By Joshua Judd Porter.
Hot sun gently irradiates unincorporated territory to the west of Los Angeles. A body without a tongue is found at the dead end of a street without a name. Six hours ago a cleaning woman saw two men head to a car six blocks south, one stumbling, unsteady and supported almost entirely by the other; without being questioned in the following days/weeks/months/years she forgets; she never mentions it to her family or friends; in twelve years she dies, naturally; her name is known only to those who knew her. A suit is left unclaimed at a laundromat downtown. A boosted pre-war Buick gently rolls into a river: it is improbably carried to sea where it is spotted by no one and encountered by no vessels. A poker game proceeds normally; certain sums from last night’s haul are discovered missing only by the book-keeper; they are covered by this night’s rake; the loss is slowly amortized and minimal inquiries are made. A dog barks at a locked door, annoying neighbors; later, agitated, he eats strewn papers and is sick; the door he is barking at has a lock that has been busted open, but the door remains shut. Certain local politicians go about their usual routines. Around the time of the second Nixon Administration, a boosted Buick will be dragged along a Polynesian beach by thalassic currents; an uncontacted tribe will perforce fashion new rituals. A cleaning woman heads home from work, tired. Flies buzz tongueless mouth. The sun moves, unavoidably. The darkness in the hearts of men remains largely obscured. A dog keeps whining. A hotel room key goes unreturned. A cleaning lady prepares dinner for her children. An unclaimed suit is sold to the business partner of a laundromat owner; it’s large in the shoulders. A light heavyweight never hears if he’s expected to take a dive. A snout nuzzles a window latch. Around the time of the first Reagan Administration, an unidentified sound off the coast of China will be picked up by an American surveillance vessel; a commissioned officer onboard will note the noise’s similarity to the horn of the car his family owned during his childhood and the incident, unsolved, will be classified. Flies buzz sightless eyes of cadaver. Later that week: historic rainfall. Later that month: the American premiere of Wild Strawberries, of which the New York Times will write: “This one is so thoroughly mystifying that we wonder whether Mr. Bergman himself knew what he was trying to say.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Joshua Judd Porter is a writer from Brooklyn, New York. He has had essays published in The Los Angeles Review of Books and Jacobin.
