Christopher WunderLee - Moore's Mythopoeia

The Springfield’s lived very close to the Greene’s. All the families lived in the same area of the city, some in old homes, others in penthouses, others in fashionable flats surrounded by gardens, separated from the civil and industrial districts in a Howardian feat of urban planning. Graham walked the three blocks to the Springfield home and knocked on the door. I am Graham Greene, Graham Greene, damn it.

“Good day, sir,” a servant said after opening the door.

“Hello, is Miss Haddie Springfield in?”

“May I ask who’s calling?”

“Mr. Graham Greene, of the conservation Greene’s.”

“One moment, please sir.” And the servant, a small, passive woman in her early twenties, disappeared, not closing the door and not inviting Graham in, either. Graham waited on the front stoop. The apprehension began to bother him, he looked down the street, fearing another family might see him waiting on the front steps of the Springfield house like a common messenger.

“This is unacceptable,” he muttered Humely. “Either I’m invited in or turned away. I swear, leaving a man standing outside.”

“Sir,” the servant said, opening the door wider and poking her head out, “the missus would like to know the purpose of the visit.”

“What?” Graham replied. A sudden rush of heat seemed to flee from the pores of his face. “What is the meaning of this? Please announce to Miss Springfield that I am here, waiting on her front porch, and wish to see her.”

“Yes, sir. Miss Springfield understands that, she was hoping you might be so kind as to inform her of the purpose of your visit.”

“Since when does a Greene need a specific purpose to see another family? When did servants take to questioning guests? I have been a friend of the Springfield’s for twenty-years and never have I been forced to explain my presence at their home. You will tell Miss Springfield I am here to discuss a topic I only wish to share with her, in private.”

“Yes, sir. Please wait one more minute,” the servant girl replied. Again, not closing the door but leaving Graham on the front porch. Graham waited for a few moments, feeling disorientated. Then, he stepped backwards off the steps, as if he was retreating from a threat he had to watch. Once he was on the sidewalk, not realizing another man had greeted him as he passed by, Graham turned and walked quickly away.

* * *

“Did you go out for milk?”

“No.”

“Where have you been, then?”

“At the bottom of a gorge.”

“Did you sleep in your clothes again, last night?”

“Yes, on the side of the river.”

“We used to go down to the river when I was a little girl, father had a boat and we would have a picnic. It’s such a lovely area,” Norma Moore said Bernsteinly.

“I didn’t know it was there.”

“Did you hear, honey, Graham Greene is getting married, isn’t it incredible?”

“Who?”

“Graham Greene, the philanthropist, musician, writer, actor and sports star.”

“I met a saint, her name is Flower.”

“We all have those kinds of feelings, at times. Do you know what I saw on VistaVision yesterday?”

“No.”

“A combination fruit squeezer, juicer, and purifier, only $49.95, and with a three year warranty. It comes with all the attachments.”

“She offered to make love to me.”

“I just can’t imagine how we’ve been drinking juice unpurified for all these years, it’s a wonder no one’s gotten sick. The commercial said it was 99.98 % effective, isn’t that incredible. It would go so well with my Maximillian 5000 blender and ice crusher, they have that same, sort of, new-age look to them. You know, we really should re-buy our appliances. Last year’s just didn’t have all the applications that they have now. Don’t you think, honey?”

“I couldn’t do it, I don’t know why.”

“You’ve got to get a move on or you’ll be late to work, now let me get your breakfast started while you shower. We’ll talk more about the fruit squeezer, juicer and purifier tonight at dinner. I’ve invited over the Jonestown’s, you know, the one’s who just bought that beautiful piece of land off of Fisherman’s Bluff, they’re building their own home. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to build our own home some day, Joseph? Could you just imagine it? We’d hire the finest architects, watch it as it was constructed, and make sure it had all the finest equipment. This place is so small, you know Kimball doesn’t even have room for all of his things, I have to store most of them in Alexzen’s other closet.”

“I jumped off a bridge last night.”

“Hurry up now, you don’t want to miss your ride, you’ve only been carpooling with Mr. Cinn-Cola for a few weeks, you don’t want to give him a bad impression, he could help you get a promotion.”

“It was so far and the river was so cold.”

“It is going to be cold this winter, I hope we can afford to buy a new heater, I don’t think the one we’ve got now has enough power to heat this whole house. Winter’s not so far away, you know.”

“Do you believe in chance?”

“I believe we all have chances in life, we just have to be on time for them and we won’t miss them.”

“She said I’d missed my chance.”

“You haven’t missed anything, honey. You’ve just got to apply yourself more, try harder, you’ll get us there, don’t worry.”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, let’s not miss our chance to start this day right, okay? Let’s not miss the chance for a wonderful day.”

Ralph Cinn-Cola was ten years younger than Joseph and, according to our hero, mirrored the donkey of Szedgkin’s Nativity, in that his mouth was thusly formed to constantly appear like he was nibbling upon some offered flora and shyly, yet quiet consciously, bore the nimbus of the sacred manger of the Virgin and Child with a undignified grace with his male-pattern bald head of red hair. He had been transferred to Joseph’s building from another branch, in the Middle East, and like the infamous Father Aldrovinus that called upon God to prove the equal division of halves into thirds by splitting the terrestrial body of the loquacious blasphemer Manutius Procinus (who later met a metaphoric end at the hands of the appendage-less viper), Ralph was of the constitution and of the corporate identity that he saw the sorcery of Immunex in an almost spiritual fashion, applying each tiny pill with its own areola-like head-dress, indicating an almost fanatical appreciation for the products he had a small part in peddling to the glassy eyed, screen viewing audience. It was not expressed as a promotion (for whatever is?), but Ralph was now giving orders to Joseph and others at his level, imagining, if you will, the hierarchy of the corporation as the steppe of the primitive farmer, Ralph’s vegetable garden would have been several “steps” above Joseph’s miracle-grow plot and would have thus, received the rain first and a more direct relationship to any run-off that could, potentially, flow down the crags.

He had recently gotten married to a girl six years younger than him, when “figs are grown on thistles, and pigs betailed with whistles” (versus the memoir educating pig feeding of Saint Augustine’s admissions, yet again a case study in God splitting things into two equal parts, even in its Manichean heresy). Joseph had only met her twice. She was small, thin, pleasant, and kind. She did not seem to take up any air. She smiled, only spoke to make sure her guests were not in need of a fresh drink, and listened intently to Ralph (the fidelity, which Joseph so admired, simply a virtue peculiar to a betrayer). She had smooth brown arms, her shoulders were compact, she had a clear, bright face. Joseph had watched her the first time they’d been invited over for dinner. She was wearing a dress with simple decorations, an unassuming, conservative outfit, perfect for suburbia. But, Joseph had noticed her exposed sternum, the way her skin stretched across the bones of her ribs, the wrinkle just below her long neck that was her angular collarbone. He imagined pressing his lips against her chest, feeling his nose turn as he buried his face in her skin and smelled her unique scent. He imagined wrapping his arms around her small shoulders, feeling how easy he could touch his other hand, feeling the fragility of her within his arms. Joseph saw himself kissing her forehead, feeling the strands of her hair graze his cheek. She was nice to look at and Joseph accepted all of Ralph’s invitations just so that he could see his wife again. Not because Joseph had any intention of seducing Mrs. Cinn-Cola, he would never say a vulgar word to her, he did not want to know what she looked like naked, he ignored the two breasts that dangled below her smooth chest. She was not sexual; she was a pleasant view, like a tree that captures the sunset within the raindrops clinging to its branches.