I did not recognize him even when he was alive
From "Some Stones Don't Roll" a novella
There are no dogs here in the old McAlpin. A block from where Charles Sanders Peirce used to amble from the Century Club downtown to the Brevoort. Did Peirce have dogs? We did. The recumbent pooch that graced the three albums I made after the time under consideration was our Persephone, a diarreah-prone chocolate Lab we rescued from the pound during those guilt-free days. Always a thought of RCA. Now 30 Rock. The Victor dog on old 78s. There is one dog here in this building. A tiny one, one you can slip under your jacket. Must have been allowed during lean times. Lean times come ambiently to Herald Towers. That is the name of the old McAlpin Hotel, the one that balanced the Waldorf when it occupied the site of the Empire State Building. My angel is the ultimate lover of the furry things, She keeps a veritable menagerie on the couch. They sing and speak and say goodnight. They are the icons of our private life. And no they are not dogs. They're people. Only CSP did not see that much difference between us and them, consciousnesswise.
We drove to Pittsfield in the dark of a March evening almost a year from the time Bill wandered off and we entered the building where he lay. I do not remember if it was a hospital or what. It must have been since he was in a room with glass in the door. I stood at the head. The cloth was drawn back. There was no smell. I looked down, my head inclined to his, about the same distance as when we sat together in the car the night I heard Charley Pride singing in my head. Everything will be alright. Since Bill died. we have locked away those we suspect of violent proclivities. We have locked everyone away, one way or another. This is Bill's father's world. Yes that's Bill, I said. I lied. It was him by inference, By formality. But I had no knowledge of Bill. I did not recognize him even when he was alive. Or I did not acknowledge him. He was right. He was not getting from me what he needed in a relationship.
There are no dogs here in the old McAlpin. A block from where Charles Sanders Peirce used to amble from the Century Club downtown to the Brevoort. Did Peirce have dogs? We did. The recumbent pooch that graced the three albums I made after the time under consideration was our Persephone, a diarreah-prone chocolate Lab we rescued from the pound during those guilt-free days. Always a thought of RCA. Now 30 Rock. The Victor dog on old 78s. There is one dog here in this building. A tiny one, one you can slip under your jacket. Must have been allowed during lean times. Lean times come ambiently to Herald Towers. That is the name of the old McAlpin Hotel, the one that balanced the Waldorf when it occupied the site of the Empire State Building. My angel is the ultimate lover of the furry things, She keeps a veritable menagerie on the couch. They sing and speak and say goodnight. They are the icons of our private life. And no they are not dogs. They're people. Only CSP did not see that much difference between us and them, consciousnesswise.
We drove to Pittsfield in the dark of a March evening almost a year from the time Bill wandered off and we entered the building where he lay. I do not remember if it was a hospital or what. It must have been since he was in a room with glass in the door. I stood at the head. The cloth was drawn back. There was no smell. I looked down, my head inclined to his, about the same distance as when we sat together in the car the night I heard Charley Pride singing in my head. Everything will be alright. Since Bill died. we have locked away those we suspect of violent proclivities. We have locked everyone away, one way or another. This is Bill's father's world. Yes that's Bill, I said. I lied. It was him by inference, By formality. But I had no knowledge of Bill. I did not recognize him even when he was alive. Or I did not acknowledge him. He was right. He was not getting from me what he needed in a relationship.
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