of coffee was up like a flash and out the door. Two secretaries screamed and held their ears. Miss Martin ducked over. George Smith cowering. The chef trembling behind a display of doughnuts. As Smith could see the decoy coffee drinker now safely on the other side of the street, with his hands up round his eyes like binoculars to witness the thunderclap.
All tense. Waiting. Crouched. Come in here to renew. To give Miss Martin fuel for her tummy. And find a little team of barefaced shirkers. Bent upon feathering thek own nests at the expense of the absent proprietor. If you don't shut your eyes to some things, the cheating and chiseling that goes on would drive you out of your wits. Now we're to be blasted to kingdom come. And I've not made a will.
The unmerry group frozen at positions of hopeful safety. Beep. A tiny pop from the coffee machine, a whistle and wheeze. A final whimpering into silence* The all clear. Customers slowly stand again. Smile. Old friends now. The decoy coffee drinker returning from across the street. He takes a look through the glass in at the now silent cylinder. Pushes open the door. Nods to these embattled wiener patrons. Sits down on a stool and emits a nervous laugh. Ha ha. Girl with mountains gives the peaks a twitch. Whoosh. An avalanche. Endangering anyone making the way up the slopes.
Miss Martin finishing her wiener licks her lips. Wipes away a little crumb of meat. Her nose red round the nostrils. And shiny just at its tip with a flat spot like streamlining. Tiny ship sails round her mind. Stopping at ports where perhaps I am some naughty foreigner. And just four days ago I was passing outside a great department store. Suddenly stopped. Recognised a face on all the manikins in the battery of windows. Wearing spring evening gowns, swim suits and negligees. Miss Tomson. Figure and face. Same slight puzzled look around the eyes, same blue, same blond and careless flinging out of limbs. Find her standing there. All night in plaster looked at by the empty street. And Miss Martin here is not a Miss Tomson nor a Shirl. And were one to enter a kiss in her ear. Make her thrash legs in the air, cause mayhem. Pant as Shirl did on the carpet, the neighbors hearing her out in thek gardens, while tending cabbage. Or thek own ears. Of corn.
George Smith and Miss Martin walked back towards Owl Street. Passing in front of the great grey darkness of the custom house. The little round park of green in the middle of the road. Miss Martin feeling better for her wieners and coffee. Smith silent and protective. No boyfriend to take her out at night. Said she curled up with a magazine while her mother cooked the supper.
Turning the corner of Owl Street, Smith stopped and bought a bag of roasted peanuts. Threw one high in the air, caught it neatly in the mouth. Miss Martin chuckling, wide eyed, stopping in the noisy thick traffic of the street. Sad the world made such a din. One whole afternoon sitting in Dynamo House, hot water bottles hanging over each ear. Go to the mausoleum while still alive and live in it. Withstanding the regulations that say you must be dead. A pity. Be quiet there, on the marble, satin pillow under head. And through the tall iron fence round the cemetery, Shirl would point, level the finger, hire attorneys, fat necked to recite off laws and say I can't do what I'm doing.
"Miss Martin, I like your eyes."
Smith viewing the way ahead. Then stealing a glance at Miss Martin who was all eyes cast down. Whispering in Smith's heart were little words, nearer my God to thee, and please, never force me to wear shoes of grasshopper skin. For leaping high out of all the terrible traps set everywhere these days.
The lights on in the blocks of windows. Tune of afternoon sadness. Sky all threatening and dark. Wind picking up the torn newspaper in the gutter. Outside these merchant banks, houses of exchange. Sugar, cotton and fish. And approaching the wide steps of Dynamo House set back from the street and overshadowed by two tall buildings on either side. Miss Martin and George Smith slowly climbed the steps.
Half way up. Great blobs of rain fall Rumble of thunder. Lightning streaking blue on the buildings. Miss Martin stopped and caught George Smith by