At the Mountains of Blindness

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WHILE WAITING, THERE WERE NINE THINGS Porky was able to watch, in the alley. The first was a bloated rat, the upper half of its cadaverous-grey body thrust through a gnawed hole in a rusty garbage can, gorging itself on refuse. The second was a clarinetist in the building across the alley, running changes, practicing scales. The third was the traffic that ran past the mouth of the alley; the fourth was the winking neon sign DENNY’S JAZZ CLUB in red and gold that had no reason for existence, back here near the stage door of Denny’s.

The remaining five were the nails of his right hand, methodically chewed to the quick. These he studied best of all. Porky was a pusher. He was waiting for his mark to come and make the connection. Porky was also a philosopher of sorts. A phlegmatic philosopher whose ethical view of the Universe, simply stated, was,Them as strikes first don’t get struck.

It was a sultry night, mid-August, a good night to make the connection and then go back to the apartment for beer and Beethoven. The steel fire door of Denny’s shuddered open and a thick slash of light erupted from the doorway, ran up the brick wall opposite.

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