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Ben Miller

#227—Tiny Tales of Mayhem, Madness, and Murder


Their form of government Discography and everywhere citizens making lists of old
hits ("How Is It I'm Always Here and You're Always There?," "Waltz Not, Want
Not," "Oh, and Don't Forget the Cube" etc. etc.), the unending sift-saft-scratch of
those pencils eventually driving me into the wheaty light of Dunsale Pub, no
jukebox, thank god, just a bent bartender raving about the tyranny of trivia
better no one know anything than a whole lot about very little and, on a tilty stool,
a red head sewing a beer (later I found out Elinor's tragedy was that she had had
only good luck, same cat for over 40 years, never arrested for not knowing who
recorded "Waltz Not" in 1938 for the Guild record label), I watched her, how
long did I watch her?, she dipping needle into beer cream and pulling forth
shimnilla threads one by two by three, weaving dresses of such a stout and
delicate hue that the daughters who wore them were bound to be as moons come
to earth on holiday, I waited for those three to rise down the stairs, how long
exactly did I wait?, I'll never know for sure because one moment I was staring
out the window at the passing list makers and the next I heard a whisper and
turned and there they were as if they'd been there all afternoon: bored Adonna
revolving finger around a cork coaster, practical Raymari orbiting a table sharp
with cheddar and my favorite, lank and leery Leastra, circling the dripdropdress
itself, shifting out of her skirt so as to put it on.

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