Vert

VERTIGOIt was when the late afternoon drizzle stopped that he signaled something with his pony-tailed head. To be exact, it was after 2 bottles of gin, & the boys (about 6 of them) were bracing themselves for beer. It was time. He beckoned toward the backyard. We left the boys with their games. We passed at the right side of the house where the flower plot was. Then he stopped, looked around, & when he made sure only a single sunflower was to be our witness, he put out his lighter, & said, ¡°Where is it?¡±¡°Here?¡± I inquired about his chosen spot swivel-head.¡°Where is it?¡± this time nodding.I dug in one of my pockets & turned in a cigarette pack. He took it & sat Indian. I followed the guru. The ground was wet. Nobody cared. Nobody cared if your souls were soaked in gin. He pulled out the single joint from the plastic. Put it under his nose, then onto his lips & lit it. He nodded after 2 or 3 puffs & handed the stick to me like a priest. Through clouds, the divine roll looked like one of his fingers.¡°Be careful¡±, he said. I created more clouds & almost simultaneously, a cut smile. Everything was beyond benignment.Things were uttered not meant for reason or memory. I noticed stems of cut flowers dipped in a pail of water behind him. It came to me that theirs is the elusive music I¡¯d always been hearing inside. Their smell was solvent with the acrylic of a painting shrouded in one of the rooms. Its Prussian blue, sap green, brown; its house; its setting dusk. We heard leaves falling in a summer of daydreams. The palpitations of pebbles. The wheels of an approaching caravan on the pebbles. The dark secrets of the sunflower...