(Wire Birdcage Forgotten Inside Leather Tree Trunk)
The Riviera beach lined with deckchairs chained for the night. They flick their candy cane tongues at the approaching blackness. Drunken waves ride high up the sand to lie down foamy with exhaustion. Overhead flits and dips a fussy straw hat like a dud firework yet anxious about its brim.
This is where he had first poked in his head. He rises from his seat, excuses himself past four pairs of flickering knees, walks the vaguely slanted aisle to the exit curtains. From Theater Eight he emerges into the popcorn smell of the mezzanine with its buttery lights and twin bronco rides.
He knows that a certain Indian will be waiting for him on a towel in the backseat of his Dodge, her swimsuit bottoms around her moccasins, the flow of her period stronger than usual, but when he crawls in he surprises himself all the same.
»Drive!« she says.
There is a several second lull between exclamation and response, two sets of silvery stirrups signaling each other from opposite ends of the prairie. She earns most of her living selling on downtown Hennepin Avenue corners South Dakota lake cabin timeshares, which, as every South Dakota lake cabin timeshare owner will tell you following that first fantastic year, is no Ponzi scheme at all.
He hits the ignition. His front wheel wells are decaled by twin balls of flames. He shifts to R the skull-capped gear stick. »You really want this?« he says, his watery eyes in the rearview mirror like a pair of snapping turtles not five feet from shore.
2 August 2014