volume one IN THE D U D L E Y C L A R K - Ohio Vine Tours

accordance with the Lavese Las Manos signs posted throughout
Seattle restrooms. He wonders if it matters that the lather is also
as brown as the water that trickles past the turquoise clots.
There being no paper towels in the paper towel dispenser, he
dries his hands on his pants, then picks up his tape.
Yes, his!
He would like to study it in the friendly overhead light, but
is afraid if he dawdles he may hear footsteps followed by an
imperious knock, which would sound like the pounding of a
sledge hammer to his sensitive ears.
Roy yanks on the pull chain—an action he puts off to the very
end—and the commode flushes. It is like firing off a cannon in
a church. It is a noise so raucous as to shake the building to its
roots. It is a blare to bedevil the dead. It is a hubbub to ruffle
pigeon feathers, yea, even unto the sidewalk.
Quickly now, having made such a noise, he unhooks the door
and creaks it open. To his great relief, the hallway still stands
empty, looking pretty much as it had the last time he saw it,
perhaps a tad older, perhaps a touch more threadbare.
He snicks the lightbulb back into a state of comfortable repose,
then races along the hallway to his room.
Easing the door closed behind him, he clunks its deadbolt
home.
It is lighter outside. The sun must be rising, or something.
The clouds are infused with a pallid shimmer.
Roy sits on his bed.
squeak
With a triumphal flourish, he drops the tape from its case
into his hand. He is pleased to see what he holds is a 120 minute
cassette.
Again, he holds it up to the bare bulb, and squints through the
cassette’s tiny window.
60 minutes is an hour plus another 60 minutes equals two hours
of tunes.
Of course, there is a chance the tape might not contain two
full hours of tunes. There may be only a half hour, and the rest
blank. Or, it could be entirely blank and have been left at his
door as a cruel joke.
ROY ROGERS IN THE 21ST CENTURY 11