Cigar smoke and the crushing of aluminum cans, strophes and antistrophes of static, the silhouettes through the color-warping windows clock-handing antennas to find the old voices; the rocking of weathered chairs, and long, white haired cats, not looking back in their capers toward the steps where the bending women place bowls of milk before stepping methodically, in beige, Velcro shoes, back up the steps to stand lean against the thresholds, arms folded across their aprons, behind the screen doors to watch the cats lap. Kids come out of Figlio's with large candy bars, wrappers half peeled like bananas, chomping and laughing, marbles falling out of their pockets, rolling down the hill, tinking on the edges of the sewer grates' squares and plopping in the rushing water.
Paper boys standing around fires of their unsold stock on the corners, shop owners sweeping debris into the flames. Prowling min-vans slow to the stop signs banking Main Street and drive up the hill into the façade of the church, built so that the steeple will pierce the sun during the summer months. The Red Sox have lost the pennant. The Red Sox have won the pennant. The Dodgers have pulled it off in the 9th, sealed it in the 5th, and blew it in the 8th. Chevelles slow to the stop signs banking Main Street and drive up the hill into the façade of the church. Johns and Stevies, Jennys and Dawns, manifest in the racket of slammed door frames and skirt behind the climbing cars into the alley ways. Aluminum cans crinkle. A smote cigar usurps the burn of paper. The cats come toward you and line up and sit, serried and fuzzy across the street, licking their lips, swaying their tails across the pavement, the orange reddening behind them, their eyes getting lost. Static interjected joyously'…have won the pennant.'
The untouchables of Topophilia wear suede vests and thick knickerbockers, the boys, and the girls, shin length skirts. They gather round the slow cyclone of newspaper flakes and swat them away like mosquitoes. The blonde hair girls will have streaks of ash in their hair when they stroll under the lamps, the boys will have streaks on their faces. The patrolmen blows his whistle and his watch chain jingles against his thigh when he pivots and stamps out the thin embers. He swivels with his flashlight and Lady Washington dumps a bucket of water on him from her window. 'Quiet down!' she yells and the patrolmen shuts off his flashlight and disappears around the corner as the pick-up trucks poke their noses out and drive up the hill into the façade of the church, built so that the steeple will pierce the full moon during the autumn months.
Caramel corn, the shop windows blanked by carnival flyers. The kids shaking coins in their loose, sweating fists, nickels rolling down the hill, chiming against the edges of the sewer grates' squares and plopping in the rushing water. Motes of pink and blue cotton candy mixing with the blossoms of cottonwoods, sticking to the white cats. The vibrant shits of windows, quelling the static, the voices. Bags of flattened aluminum cans tossed in yards, the hiss of cats and burst of fur onto fences. Weeping women in beige, Velcro shoes and long floral skirts, wound in afghans weep quietly and quicken into the alleys. Shadows slam fedoras on skulls and walk up the hill into the façade of the church. Lights turn on in upstairs windows and the top rung of ladders poke into the horizon: excited gasps of surprise are rushed to whispers. The lights go out. The ladders fall back into the black of the houses and fences. Whistling young men, hands in their knickerbockers, hats tilted, come whistling out the alleyways. Bedroom lights turn back on. The shopkeepers nod resting on their broom sticks in the spare grapefruit still emitted from just beneath the crouching newspaper boys' knees. The patrol cars poke their noses out and drive up the hill into the façade of the church, built so that the stars give it hair.
The bureaucrats of Topophilia wear sunglasses at night so they can, so they can…Hair gel and manila. Whisky and cologne, grains of salt shattered. They shake hands with the shopkeepers, the newspaper boys. The newspaper boys run down the alley ways. The fedoras come back down the hill. The bureaucrats turn the corner and Cadillacs pull up to the stop signs and idle. The weeping women wound in afghans walk back up the hill, no longer weeping. The fedoras open the front doors and can tabs hiss. The wives walk methodically up the front steps and creak the planks. The bedroom light flicks on and off again. The voices. The static. The scratching of bristles, sulfur, cigars. Marbles rolling into sewers, the rushing water plopping, candy bars being opened, the pink and blue motes streaked in ashes.
You can't leave the gazebo in Topophilia. You must stand amid the octagonal structure and smoke a long cigarette out of a porcelain holder. If you leave the gazebo only the swirling ash and the cats remain. I learned this the hard way, strolling up the cobblestone, cats sprawled in mid-air, on their backs, purring to have their bellies rubbed, milk dripping from their caws and dried and rank little streams on the pavement, Cyclones of contained ashes, twirling on the corners, the emptiness which steals from these things reason so bold in its invisibility. The acrobatic cats and gray flakes.
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