1913issue6online

207 From: Pike and Bloom *** The street is full of white pants and brown leather shoes— western plaids, red dyed hairstreaks—dancers in skintight leotards—and the white hospital jackets pushing gurneys— without any haste— In Indiana—the humidity and constant blue-yellow haze— leather seats, traffic stop—tiny repetitive traffic loops—blue Ford Taurus after blue Ford Taurus—beige, white, fire engine red—Bloom idling his Lincoln in the hospital pick-up lane, and he waits for the Black Dress to get off of her shift—a line of gurneys— Circus elephant—tail to trunk, tail to trunk—construction, sawhorse, sawzall buzz— A jackhammer staccato—a steel on steel clanging ( . . . — — — ) a lovely day, Bloom thinks—and an effusive calm— And in the Lincoln Bloom feels like he is effecting change— “this,” Bloom says, “is how we settle a labor dispute”—pa- tience, an extended timeline—where anything becomes small or ruin contextualized—decontextualized—a gesture and a lean to the white jackets pushing gurneys—moving the dead back and forth—nobility, Tom Cruise— And Bloom reads a novel in the idle Lincoln—the Black Dress is late—the novel self-righteous—repetitive, exhausting, hav- ing something to do with trees—soils personified—one man’s madness spilled on to the page—and not especially interest- ing—and hating the author. In the shadow of the hospital, a purple blanket is cast—the construction pounding, the ambulance siren—and the Black Dress hadn’t meant to kill anyone—an accident, Bloom thinks—most things are accidents—the different degrees of manslaughter— And “manslaughter,” he says to himself—liking the sound of the term—revving the Lincoln—the shadow of the hospital

1913issue6online

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