a better place, then stay here with me.”
“Oh yeah? That’d be fine— maybe —for you and me, but how about the rest of humanity?”
“A better world has gotta start somewhere. Why not with you and me?”
That silenced her. She seemed pensive. She unwaded the toilet paper just to have something to do with her hands. As she did so, she was reminded of the yogi who had taken the cobweb apart. “Bernard,” she said, “do you think I’ve been paying attention to the wrong things?”
“I don’t know, babe. I don’t know what you’ve been paying attention to, because I don’t know what you’ve been dreaming about. We may think we’re paying attention to this, that, or the other, but our dreams tell us what we’re really interested in. Dreams never lie.”
Leigh-Cheri thought about her dreams. Several episodes came vividly to mind. They caused her to blush again and set the peachfish to oozing from its gills. “I can’t recall any dreams,” she lied.
“We all dream profusely every night, yet by morning we’ve forgotten ninety percent of what went on. That’s why poets are such important members of society. Poets remember our dreams for us.”
“Are you a poet?”
“I’m an outlaw.”
“Are outlaws important members of society?”
“Outlaws are not members of society. However, they may be important to society. Poets remember our dreams, outlaws act them out.”
“Yeah? How about a princess? Is a princess important?”
“They used to be. A princess used to stand for beauty, magic spells, and fairy castles. That was pretty damn important.”
Leigh-Cheri shook her head slowly from side to side. Her fiery tresses swung like plantation curtains—the night they drove old Dixie down. “Come on. Are you serious? That’s romantic bullshit, Bernard. I can’t believe the dreaded Woodpecker is such a cornball.”
“Ha. Ha ha. You love the earth so much, did you know it was hollow? The earth is hollow, Leigh-Cheri. Inside the ball there’s a wire wheel, and there’s a chipmunk running in the wheel. One little chipmunk, running its guts out for you and for me. At night, just before I fall asleep, I hear that chipmunk, I hear its crazed chattering, hear its little heart pounding, hear the squeaking of the squirrel cage—the wheel is old and rickety now and troubled by rust. The chipmunk is doing all the work. All we have to do is occasionally oil the wheel. What do you think lubricates the wheel, Leigh-Cheri?”
“Do you really think so, Bernard?”
“Cross my heart and hope to die.”
“I—I think so, too. But I feel guilty about it. I feel so fucking whimsical.”
“Those who shun the whimsy of things will experience rigor mortis before death.”
The High Jinks ran to forty feet, not including bowsprit. She slept four and could have slept more, but her cabin had been remodeled in such a way as to provide maximum cargo storage without being too obvious about her mission. She was teak with brass fittings and smelled like a spice boat, which, in a sense, she was. Leigh-Cheri sat aft, in the galley, at a glass-topped table. Beneath the glass was a nautical chart of the Hawaiian Islands. Coffee cups and tumblers of tequila had left circular stains on the glass, sticky atolls in a crumb-strewn Pacific. With those fingers that weren’t gripping toilet paper, Leigh-Cheri traced the rims of the unnamed reefs. “You know,” she said at last, “you make me feel good about being a princess. Most of the men I’ve known have made me feel guilty about it. They’d snicker up their sleeves at the mention of beauty and magic tricks and—what else did you say a princess stands for?”
“Enchantments, dramatic prophesies, swans swimming in castle moats, dragon bait—”
“Dragon bait?”
“All the romantic bullshit that makes life interesting. People need that as badly as they need fair prices at the Texaco pump and no DDT in the Pablum. The men you’ve been with probably wouldn’t kiss
“Oh yeah? That’d be fine— maybe —for you and me, but how about the rest of humanity?”
“A better world has gotta start somewhere. Why not with you and me?”
That silenced her. She seemed pensive. She unwaded the toilet paper just to have something to do with her hands. As she did so, she was reminded of the yogi who had taken the cobweb apart. “Bernard,” she said, “do you think I’ve been paying attention to the wrong things?”
“I don’t know, babe. I don’t know what you’ve been paying attention to, because I don’t know what you’ve been dreaming about. We may think we’re paying attention to this, that, or the other, but our dreams tell us what we’re really interested in. Dreams never lie.”
Leigh-Cheri thought about her dreams. Several episodes came vividly to mind. They caused her to blush again and set the peachfish to oozing from its gills. “I can’t recall any dreams,” she lied.
“We all dream profusely every night, yet by morning we’ve forgotten ninety percent of what went on. That’s why poets are such important members of society. Poets remember our dreams for us.”
“Are you a poet?”
“I’m an outlaw.”
“Are outlaws important members of society?”
“Outlaws are not members of society. However, they may be important to society. Poets remember our dreams, outlaws act them out.”
“Yeah? How about a princess? Is a princess important?”
“They used to be. A princess used to stand for beauty, magic spells, and fairy castles. That was pretty damn important.”
Leigh-Cheri shook her head slowly from side to side. Her fiery tresses swung like plantation curtains—the night they drove old Dixie down. “Come on. Are you serious? That’s romantic bullshit, Bernard. I can’t believe the dreaded Woodpecker is such a cornball.”
“Ha. Ha ha. You love the earth so much, did you know it was hollow? The earth is hollow, Leigh-Cheri. Inside the ball there’s a wire wheel, and there’s a chipmunk running in the wheel. One little chipmunk, running its guts out for you and for me. At night, just before I fall asleep, I hear that chipmunk, I hear its crazed chattering, hear its little heart pounding, hear the squeaking of the squirrel cage—the wheel is old and rickety now and troubled by rust. The chipmunk is doing all the work. All we have to do is occasionally oil the wheel. What do you think lubricates the wheel, Leigh-Cheri?”
“Do you really think so, Bernard?”
“Cross my heart and hope to die.”
“I—I think so, too. But I feel guilty about it. I feel so fucking whimsical.”
“Those who shun the whimsy of things will experience rigor mortis before death.”
The High Jinks ran to forty feet, not including bowsprit. She slept four and could have slept more, but her cabin had been remodeled in such a way as to provide maximum cargo storage without being too obvious about her mission. She was teak with brass fittings and smelled like a spice boat, which, in a sense, she was. Leigh-Cheri sat aft, in the galley, at a glass-topped table. Beneath the glass was a nautical chart of the Hawaiian Islands. Coffee cups and tumblers of tequila had left circular stains on the glass, sticky atolls in a crumb-strewn Pacific. With those fingers that weren’t gripping toilet paper, Leigh-Cheri traced the rims of the unnamed reefs. “You know,” she said at last, “you make me feel good about being a princess. Most of the men I’ve known have made me feel guilty about it. They’d snicker up their sleeves at the mention of beauty and magic tricks and—what else did you say a princess stands for?”
“Enchantments, dramatic prophesies, swans swimming in castle moats, dragon bait—”
“Dragon bait?”
“All the romantic bullshit that makes life interesting. People need that as badly as they need fair prices at the Texaco pump and no DDT in the Pablum. The men you’ve been with probably wouldn’t kiss
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