54. Experimental Narrative--A post-Apocalyptic Period after Salsa-Fest 2016

An aged Mr. Elsewhere stands at his front door, banging a newspaper against the screen, trying to discard a growing mass of flies that flee his assassination attempts, circle around his head, land in his ears, which causes him to swat himself with the newspaper, a newspaper that he has not yet read, a newspaper with a headline proclaiming that the sun is hot, the soil is dry, the crops are stressed, and the overall economy teeters on the brink, the brink of what the headline does not say. Headlines. His head is lined and creased and mottled. And smeared with one of the flies not quite clever enough to escape this self-flagellating newspaper. He doesn't feel the dead fly remains, and won't notice until later in the day when a neighbor finds difficulty to maintain eye contact with him, a problem that until now that particular neighbor has never seemed to possess. But people do change. Possibly. Mr. Elsewhere tosses the newspaper into the sun-dried yard, where the sections promptly come apart and go their separate ways . . .

The paperboy stops by, his sack full of undelivered newspapers. Mr. Elsewhere is not one of his customers. He considers scooping up the loose sections for free-lance sale as Mr. Elsewhere withdraws into the cooler shadows of his house, where a cart of selected liquors stands askew in a hallway. The paperboy rolls off down the street, ringing his bell three times as per the paperboy's bicycle safety manual he received for free along with his canvas newspaper sack. His next stop is Cliff's house, a small bungalow at the end of the street, a house that has aged poorly and cannot be adequately rehabilitated with fresh paint, new driveway cement, or new shingles on the roof. Such improvements would only highlight the decrepit nature of the house, itself seemingly sinking like a gravestone into the unmowed grass and neglected shrubs clotted with decayed branches, perfumed by the corpses of dead songbirds, left behind by a well-fed cat whose nature silenced their songs and left them for the maggots of buzzing flies, massed on the cooler underside of leaves.

A newspaper takes flight, a high arc, a thing of beauty, and bounces on Cliff's front step. A woman waves for the paperboy to come in, have some lemonade. Cliff sits out of view with the TV turned up too loud. Hosted by one of the many Kardashian grandchildren, Jeopardy ends as no one successfully answers the Final Jeopardy question about agrarian puns in Medieval England. Cliff mocks the contestants, spilling his Aquavit in the process. Flies gather at the wet spots on the carpet.

"Come and say hi to the paperboy," the woman says.

"No," Cliff snarls.

"That's okay," says the paperboy, standing on the front step, trying to rub sweaty ink stains from his fingers. He doesn't hand the paper to the woman, Cliff's caregiver. "I've gotta finish my route before it gets too hot."

"Nonsense," says the woman. "I've got lemonade."

As she disappears into the back kitchen and pours tall glasses of lemonade, the paperboy is already pedaling up the block and into a back alley. Flies follow him, then give up the chase.  Cliff's fingers slip on the perspiring Aquavit, and he drops the bottle onto the floor. He falls to sleep and dreams of a cemetery where he once tripped over a hidden marker. Cicadas buzz in his head. He continues to sleep. Next to it is a gravestone engraved with the image of a beautiful young woman--her eyes full of the expectations she has for a stillborn life ahead. Fluttering in a dream-state, Cliff's eyes follow an unfocused figure clad in a hooded sweatshirt and sweatpants as he wanders into the cemetery and stands dripping in front of the young woman. His hands are jammed in his front pockets, and he remains motionless for a few moments, hunched and guarded, eyes on her eyes, on her body, his reflection a ghastly shadow pressed against her polished granite, his eyes flashing for intruders, and reaching, clumsily rocking back and forth, quivering, pulsating, his waistband at her eye level, an unbalanced mountain of obscene flesh, finally turning away and disappearing into a sweltering twilight.