... ..greenmullet ....May 9, 2004   The Alhambra's living room was filled to capacity.  I tapped a Perrier bottle with a Martha Stewart Everyday flatware collection fork and the crowd fell silent.  I cleared my throat and addressed the guests. "Ladies and gentlemen, friends, lizards, yard gnomes, honored guests.  I have an announcement to make.  At the end of this month, I am leaving the Alhambra." It was my turn to fall silent amid the buzz and grumble, the murmur and gasp.  Dr. Keller, my deaf, lip-reading psychotherapist, was first to speak. "Slendid!  I'll have mine with Swiss on rye." "Man, where'd you find this Marlee Matlin motherfucker?  Shee-ut.  Motherfucker's deaf and stupid.  Hey, read my lips: 'No new taxes.'" I thought Geoff;Don:Rick!'s impression of George Bush the Elder's campaign pledge was quite good, especially for a young African-American who wasn't old enough to remember our current president's father. "When are you and your mother moving to Texas?" Dr. Keller asked the boy.  I was beginning to understand why I hadn't made much progress in therapy.  Before a one-sided argument broke out between my therapist and my ward, I broke in. "I have purchased an estate known as Greenmullet.  The children need a place to call home and I need more room.  I shall miss this house, to be sure.  But my destiny lies elsewhere." "Will you remain on my mail route?"  It was Mr. McFeeley, the Alhambra's blind postman.  He addressed his remarks to a large photograph of my deceased father.  McFeeley's seeing-eye dog, Magoo, stopped licking his crotch just long enough to roll his seeing eyes. "I am not certain, Mr. McFeeley.  I certainly hope so.  You have saved me a lot of money delivering my bills to addresses unknown.  Anyway, Greenmullet is situated on the banks of Contraband Bayou, a dead-still waterway that takes the stream out of stream.  As far as I can tell, it doesn't move at all.  Still, it is teeming with jumping fish and waterbirds, like egrets, some of which possess multiple heads.  It isn't far away.  I do hope you'll visit." By midnight, all but one guest had left.  El Gnomo, the hand-painted yard statue, stared out the front window, his pointed cap slightly askew.  I suspected he'd drunk more than a gnome's share of Pinot Noir.  I picked up a chafing dish upon which three cold, congealed cocktail weenies remained.  Then I walked to the window and joined my concrete friend for a satisfying stare. previous..|..current..|..archives..|..2d quarter index..|..next

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