An elegant allegory, The Land of Magical Thinking asks the question, "What would America be like if the Great Depression never ended? "

The Land of Magical Thinking

A FableBy Gregory Blecha

iUniverse, Inc.

Copyright © 2011 Gregory Blecha
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4620-6623-0

Contents

Dedication............................................................viiPreface...............................................................xiAcknowledgments.......................................................xiiiChapter 1—Monster or Prince.....................................1Chapter 2—Paradise..............................................5Chapter 3—The Soup District.....................................40Chapter 4—The Hierarchy of Assoles..............................67Chapter 5—Be Happy with Those Who Are Happy.....................90Chapter 6—The Road..............................................118Chapter 7—Jubilamentations......................................134Chapter 8—`Mazin' Grace.........................................155Chapter 9—The Slough of Despond.................................193Chapter 10—Dullard..............................................204Chapter 11—Loony Tunes..........................................212Chapter 12—Blessing and a Curse.................................240Chapter 13—The Grand Egress.....................................256About This Type.......................................................268

Chapter One

Monster or Prince

Each amber strand of hair on her arm reflects the sun. I close my eyes, and still I can trace the path of each hair—its arc, its hue, its airy weight. When I feel the gentle stir of ocean breeze, I know how each strand will shimmer, where it will lie, as if the breeze were as methodic as a woman making a bed. My love, I archive you with my eyes, that I may ... that I may ... that I may cherish each brushstroke in the moments that I must suffer your absence ...

"Honey, what are you thinking?"

The question, like a magnifying glass held up to a unicorn, scatters my reflections. "Ya—your hair," I stammer, a lovesick man's bedtime story.

She opens her eyes and studies me over the rims of her sunglasses. What will her eyes see in mine? Will she see my impurities and imperfections? My sins and felonies? Will she see the depth and intensity of my craving for her? 'Gainst her eyes (what a handy Elizabethan term, like "'gainst death and all-oblivious enmity."), 'gainst her unblinking purity, I feel vile and loathsome, like the contorted incubus riding astride the ravaged maiden in that painting from art history class. I must not hide from her gaze; she must know me, monster or prince, and love what her eyes discover.

She: What about my hair?

"This is a trap. You're not thinking only of my hair," she is averring. "Surely there must be something weightier on your mind." But I am, and there isn't ... I am a slave to primitive stimuli when I am near her. I respond to her instinctually, like a bee in a hive.

I: How your hair glistens in the sun ...

"Hmmm ..." she placidly hums, a cappella. She does not challenge my vacuous confession.

We are both languid beneath the sun; a conversation of a dozen words can last minutes.

She sweeps her hand in a slow arc, like the second hand of a clock, until the tip of her finger rests on my lower lip. With the tip of her finger she gently draws the shape of my mouth, and I tentatively moisten the whorls of her finger with my tongue. Was this too intimate an act for public consumption? It doesn't matter—she has seen me cry, has heard me cry out, and has seen me gnaw the bony hinges of my knuckles in a surfeit of passion.

Is it madness to know the placement of each lash that feathers her eyes, to know where her foot will fall with each step she takes, to know the cadence of her breath? It is madness, but in my defense I do not see her with my five senses. I am extrasensory; my organs are a coral reef with a million electric endpoints.

I was a child and she was a child in that kingdom by the sea ...

Her hand falls from my lips and settles, with less downward motion than a leaf parting a branch, to the sand, where it sways metronomically. The tip of her finger, moist from my mouth, attracts tiny particles of sand. Slowly the lids of her eyes descend, and her chest rises with the ingress of air. She basks, but I cannot rest. I am overcharged; I feel currents surging through my body, and sparks emanate from my fingers. We have spent so many hours in conversation that I end up repeating the same sentences she uttered an hour earlier, until my words are hers, uttered simultaneously in mixed breath. We have spent so many hours holding our fingers close, like a pair of starfish, as the tips touch tremulously, with the tiny vibrations a butterfly makes tiptoeing across a leaf. I am no transistor, with on-off switches; I cannot deaden myself. I still can feel the touch of her finger on my lips. Her touch, her scent, lingers on me like an image on a photographic plate.

Yes, it's madness; I answer my own question. It is madness to watch her lift her hand to her face to brush away a strand of hair. With each instant the hand rises more slowly, yet I envision it in greater detail. Its progress becomes infinitesimal, yet the contours of her hand, the buttery glow of her hair, the weave of each strand, become infinite in detail. Her hand never reaches her hair; an asymptote, like Zeno's paradox.

This is more than I can absorb.

She: What's the matter, honey?

I: Nothing.

She: You seem restless ...

Of course I am restless. I am likeTesla, a placid figure surrounded by countless striations of electricity.

I: I think I'll go for a swim.

She: Good idea!

She settles, satisfied, into her chair.

Yes, hie me to the ocean; I can discharge my restive energies the way a thunderstorm disgorges its bolts at radio towers and church steeples. I walk along the saline shore until my foot enters the Atlantic. The water is as warm as my own blood. As I slowly immerse myself, I can feel the liquids inside my body reach equilibrium with the gelatinous sea.

I need to snap myself out of this torpor. When you're overcome with bliss, I think, you attract catastrophe. You attract death, and all-oblivious enmity.

I am so inattentive that I can't even swim. Concentrate on your stroke. Concentrate on the spices that waft from her skin as she lies in my arms at sunrise; concentrate on the words she whispers in my ear, the sound of her sigh, her nimbus of breath.

What happens to people when they swim so far to the horizon that their limbs cannot return them? You always have to budget for twice the distance when you swim in the ocean—once for the departure and once again for the return. But what if you swim past your half-way point, until there is no more energy in your shoulders to lift your arms, and no more energy in your legs to kick your feet? I envision, in my final stroke, that my arms become flippers and my legs become flukes, and in the center of my spine a dorsal fin protrudes, and I metamorphose into a dolphin.

I have paddled my budgeted distance, and so I turn around and return to shore, for I have much to return to.

We loved with a love that was more than love; I and my Annabel Lee ...

She: Did you have a nice swim?

I: It was fantastic. I feel great.

She: You always feel great after a swim.

As I steer myself to my chair, she takes my arm and redirects me, dripping wet, into hers. She makes a hoop out of her arms, encircles me, and pulls me to her chest.

She: I love to feel your heart beat after you've been swimming.

Her skin is a cactus. "Brrrrr," she says, burrowing into me, though it is the ocean on me that chills her.

"If we hold each other long enough, one hundred years will pass," she whispers.

Could I hope for such a century? Fragrant with her hair, lyric with her voice.

She takes my hand in hers, and traces my finger over her belly.

"If I were carrying our baby," she whispers, "it would be in here!"

It is a wonderful thought, but, like Eve's gift, it is an apple from the tree of madness.

"If we shared only one heart," I whisper in reply, "it would beat right here ..."

... a love that the wingèd seraphs of heaven coveted her and me.

Chapter Two

Paradise

At every mile there is a marker that descends in number as you head north—thirty-eight, thirty-seven, thirty-six, until you reach mile marker zero, the end of Paradise.

It is the most idiotproof road in the world; you can only head north or south, not east or west or any other direction. If you are arriving, you only need head south; if you are leaving, you only need head north. It is the perfect road for arriving lovers, who are too eager for their destination to consult maps and road signs, and for departing lovers, too drunk with ardor and too wedded to the pace and climate of Paradise to negotiate intersections and detours.

It is a ribbon of road that stretches for miles, headlights of cars on opposite missions, taillights of cars on the same. Signs beg your patience—do not pass; a passing lane soon awaits you.

As enthralled as we were on arriving, we are melancholy on leaving....

* * *

Anna wore a red sarong around her waist; palm trees were imprinted on the fabric in white, and tassels feathered its hem. Her legs were brown and slender, one folded over the other like salad tongs, and a sandal dangled loosely from her foot. The spectacle caught my eye whenever I tried to concentrate on the road, studying the row of stitches that separated our lane of cars from the opposing lane. Why would they design a car so that both passenger and driver faced the same direction? I could not look at her face without turning mine at a right angle to the road. She should have been seated with her back to the road, her face to me, like the Virgin Mary doll you hang from your rear-view mirror.

"I don't want to leave," she said, part words, part sigh. "Can't we just turn around and go back?"

"I'd love to, honey," I replied. I gaze longingly at the stream of cars driving south.

"We could buy the campground and live right on the beach. We can run a campground, can't we?" she asked.

"We'd run it into the ground in three months," I said. "You know we'd just stay in our room and order room service every day."

"Who'd deliver it to us? We'd have to deliver it to ourselves."

Her foot bobbed up and down, dangling the sandal like a fishing lure. My distracted eyes left the road again. I had the attention span of an insect. The instep of her foot was scalloped; I remembered how I rubbed knots from her toes, an old injury inflicted by an upended sidewalk. I revered her most humble wedge of flesh.

"I could make seashell jewelry," she volunteered, "like sun-dollar earrings."

"We could go on relief," I offered.

"No," she objected, "too much drama."

"What we really need is a long-running radio show, like Afternoons with Flo and Donovan," Anna concluded. "We could play the love-struck newlyweds that live next door to Flo and Donovan."

"Do you think they do the radio show at a studio, or could we just do our voices from the beach using those long tubes?"

"I'm pretty sure they have a studio. I saw it once on a newsreel. They all gather around a microphone that's bigger than your head, and they read their lines together, face-to-face."

"Maybe we could be the love-struck newlyweds next door that Flo and Donovan always talk about third-personwise, but we never make an appearance," I offered.

"Then why in the world would they want to pay us?" said Ann.

"I don't know. Let's just pull off the road and head back to Islamorada. Just say the word, and I'll stop the car ..." I said.

"Brat!" she punched me in the shoulder. "Don't tease me like that. I'm serious! I don't want to go back!"

No job is too penurious for us, no vocation so facile that we wouldn't be fired within a week.

When the mile markers are in the teens, we become morose and laconic—morosely laconic.

"Look at that," said Anna, pointing her finger at the window.

"What is it?" I asked.

"It's a roadside memorial. Did you see it?"

Between her legs and the wagon train of vehicles, I did not have the eyeball for peripheral things. "No," I replied.

"Can we go back and see it? I really want you to see it!" said she, emphatically.

I looked behind me, at the long string of northbound cars, trying to triangulate our exit. "Sure," I said. I slowly shunted the car onto the shoulder.

Anna leapt out of the passenger door. She never liked waiting for me to open the door for her. I pulled the brake lever and got out.

"You're leaving the engine running?" she asked.

"Yeah, I don't want it to make that sound again," I said. She nodded with understanding. She took my hand and we walked, alongside the streaming phalanx of northbound cars, to investigate her roadside memorial.

The memorial was quite odd to behold, a patchwork grief midden. "That cross looks fake," I said, nodding my head to the plus-symbol that formed the center of the memorial.

"They're state-issued," said Anna.

"Isn't that a violation of the First Amendment?" I replied. "The government issuing crosses?"

"I think mixing the government with the church is the least of our worries these days," she replied.

She crouched down beside the cross and began examining the articles strewn beneath it. There were pictures of the deceased—a young, dark-haired girl. There were several candles in glass cylinders bearing pictures of Jesus, Mary, and the heavenly cast. There were teddy bears and dolls, handwritten notes, phonograph records, and flowers, all showing the effects of the hot tropic sun and late-summer rains. Anna found a newspaper article and began to read aloud about the young girl who died on the stretch of road.

"I wonder if she's buried somewhere around here. Where do you put your flowers—at her grave or her memorial?" I asked.

"It just strikes me as so sad that a person could die on the road to Paradise," Ann said. "Imagine how much grief her family must feel. This place is practically a shrine."

"Maybe they think the place is holy."

"Hmm," she said, incredulous. "Wait!" She ran back to the car and reached into the passenger side of the car, where her door remained open. Her hand emerged with a red rose, from the dozen we had found in our hotel room on the first day of our stay.

"Can I?" she asked, resting the flower against her nose.

"Sure," I agreed.

She brought the rose back and propped it against the state-issued cross. "Poor girl," she said. Then she faced me and lifted her arms in the air, so I could pull her to my chest and clasp her arms around my neck.

"Are you ready to get back on the road?" I asked.

"I suppose. I can't get that poor girl out of my mind. Please drive carefully, Bryan; I don't want anything bad to happen to us ..."

"I will, darling."

As we walked back to the car, I stepped over a battered road sign lying on the side of the road. Last Exit to Paradise, the sign read. There was an arrow on the sign, but given that it lay on the ground, it wasn't much of a clue as to the direction where the arrow should have been pointing.

"Aren't we in Paradise?" Ann asked.

"Maybe it's the name of a town," I replied.

"Why would they name a town Paradise when this whole place is Paradise?" she asked. "It seems like bad marketing."

This time she let me open the passenger door for her. I waited for her to take her seat, watching distractedly as she folded her saronged legs inside, and closed her door. Once seated I rolled the window down and gazed beseechingly at fellow drivers-by for a chance to inch back into traffic.

"We could become shrine tenders!" Anna suggested. "I'd take care of the flowers and potted plants, and you could take care of the bulky stuff."

"But how would we get paid?" I asked.

"People can't drive all the way down here whenever their loved one's shrine needs tending, right? So they'd hire us as their shrine tenders. All we'd have to do is read the obituaries in the Key Largo newspaper and just call the person's family."

"Or we could wait for ambulances at the hospital ..."

"The police station, too! Just think—we could do special events, like birthdays and anniversaries, Jewish ceremonies, and Christian ceremonies; we could be all-faith. We could even hold tours. It would be no more than five hours of work a week, tops—I swear it. We'd spend the rest of the time in our hotel, ordering room service."

Anna pointed restively with her index finger at the sign and the line of cars that approached it at such a funereal pace. "Now's our last chance, honey. We can just turn around and drive back to the resort; then we'd never have to leave here."

"Why do we all get here and leave at the same time?" I said in reply. "It must be the herding instinct. No wonder the traffic's so bad."

It looked as if the traffic had reached a standstill. Engines were stopped, and children were playing between the stopped vehicles; a man and woman dozed inside the cab of their car. "If we're going to be here for a while, I might as well turn off the engine," I thought.

"Why'd you do that?" asked Ann. "Aren't you worried about starting the engine and hearing that god-awful shriek?"

(Continues...)

Excerpted from The Land of Magical Thinkingby Gregory Blecha Copyright © 2011 by Gregory Blecha. Excerpted by permission of iUniverse, Inc.. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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