Benjamin

Just then he entered the room, his hands stuffed in his pockets and arms tucked into his sides and shoulders hunched up. He sat down and began to tell us about the wind chimes outside his mothers country home, which can only really be said to have once been in the country becuase it had now been swallowed by exurban sprawl and there was a tech-business building and its plain of acreage reserved for reservation only parking, this compound had been erected across the newly paved street, and so its daily commuters--the tech guys, management, the janitors, and the electricians--were her only neighbors. There were raccoons in the tall slender line of trees to the west of her home that acted as a buffer or a sieve really through which the strong winds blowing up over the hill on the top of which her house stood sluiced, the winds that is, and they would also jangle the wind chimes, long wooden ones whose hollow low tones were like polish in his ears, and the sound from these chimes would soak into the sounds of the wind blowing the dead and dying leaves in hues of yellow that have never been catalogued and could not be named because they only resemble themselves, like a woman who is too beautiful. Then he left, leaving as he came, his hands in his pockets, the door open. We didn't hire him. He hadn't enumerated the qualities he possessed which might better our Fortune 500 company, hadn't even presented a resume. He was an imagist and his magic was jagged.