and to his mind, a little less tragic. No, not tragic, reconsidering, glancing again over the few pieces. What can be tragic about furniture? It's meanless to me.

The tea was warm now, just right to drink. It tasted rich, almost sweet, and filled his chest. There were some nights when he reached that point he simply returned to bed, but not to sleep, only to lay in bed, awake, listening to the creaks and swelling of old boards. Sleep was accidental.

He reached over and again placed his cup on the end table. He didn't want to finish the tea too quickly. He leaned back on the couch and shut his eyes and thought about the Sherpa near Kuldighar who had taught him how to make the milk tea. Zane could picture the small man squatting beside the fire, dipping the aluminum ladle in and out of the blackened pot. The lean brown hands of the man, breaking apart branches and then stuffing twigs and grasses into the fire. And there were the voices of the men and women moving in and out of camp. It had seemed strance to hear their voices but not understand what was said. There were the mountains, too, bare and forbidden. The snow glazed peaks, the grayness of the sky that came from clouds and from the jungle fires in the south. He smiled as he remembered these things.

© 2000 Trout &
Will Fox