5118. A BROKEN BACK AND THINGS DON'T WORK

A BROKEN BACK AND 

THINGS DON'T WORK

There's no longer any place to hide the cookies : the cookie jar

is gone and the canister's filled with candy. The lady who

comes through here cleaning always eats them anyway. I

thought of boobie-trapping her mine-shaft, but then I let

it go. She can have the damned old cookies anytime.

-

I remember one time, in Spring, two years ago, along 

some busy street in Brooklyn; a hefty Russian girl was 

sitting at the curb, begging. Or asking, passers-by for 

money. No one really paid her attention and she was, 

actually too far back, it was easy to ignore her. Between

takes, she'd go on talking to herself in a fast Russian

tongue. Then I passed her by; big mistake. She began,

in the same Russian tongue, screaming and yelling at

me, over something; for something I'd done?

-

I ignored her, as did others, but it was hard to do.

Ghost-lives have a way of popping up all around us:

who was she, perhaps some ancient czarina come back

to haunt; some crazed prophetess with the strength

of a girl Rasputin, running now riotous in our time.

-

I didn't have a handler, though I'd have liked to just

punch her out  -  who says you can't deck a girl just

for being a pain-in-the-ass. She made no distinction

about bugging me, so why should have to about her.

Above her head, the sumac and sycamores were trying

to bud; the surface breeze along the street was still

cold, though it was Spring. Maybe Spring, like St. Petersburg

or Yakaterinaville has Spring. Maybe. Maybe that's what

ticked her off and set up all that rage. Never will know now.