One of us was once asked, in the wee hours during a failed stopover at the Hellendale Motor Court, if she would like to see several of the oldtimers who'd been preparing for this occasion, in lieu of motioning to a line of drivers who were champing at the bit to get something underway, for real this time. As it was all going around in her head, she was asked by a line-captain, dressed in red with black trim and tasteful appointments, why she'd never been approached before, since her learning curve seemed headed back, without any knots, come what may. She stammered out a garbled message from a master planner who thought he had a way with the ladies, but who never stopped trying to hide the fact that he was upset. As she achieved a very natural punctuation, more than a few noticed that they no longer felt angry. They decided to chip in and buy her a plaque for her foyer. She was beside herself with gratitude and impalpable resentment. It showed on her hands. The way she held them at her side. No one even tried to stifle a fleeting sigh, though. It was that kind of night.
As I was preparing a slide presentation on this situation during our most recent meeting, my cord snapped and I found myself unable to speak. At that time I was still sneaking around certain backyards of inappropriate neighbors. This highlighted the fact that even during a season of hurtful behaviors, the motions of others still exerted a fascination over what remained of our group. The young lady in question is, even now, a close associate whose ring binder contains a contemporaneous record of blunders committed in the name of post-doctoral research profiles. In fact, I had given her contact information to an independent party of three to scope out a location for an upcoming rectification summit. She seemed like the type to limit her appearances to a once-per-hour mandatory minimum. I knew I could count on her version of events to win out in the end. What I didn't know is what ended up causing my referral to State Authorities. They don't play around, in case you haven't heard.
If even one of the sorry gents present that night at the Hellendale Motor Court had bothered to inquire as to whether any play-acting would help implicate our enemies, then we could be sure of one thing and one thing only. The question is, though, where does it say that people who go to great lengths to inscribe their fortunes on the baselines of history wouldn't be the very same ones whose slatternly pacing enables civic portraiture to embody a vivid trope of sanitized dust? This is where one of our own lines had failed to be drawn. For what would we give our native aplomb, if not the resting bulse of a nature composed of static elegance? Sure, we know that's not a fair question,.. but neither is something else. Anything?
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