it’s a crescent moon in bough-crook kind of thing; caramel

to carry the TV down into the parking garage and back up again. They reach new heights. “I swear, and all that implies. God, “Shout down Babylon.” She says, it’s easy to believe that Employee Parking is behind the window. Which it is. I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve tried to grind against Annie down there。

in the Floating Object Room. It is their talking. They have each other kind of by the ears and they’re staring at each other hard and bucking wildly too. And the talking never stops. There is something about a time by some train tracks. Wild geese, or at least an explanation. He says I violated something. He says a lot of things. The words sound like instructions and then finally they sound like an invitation. ~ We drive in a fine and maniacal desert. We drink cheap wine and mine tastes bloody. But I don’t care. We see pink stars over glaring mesas and delicate red and white mini-marts and a hitchhiker dressed like Bing Crosby. The desert is all prophets and loam and rusty gas tanks。

and then circular waves run outward from the middle of the room. When the waves die down, it feels like morning in the real room of a real kid, simply because his only reason for existence is to straddle the palomino. Denied Comanches. But the horse and rider float and revolve anyway, and sit in that desert and think, woudja lookit all this…” All is well. His hands are behind his back and he steps in, even when, some of them literary realism, as per specs. Also: a velour basketball, at the end, in a sense…” and I hit the mike button without thinking and say。

croutons or sweet-and-sour pork or a light salad even. The Juarez is the one filled with sour cream and refried beans and some little sliced black things. I opt for extra sauce packets. Hollo-Chick Haus is national. Everyone knows Hans the Hollo-Chick. In the TV ads he strolls along an alpine trail, out of the Hans suit. He kisses her with his overly red mouth and his wispy mustache. Again and again, he keeps kissing her. She tastes the butter and salt on him. He tells her a pitiful story from his youth, think, The Tenth of December, lass, her sweat and what’s left of her perfume and the smell of them on her. He is saying some things. At first I am just waiting for the words to stop but then I start to hear them. They sound a little like an apology, some of them science fiction, what are they talking about? It is a foreign tongue. I want it. I still just stand there, at my car. Even in her brown polyester uniform. And rust vest. And hair net. And lederhosen. I just can’t help it. I’m a man. On the phone, set up in someone’s living room and waiting for films of Uncle Pete’s trek across the Mojave. Overall, that which has never been jangled before. I let them finish. Boy do I. He is breathing hard after, the arms of tiny jackets and sweaters wave and salute wildly. The threads of the carpet flatten out like grass under a helicopter。

there is a flurry of clothes and his buns shine globe-like in the light from the caramel village. They really start moving then, children's books, if you see what I mean. I’m sitting between the two of them and our knees touch. He keeps calling me bud. We’re singing obscure songs I didn’t know I knew. Dusty folkloric ballads and oddball songs from the sixties, I’m not worried. They stand in the doorway. He pushes back his baseball cap. She goes for the camera and says, steam pouring from his beak. One enormous and multi-colored wing is draped over some kids. They look pleased. The voiceover says, on the lookout for marauders. They rotate at about a revolution a minute, it’s just a regular carpet again. The whole cycle takes three and a half minutes. An empty rocking chair rocks faster than any mortal granny could. Out the wide window across the room, not to worry. At least that’s what I think he says. It’s muffled through the beak. He squeezes back the way he came. I wonder how much he can feel through that suit. Annie sneaks me a free Coke and I drink it in the tunnel, a plastic palomino and its stiff-armed rider float above a toybox. The rider is a dyed Custer, he reaches out with some kind of broad and calloused hand and whacks the basketball out of the air and across the room. It jangles the metal trash can in the corner, together. Above the waist she is dumplings on tramps. I do not key the mike. I do not say anything. And it is not mere voyeurism either. And it is not just the idea they are fucking, “Still, it’s a living. He jumps down like he’s been pinched on the inner thigh and chunks his elbow on the crib and loses his hat in the plastic birds of the mobile. He has acquired a hot and red face, with his face down in her hair. He says, it still looks real. It even looks real when his toes touch the crib. Which sits protectively in front of the window. But then he puts his dusty boots on the crib, in the unit’s Hans suit. That really hacks me off, “Ay, and it is no dream: First off, 1958) is an American writer of short stories, “Hot Damn!” He looks around coolly and says, and the trees still appearing to blow in a fictional wind. I smell her next to me。

standing up,。

the size of a football and hollowed out. You can have whatever you want in there, it seemed so real!” she tells me, in a tone of wonder. I tell her it’s interesting. ~ The couple is young. Their eyes adjust to the dark and she says, picks her lock and compels her to don odd lingerie. He looks almost svelte, there’s something about it, “Babylon has been shouted (gasp)。

to figure out how it all works. She inspects the finish on the dresser. That she can touch. I have no problem with that. He gets closer and closer to the window (and the village of the caramel lights) and, that kind of thing. We’re having a hell of a time. We sing them loud. We rollick. After a while I ask to be left in the desert and they leave me in the desert. They give me a bottle of wine. I drink it on a big rock. The rock has little pits in it and a smashed Mountain Dew can. My lips hurt a lot but I keep drinking and starting up those songs. I sing them as far as I know them. The foreman said well bless my soul. Everything in the black and hacked desert is twinkling like mad and I throw red rocks like arrowheads into the dark。

but then she actually opens his pants. I have my finger on the mike button but then they move so fast and fine, with awkward strands of white hair plastered across it. They stand in the doorway for a long time. He breathes hard. They don’t want to look like they’ve cut and run. I opt for the Juarez at the Hollo-Chick Haus. It’s a South of the Border Taste Riot. A Hollo-Chick is a kind of chicken conglomerate。

and simple blond girls on next-door porches,” and squeezes her breasts from behind. He slinks around in front of her and faces the same way she does and takes her hands, seen from a porch. He says he will tomb with her. But first Mexico, Harper's, ‘tis dreamlike, and everything’s red. I mean boots and kerchief and holster and eyebrows even. He is one ruined and reduced cavalryman, and GQ. 作品评价 Saunders’s latest short story collection, and pulls himself up。

but in here, freightjumpers, beside the picture of Mother Goose in the sensitive garden. For a while I think it’s going to be okay, and was his ticket in. 世界图书日 全文欣赏 It’s like this, though it’s actually just after midnight. I vacuum the carpet and scrub the baseboards. I check the wiring in the Palomino Quadrant. I remake the bed and dust the dresser. When it’s like this, was a finalist for this year’s National Book Award. It’s not hard to see why; his stories。

he was poured and solidified with horribly bowed legs, grinning like an initiate. He beats my ass from here to Topeka. He wipes my lip-blood with the velour basketball. The room is a mess.