the bouncy anthems of our firms, tears in my eyes in the face of all this blessed, sacred, smarmy hope even if I know, as I do know, what I know. And loving it all anyway, my cellophane-window nameplate, the long capitals of my name and place of business.)
There was a Ford LTD mounted on a platform in the lobby, turning, stately and slow as a second hand, pristine, mint, and looking on its pedestal and under the cunning lights as no automobile ever looked in the streets. A museum piece, a first prize.
He went to the desk and registered. A Chase-Park Plaza bellman carried his bag and room key past the conventioneers still waiting to sign in.
He didn’t go much any more, sending his proxies more often than not, those he hired to run his franchises for him.
It was spring and the prime interest rate was 2.93 percent. Though they were already into April, the sky was the color of nickels, loose change, and the temperature never higher than that of a mild winter in a plains state. Flesh still wore his long dark cashmere coat, a fedora pulled low, tight on his head, a scarf. That was why he had spotted him—he was not so famous then—sore thumb, high profile, visible in his white suit as a man falling from a building. It was not white really , not the stark white of letterhead, but richer, the white of faintly yellow piano keys, of imperfect teeth, old texts. It was—this occurred to him—the “in person” white of presence, like limelight burning on a magician on a stage. He had never seen anyone so bright. And it was , once he recognized him, as if the man were on fire, his white hatless hair like whipped smoke.
He saw him from the back, knew him from the back. Ben rose from his bench in the park and followed him to a little play area where the statues of characters from Alice in Wonderland were grouped. He stood beside the statue of Alice and the Mad Hatter, and when a few who recognized the man approached him with their cameras, Ben politely deflected them. The man, unconscious of his bodyguard, gazed at the frigid figures, and Flesh, everywhere at once, held up a strategic hand, extended a black cashmered arm, waved his dark scarf, swung his fedora, ruining their shots.
“Isn’t that—?”
“Shhh. Yes. Please,” Flesh urged, “he’s not to be disturbed.”
“I’m not disturbing him. I just wanted—”
“I’m sorry,” Flesh said, “I know. All you want is to take his picture but the man’s superstitious. He believes you steal his substance when you photograph him.”
“That’s crazy,” he said, “his pictures on all those—”
“Portraits. Oil paintings. You want to get your oils and brushes, okay, but no photographs.”
“I never heard anything like—”
Then getting a little rough, shooing, pushing, shoving.
“Hey, this is a park. It’s a free country. Who you shoving?”
“The camera,” Flesh demanded.
“No.”
“Go on, beat it. I tried to be nice.” He put his hand in his overcoat. The man backed off.
“I’ll be damned,” he said, “if I ever buy another bucket—”
“Yeah, we’ve lost you to Steak ’n Shake. These things happen.”
“But he’s so pleasant on television.”
“Look, fella,” Ben said kindly, “he has a lot on his mind. Leave him be, why don’t you?”
“I just wanted—”
“Sure,” Flesh said. He patted the fellow on his back and sent him off, then walked around the circumference of the statue in order to study the man from the front. The face was benign as an angel’s, with his mouth closed the white goatee and mustache like a kempt fat mushroom, the dangling strings of his black tie like a wishbone or a character in an Oriental alphabet. Flesh was surprised to see that the white suit coat was double-breasted, like a chef’s. The eyes behind the horn-rimmed specs twinkled with vision. Flesh came up beside him. “Howdy,” Ben said. The man glowered at him. “Howdy.” Flesh moved closer. They were almost touching.
“Lord, the
There was a Ford LTD mounted on a platform in the lobby, turning, stately and slow as a second hand, pristine, mint, and looking on its pedestal and under the cunning lights as no automobile ever looked in the streets. A museum piece, a first prize.
He went to the desk and registered. A Chase-Park Plaza bellman carried his bag and room key past the conventioneers still waiting to sign in.
He didn’t go much any more, sending his proxies more often than not, those he hired to run his franchises for him.
It was spring and the prime interest rate was 2.93 percent. Though they were already into April, the sky was the color of nickels, loose change, and the temperature never higher than that of a mild winter in a plains state. Flesh still wore his long dark cashmere coat, a fedora pulled low, tight on his head, a scarf. That was why he had spotted him—he was not so famous then—sore thumb, high profile, visible in his white suit as a man falling from a building. It was not white really , not the stark white of letterhead, but richer, the white of faintly yellow piano keys, of imperfect teeth, old texts. It was—this occurred to him—the “in person” white of presence, like limelight burning on a magician on a stage. He had never seen anyone so bright. And it was , once he recognized him, as if the man were on fire, his white hatless hair like whipped smoke.
He saw him from the back, knew him from the back. Ben rose from his bench in the park and followed him to a little play area where the statues of characters from Alice in Wonderland were grouped. He stood beside the statue of Alice and the Mad Hatter, and when a few who recognized the man approached him with their cameras, Ben politely deflected them. The man, unconscious of his bodyguard, gazed at the frigid figures, and Flesh, everywhere at once, held up a strategic hand, extended a black cashmered arm, waved his dark scarf, swung his fedora, ruining their shots.
“Isn’t that—?”
“Shhh. Yes. Please,” Flesh urged, “he’s not to be disturbed.”
“I’m not disturbing him. I just wanted—”
“I’m sorry,” Flesh said, “I know. All you want is to take his picture but the man’s superstitious. He believes you steal his substance when you photograph him.”
“That’s crazy,” he said, “his pictures on all those—”
“Portraits. Oil paintings. You want to get your oils and brushes, okay, but no photographs.”
“I never heard anything like—”
Then getting a little rough, shooing, pushing, shoving.
“Hey, this is a park. It’s a free country. Who you shoving?”
“The camera,” Flesh demanded.
“No.”
“Go on, beat it. I tried to be nice.” He put his hand in his overcoat. The man backed off.
“I’ll be damned,” he said, “if I ever buy another bucket—”
“Yeah, we’ve lost you to Steak ’n Shake. These things happen.”
“But he’s so pleasant on television.”
“Look, fella,” Ben said kindly, “he has a lot on his mind. Leave him be, why don’t you?”
“I just wanted—”
“Sure,” Flesh said. He patted the fellow on his back and sent him off, then walked around the circumference of the statue in order to study the man from the front. The face was benign as an angel’s, with his mouth closed the white goatee and mustache like a kempt fat mushroom, the dangling strings of his black tie like a wishbone or a character in an Oriental alphabet. Flesh was surprised to see that the white suit coat was double-breasted, like a chef’s. The eyes behind the horn-rimmed specs twinkled with vision. Flesh came up beside him. “Howdy,” Ben said. The man glowered at him. “Howdy.” Flesh moved closer. They were almost touching.
“Lord, the
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