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Show THE BRUISE-7 I cannot imagine what the man does with all the fruit he doesn't sell, how he can ever decide how many oranges to buy, where to put the lemons, which apples to put in front, which in back. I would like to be able to choose a few nice apples to put in the pewter bowl on the coffee table. Mom would like that touch. But I don't like delicious and the Jonathans are bruised. Macintosh are the best, but they aren't pretty. Granny Smith are tasty, but how would Mom feel, green apples in pewter? Is this why my fingers are trembling? I take a cab to meet her at Penn Station. She is thin, has a cigarette in her mouth, looks young, nervous, ready to smile, as she always is. She is telling me about Amtrack and how she misses the wonderful trains we used to take to California. "There are sirens on my street," I tell her. She nods, tilts her head a little. "Your father sends his love," she says. "And sometimes you can hear screams." She twists around and points out the taxi window. "What is going on?" She is pointing to tangles of cords on the street, cameras, microphones, vans parked at odd angles, clumps of people watching. "Must be making a movie. Happens here." I am proud, saying that. Am I not one of those who lives in a city where movies happen, so often I barely notice, where sirens and screams are necessary, where one can, if one is strong enough, endure: But I am obliged to prepare her. "Someone set fire to the trash under the stairs and since then the hallways have been black. I hope you don't mind." |