Prose Poem: Bailey's Beads.

 

"The persistence of memory"

said Crazy Henry,

"is both a blessing and a curse,

according to Proust."

"What's that?" I asked, astonished.

Crazy Henry barely made it through

high school -- where did he get off

quoting Proust at me?

"If we try to push the past away,

it simply becomes stronger" he

continued.

"Huh?" I said.

"Forgetting the past is a false construct"

he said, not at all smugly but very simply.

"Our past is as much a part of us

as our arms and legs" he finished.

"You thought all that up?" I asked derisively.

"Voltaire" he replied.

"Oh" I said. Then we went silent.

We were on a beautiful beach near 

Honolulu, sipping raspados.

A seagull flew over us, screaming

in false agony.

The waves smelled of Tide laundry detergent.

I was suddenly very happy

that the Order of the Solar Temple

had sent us to Hawaii to observe the solstice

eclipse. 

After a while I asked

Crazy Henry: 

"How do you know about people like

Proust and Voltaire?"

"Oh" he said, "we studied about 'em at

night school. I've got a degree now in 

belles-lettres."

"I never knew you went to night school" 

I said. "You never told me anything about it."

"Did it for the past five years -- every night after

work."

"But, but, I thought you were always at 

home in the evening watching TV -- like me."

"Oh, I did that for a while, but y'know it got awful

boring after a while -- so I signed up for some

night classes down at the community college. Now

when we get back home I'm gonna start teaching there,

part-time."

"But you could've asked me if I wanted to take classes

with you" I said, starting to choke.

There was a rusty pizza cutter slicing

through my heart right about then.

"Huh" he said, "I guess I could've.

"Wonder why I never thought of it?"

"We'd better hurry" I replied dully.

"Otherwise we'll miss Baily's Beads."

The sand turned to ashes beneath my feet.