Credit Where Credit Is Due.

 

Now, when the Tembulants are fingered for a Livable Cities Proclamation, their first order of business will be to snare a recording of a pond in the wee hours and perform visual demonstrations, as if any were ever needed. As one of their Captains has assured us, if any harm is encouraged beyond the bordering area, we should call a trembling person in from the street level and go easy. Because not all situations end up in the papers. A lot of them, in fact, don't even make onto a major floor. With the rapid pace being what it is, any of us who looks to find solace in the arc of a misplaced order of numbers cannot be expected to remove recalcitrant call-banners. And that's even before a tower erupts in fissures of bonded mental telergy. Give them credit for scrying. Please.

You will find a sky-blue vanity table employed as a safety lake in our version of night-wide blanking. Whenever it festers more minutely than one rather boldly slotted employee, our training powder is to be dispensed in the form of nano-scale threads of a divergent order. If going into a station field during a humidity stronghold helps a witness recall an important detail, then our ten-fold paper loops can be expected to hold further unbounded names in an old fashioned cellular binder. You will be able to find each rivulet while a room is bathed in temperate semi-darkness. If a moderately priced dessert topping is in your future, it can help your stomache achieve a rare equilibrium. A person who is an enthusiast of of gray-scale sexual disasters should be encouraged to partition each liminal bantustan in thrice weekly step-fields. They will only rain if a conical tube is broken from within a shackled sack. You're welcome.

This is when prayer often enters the picture. Only a wide-angle landscape format could do justice to our fervent jostling. With the smallest of straps deployed directly beneath an oblique angle of winning flesh, any and all markings not highlighted with a velour consignment may bring out one of our number for a devout curtain pressure milab. It remains to be determined whether or if one of the parents on the scene is invited to sip a comforting warm beverage near a gigantic magnet. At this time three years ago, all the hair fell out. Directly onto a Native American Burial Mound. No one was laughing then, we can assure you. If anyone decides that they might like to continue, an appointment will be entertained. Thank you.

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This doesn't mean that we're not still friends.

 

One of us likes to think about the time we went away. The other feels the weight of personal history as it takes its inevitable toll. When anyone issues a muffled whimper a hard choice could be in order. But for us to be able to leak salient details, then a series of coded taps on the partition could be our ticket into a structure of carefree support. I tell them all the time that one of our fondest memories is capping a lid in place and hearing the very satisfying click which accompanies the operation. If I recall correctly, I was wearing teal blue shorts, a beige turtleneck sweater and an Oxnard blazer. She stroked my hand in a way which made all the difference to my final adjustment. Anyone who insisted on arguing about the placement of printed cloths directly underneath critical modules would have to find a new activity with which to wile away the empty hours of their lives.

I'd been up since dawn and my  wife had come down with a minor condition. On my way to the courthouse, I rolled up on an incident already in progress. I secured the perimeter while my partner began attending cooking classes at the local Extension. Everyone I knew started to look at him like he was some kind of irresponsible lunatic. This was totally uncalled for. When I got to my feet and made a very careful decision to walk into town under my own power, it was all I could do to not seek revenge on a trusted family member. If there's one thing I know, it's how to get along with people who have trouble understanding their deepest motivations. For example, this guy called my show the other night and said he had a run-in with a very tough broad down by the waterfront. I told him to pipe down and stop acting like a first-class, grade A, jerk.

Do you think it's likely that anyone in your circle of acquaintanceships could ever see their way clear to have an honest discussion about minority-majority outreach after I'd left the room in a huff? I ask because one of my least ornery former classmates has asked to be given the run of the place while I do a few errands downtown. He says he won't be but a minute and meanwhile I have a rather distressing rash on the inside of my left eyelid. Some crybabies might not see the connection, but that would be on them, not me. For those who would (metaphorically) give their right arm to walk in the footsteps of our finest marketing honcho, I have no advice to share.  

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The following account may resolve some of your heretofore unanswered questions.

 

We have gone over and over end-of-conflict high points, and we're still not convinced that our actions played any part in the atrocious smell associated with a reasonable outcome. I liked to play up my involvement with some of the lads from down the way while my wife stuck to her guns and never for one moment admitted that she'd seen anything unusual, or even revolting. I find it odd that when she speaks with that voice of hers, people can be counted upon to crowd into a room with a very low, if artificial, ceiling. This one was constructed with aggregated wax cylinders. I could tell from the way her eyes moved back and forth from inside her compartment that someone close by had committed to a course of error prone activity. I thought I could identify the party by a stain near an end table. It's the kind of thing which had his name all over it. There wasn't any choice.

I found his home address in the booklet handed to us by an underemployed hostage negotiator during off-hours at a defunct candy operation on the Mainland. The place wasn't hard to find. Even in the late '80s people seemed to have a 'thing' for isolated numbers. And, when we're talking actual musical notes, then the lion's share of accolades are fully impressed on the Nation's wingates. He greeted me in a bathrobe at 1:13 AM from a bench in City Hall Park. I was still working nights at the Eichenwald Mattress Factory, but the connection was okay. We chatted for a while about this and that, but, for some non-obvious reason he just wasn't buying it. I helped him move his luggage down from the third floor so we could pack in peace. From the way he talked, I could tell that he wondered whether my younger sister had been sterilized, even though he never mentioned her directly. I remember that I once saw him accept an award on behalf of someone else at a local ceremony. Suddenly, the alleged 'facts' I'd been given just didn't add up. Not only was I having difficulty breathing, but I was also somewhat thirsty. You can always tell by the way people walk whether or not they've been betrayed by a total stranger.

Once he'd absconded with my share of the proceeds, there was enough to go on. He vowed that a dash of corn powder would help the mush rise. I kept my eye on him while my wife sashayed through the upstairs corridor, checking each door in turn. After the third go-round, I grabbed her wrist and demanded answers. She poo-pooed my seizures. I made a silent plea for help. By this time the man had already gone native and was sleeping like an innocent baby. I pulled the rug out from under him and threw him under the bus. He reacted in a way I'll never forget. I trusted him to keep us safe. From where I stood on the second floor balcony, it appeared that most of our neighbors had gone to a lot of trouble to make us feel at home. We'd only moved there the year before, but, this was just too much. I felt I had no choice but to arrange for a few 'suspicious' fires. The impact was even felt in experimental pedagogical circles. 

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