Susan switched off the radio and thought for a minute. Did I really hear that? Right after the Hoyt Axton song? Did I really just hear them say the Russians fired a missile into space?

In the dimly lit kitchen that night Gran asked Daddy what it could mean. There was a worried look on his face. His hands concealed how he pressed with his thumbnail against the palm—hard—so to feel at least something keenly and with definition. Susan had never seen fear in her father before. She hadn’t had to see him standing frozen in the streets of Copenhagen when the Panzers stripped the face off his beloved library.

Next day the newspapers said that it was Sputnik, an unarmed satellite that only housed a radio transmitter: Mankind’s first material penetration into the reaches of space.

A boy walks into a room and crosses to a desk with five open books and a lithograph of a carriage house in a rural county near Nice. Outside the window hang the branches of poplars old beyond remembering.

On a bench sits a girl, engrossed in one of the books: a collection of melodic poems about life in Paris, kittens and root brandy the color of blood.

The boy picks up the carriage house and sees in it the apple orchard near where his grampa lived, the flagstoned pathway, the gnats thick as fog that swarmed about his head and knees at the door of the gray, weathered outhouse. He glances to see if she has noticed.

The girl pretends to smile at a quaint image of clowns and balloons. The boy pulls an orange wad from his pocket and smoothes it all over until it suits him. Then he plunks it onto the desk directly in front of the girl.

The object, a petrified canary with a golden bill, one black spot below the eye, and nearly all of its feathers still intact, lies obscuring the circus story. The girl’s pulse quickens and her eyes glitter at the sight of the rare bird.

“See what I found?” the boy says.

A brief dialogue for students of the Fall

Scene

Adam & the Ancient Mariner are standing in Adam’s garden, the Mariner having just told his tale.

Adam

But what I don’t understand is, what brought you to kill the bird in the first place? I mean, what outside force was involved? I just can’t imagine anyone falling from grace on his own initiative.

Mariner

Oh, Adam, will you think a bit before a point you make. Yours was the fall of every man as brought bought by the snake.

So when the idea came to me, the albatross to shoot, ’twas the evil of your own fall that in me had taken root.

Adam

So it’s me, is it, that you’re trying to blame for all man’s miseries. I could stand here and take this, but I’ve got to get back to my hoeing.

Mariner

Your fall from grace has made you bitter and just and rightly so. But sit awhile and hear me out before you start to hoe.

So, when you fell from Eden’s grace, man’s hopes you did not kill. These miseries are but side effects that come with knowledge and skill.

Adam

Right, I see your point; that I’m a symbol for all mankind. I’ve known that all along, but considered myself mostly at the lower end of the scale. I felt so stupid and embarrassed when I ate that apple, and then to be kicked out of paradise; that was downright degrading.

Mariner

But, Adam, you’re looking at your fall as if you were just one man. You’re just a victim of circumstance, first step in God’s master plan.

Don’t be sad, just think if you hadn’t eaten the apple, Mankind would now be cooked like a lowly piece of scrapple.

We’d be forced to spend eternity in a dull and dreadful life without Knowledge, Skill or Afterthought in the name of Paradise.

Adam

So! I’m not to blame after all. Mankind should actually thank me. Gee Whiz, all this time, I’ve considered myself like dirt, while I should have been up there on a pedestal like Christ, St. Augustine, or Martin Luther.

Mariner

I’m glad you’re now enlightened, but let’s not go too far. I’m afraid you’ll get too self-righteous, acting the way you are.

Adam

Right, right. But I’ve got to tell Eve. (looks off left) Whoa! Here she comes now. I’m in big trouble for not finishing the garden (jumps behind a rock)

Eve

(entering) Hello?

Mariner

(pointing to the roock and sighing)
Madam, here’s Adam.

In this house are many fans but none wants his autograph. He walks, for love, to the corner. On a porch are six couples. They stop laughing. He calls for chocolate cake. One slide please to prevent sweet darkness. He won’t fall this close, they wager. No thrills offered, no heart attacks, they reason while cuffs catch wind, then onion odors when he enters the diner from the alley.

Gold fish should not hire Piranha, he thinks, sleeves rolled, fingers in grease. Diners should not hire the addicted, licking digits. Don’t push the cake, he winks. Pastry is disposed of at closing in lieu of a decent wage.

One hour until closing and he is safe; the cake is within eye touch; he watches his quiet love. The fantasy is of a virgin until… After a day of pool draining the pool master thinks about those kids depending on the pool for survival. Tough for them, swimming in cement. The pool man insists on swimming in frosting, pyramids and swells, belly flopping in black.

Kitchenside bellowing will not deter; like a New Yorker he can close off the extraneous. The waitress recommends; the pool man’s dry dream is set and solid. His dentures will darken. His wife will suggest a furious brushing. The waitress slaps the cake cutter against the addict’s palm. Are you cutting or staring and crying?

Words for this injustice cannot be articulated. A glance before carving. During surgery he considers denture snappers. Cake stealers. The injustices of the world.

– Jack Moskovitz