6.7

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6.7 | 45 | 9th | Here

6.7

His locomotive breath puffed out his nostrils from too many rotten cigarettes, too many bad memories, & too, too many nights alone and far away from home. The whites of his eyes danced round the opiate halo which had enshrouded the moon behind her most protective wall of white soft summer tree limbs.

Jasper quickly blinked out her crescent form from his field of vision and clutched at his blanket roll and followed after Richard, who by now was quite a good deal ahead of him, and they crossed a small and abandoned industrial lot – the dried up, barren wasteland of failed business schemes and backstreet drug deals and an overrun American Dream – and they passed back into the woods and down a small mound of earth until they were gently sloping up another, with all five boys clutching at their flashlights and at their bedrolls as they passed over the stream and landed squarely on the other side like Chris Columbus in 1492.

It took about an hour (since it was, by now, quite dark) to situate themselves in their new encampment. Tents enough to accommodate all of them had to be put up, wood had to be collected, fire must be built, &c. This all was silently done until everything was quite ready for the evening ahead, and then the boys all sat down on mossy logs to smoke the cigars that Richard’s mother had, and quite irresponsibly, I should say, procured for them, and to talk for several hours from now until whenever it was that they’d feel like sleeping, assuming that they would ever feel like sleeping again.

Jasper smoked elegantly and shrewdly, with the beauteous hand movements and subtle Irish drama of Peter O’Toole.

George took his drags like James Dean.

Rich, who among them likely had the longest experience with cigar-smoking, was the only one who could light his cigar with any success, and had to explain the process to everyone else: he held it firmly in his mouth and, bringing both his hands to its end, he carefully directed the flame round the tip.

He did this like Roman Polanski, and nothing could save them now.

They looked mildly awkward, of course: slight amusing – children with smokes are like toddlers playing dress-up, swimming in their fathers’ nightshirt.

Aside from this, each was particularly stern-looking, with very sober and very philosophical noses and cheekbones: Tiny was an Existentialist, though he didn’t quite know it yet, and Sonny was a Zoroastrian. And each of them was made wiser by the spirits of their fermented youths; each was hardened and bitter and had traded the euthanasia they all probably really wanted for a much slower, but equally satisfying, cigarette.

and The buzzing of the crickets sounded the All of the cosmos above them, which rested somehow smoothly upon the back of a great tortoise, George said. How it managed never to roll off as anybody’s guess. And the stream of the world which swiftly rolled passed them was purer than the River Ganges —

They looked like a band of Negroes singing the Blues by the Mississippi.

But George wondered what the hell he was doing with these bums.

And Richard squinted through the smoke to Jasper, who was quietly thinking that he missed his mother.


	Deadly Ivy \| home 6.7 \| 45 \| 9th \| Here 6.7 His locomotive breath puffed out his nostrils from too many rotten cigarettes, too many bad memories, & too, too many nights alone and far away from home. The whites of his eyes danced round the opiate halo which had enshrouded the moon behind her most protective wall of white soft summer tree limbs. Jasper quickly blinked out her crescent form from his field of vision and clutched at his blanket roll and followed after Richard, who by now was quite a good deal ahead of him, and they crossed a small and abandoned industrial lot – the dried up, barren wasteland of failed business schemes and backstreet drug deals and an overrun American Dream – and they passed back into the woods and down a small mound of earth until they were gently sloping up another, with all five boys clutching at their flashlights and at their bedrolls as they passed over the stream and landed squarely on the other side like Chris Columbus in 1492. It took about an hour (since it was, by now, quite dark) to situate themselves in their new encampment. Tents enough to accommodate all of them had to be put up, wood had to be collected, fire must be built, &c. This all was silently done until everything was quite ready for the evening ahead, and then the boys all sat down on mossy logs to smoke the cigars that Richard’s mother had, and quite irresponsibly, I should say, procured for them, and to talk for several hours from now until whenever it was that they’d feel like sleeping, assuming that they would ever feel like sleeping again. Jasper smoked elegantly and shrewdly, with the beauteous hand movements and subtle Irish drama of Peter O’Toole. George took his drags like James Dean. Rich, who among them likely had the longest experience with cigar-smoking, was the only one who could light his cigar with any success, and had to explain the process to everyone else: he held it firmly in his mouth and, bringing both his hands to its end, he carefully directed the flame round the tip. He did this like Roman Polanski, and nothing could save them now. They looked mildly awkward, of course: slight amusing – children with smokes are like toddlers playing dress-up, swimming in their fathers’ nightshirt. Aside from this, each was particularly stern-looking, with very sober and very philosophical noses and cheekbones: Tiny was an Existentialist, though he didn’t quite know it yet, and Sonny was a Zoroastrian. And each of them was made wiser by the spirits of their fermented youths; each was hardened and bitter and had traded the euthanasia they all probably really wanted for a much slower, but equally satisfying, cigarette. and The buzzing of the crickets sounded the All of the cosmos above them, which rested somehow smoothly upon the back of a great tortoise, George said. How it managed never to roll off as anybody’s guess. And the stream of the world which swiftly rolled passed them was purer than the River Ganges — They looked like a band of Negroes singing the Blues by the Mississippi. But George wondered what the hell he was doing with these bums. And Richard squinted through the smoke to Jasper, who was quietly thinking that he missed his mother.