Here in Eagan, it’s currently twenty degrees Celsius, and it’ll be dipping down to about thirteen by the time I finish penning this chapter. Today is Sunday, May 2 of 2021. I’m writing this at 3:17 a.m. Throughout the day, the sky will be clear with periodic clouds; and there’s a chance of rain that continues to rise into the evening.
Yesterday my sweetheart and I got a chance to talk with our neighbors Joe and Kathy. We were all just standing outside, enjoying the fine weather; it was a leisurely talk. My sweetheart had been digging large tree roots out of the earth, in preparation for planting new grass; and I had just finished revising the ninth chapter of my other novel, which doesn’t yet have a name (or perhaps it’ll turn out to be the first part of another multi-book combo — I’m leaning toward titling it something like Plywood… or Pressboard… maybe Particle Board… or Laminated Wastepaper) — the section of that novel that I finalized is the chapter that begins “So here’s Jesus, standing the same way that he was when the previous episode ended, looking handsome (etc.)...”
It turns out that Kathy is going to retire when this school year is over. She has spent decades working as an administrator in our district. Here’s an example of how important and crucial Kathy is to the operation: She recently had knee surgery and was on powerful pain-killers trying to recover, but the school district kept asking her to take part in teleconferencing calls and various planning meetings, regardless of the fact that the drugs were making her loopy. She did fine, tho; her husband Joe warned everyone at the conference, before it began, that his wife was on pretty heavy meds — he didn’t want them thinking that she’d developed a drinking problem or something like that.
And when we spoke to him yesterday, Joe said that he was feeling the effects of hard work. On the previous afternoon, he had taken a three-hundred pound concrete roller over to his daughter’s house, to help her flatten her yard (for her yard is too bumpy); and it was hard to get that thing in and out of the car. Our neighbor Anthony from across the street happened to see Joe preparing to haul this interesting object, so Anthony came over and tried to lift the extremely heavy roller himself; but it proved impossible for one man alone; so they teamed up and built a ramp; then rolled the thing into the back of Joe’s vehicle. Joe then shoved a heavy object behind the cylinder, to act as a sort of doorstop, so that the cylinder couldn’t go rolling out the back while he was driving; however, what happened is that, just as Joe got going down the road, the force of the vehicle’s movement caused the cylinder to roll backward and crush the doorstop; so Joe had to reach his arm back there and grab the roller’s side, and he held it there physically, by raw might, for the duration of the trip. You wouldn’t want a three-hundred pound concrete cylinder to fall out the back of your vehicle onto the freeway in heavy traffic.
Our neighbors Joe and Kathy also prefaced another story that they told us (the gist of which I’ve unfortunately forgotten) by saying that they were watching a feature film. And now I’m kicking myself for not asking the title of the movie, because—who knows!—we all might share the same taste. So if you’ll permit me to dream up a fact that will make me happy, my guess is that they screened French Cancan (1955) by Jean Renoir.
Anyway, after this talk with our next door neighbors, while we are walking back into our house, I turn to my sweetheart and say:
“I bet you’re hungry, after pulling up all those large tree roots. Would you like it if I ordered a pizza? I could then drive out to Hastings and pick it up.” [NOTE: To anyone who is not familiar with southeastern Minnesota, just so you know, it’s about a thirty minute drive from Eagan to Hastings.]
“I’d love that,” she sez; “but why not just have the place deliver the pizza to us? That way we can stay home and read more of Nietzsche’s Antichrist.”
I ponder this for a moment, and then I answer: “I was just thinking that, as long as we have a car, I might as well drive to Hastings.”
So I go out into the garage and use my magnetic key fob to open the door of our golden hybrid motor coach. (If you’ve heard me talk about it in other stories, you’ll recall that our vehicle was formerly snow-white; but last weekend I layered 22-karat gold leaf over its surface, so that I can now refer to it as La carrozza d’oro, “The Golden Coach”, which incidentally is the title of another great film by Renoir.) I climb in and take my place before the steering wheel. I then back out of the garage, without pressing the automatic door opener: thus I smash thru the door panels accidentally — or, depending on which side of the court case they’re being paid to care about, some attorneys might argue that I did this intentionally. So one who is watching me from the opposite side of my driveway will see the gorgeous gold rear of a motorized vehicle emerge from a cloud of smoke and debris. Exquisitely stylish.
Now I take off down the road. I drive extremely fast. And I end up taking a wrong turn, away from Hastings instead of towards it; therefore I end up in Eden.
I open my driver’s side door and exit the vehicle. There are rolling green hillocks, as far as the eye can see. I press the button on my key fob and it makes an electronic squeak-noise, signifying that the doors are locked and the security system is engaged.
Just then a deer comes bounding by, apparently not even noticing me — it is leaping from the southeast to the northwest, in pure joy of existence.
“Excuse me,” I say.
Landing after its most recent bound, the deer halts and remains trembling on all fours. Its pure-black eyeball is locked upon me, and it blinks a couple times.
“I was just wondering if it’s OK for me to leave my Golden Coach in the grass like this. Do you think anyone will mind?”
The deer visibly relaxes. I now perceive a gentle human voice upon the soundtrack speak the following words, apparently representing the thoughts of this wild animal:
“In this place, all are welcome. I grant you three wishes. Now I must go.” And the deer bounds away.
I watch the creature vanish over the horizon. Then, using my portable telecommunicator, I check my account and find that I have three unspent wishes. This deer was telling the truth, I think to myself. — Now I turn back toward my Golden Coach, pat its hood with my hand, and, leaning down, whisper lovingly to its frame: “I think you’ll be safe here, mia carrozza; so I’m going to leave you parked — only momentarily, tho: I’ll be gone no more than five minutes. For I desire to walk around and explore these gentle hills.” Then I straighten up as if to leave. Yet, before going, I lean down and voice one final remark: “I hope that when I return, I do not find that you have been eaten by a Giant Clam.”
Now I set out into the landscape, looking for misfortune. Soon I meet Eve.
[To be continued…]
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