... ..Samson was a pussy ....March 7, 2004   I park on the street directly beneath his loft.  Near the common entrance, there is a button that corresponds to his apartment number.  His name is nowhere to be found.  I cross the sidewalk, press the button, and imagine the electric impulse running along insulated wires that connect my intrusion to his sanctuary.  The loft is a brain and I am a thumb smashed by a hammer.  The intercom speaker stares.  I ignore it and survey the small town business district, newly renovated to look old.  The irony is conspicuous.  Just now, downtown is weekend-empty and a warm wind blows grit and modern debris.  Several silent measures pass before the intercom speaks. "You may enter."  Buzz. The door unlocks.  I open it and ascend the stairs.  I did not identify myself to gain admission; there was no need.  The Silverback knows all.  Among that which he knows is this: no one but I would dare disturb him. I reach the top of the stairs and walk across the landing to the open door of his apartment.  The Silverback stands in his foyer, a threshold between us.  I am careful not to cross it until permission is granted. "You may enter.  Again."  I bow slightly and do so. Once inside, we take our places.  The Silverback sits in a cushioned chair, one with a tall, straight back and rests for his long thin arms.  His furnishings are sparse and arranged in such a way that I have no choice but to sit quite some distance away.  I follow custom and do not sit until he is seated.  As he sits, I notice something missing. "Where is your tail?" I ask. The Silverback snorts and reaches behind his head.  "I have allowed its removal," he replies.  "Now, tell me.  What is your problem?" "What makes you think I have a problem?" "Ah, yes.  It would be this.  You have many problems."  previous..|..current..|..archives..|..1st quarter index..|..next

©  2004 by the beastmaster