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

BLUE, BLUE SKY.
White, white clouds.
Far below, where parallel lines converge, people move, tiny
dots drained of color and detail. They have lives that are very
real to them, but very abstract to Roy from his perch high on
the side of this black, glass building, its reflective skin designed
to keep the people inside safe, warm and productive—men in
business suits, women in business skirts, cubicles fluttering with
colorful Post-Its, computer screens reflected in glasses—long, red
fingernails tapping—clocks crawling through the mire of time,
telephones’ pleading bleeps. It is a competitive world, an abstract
world, especially for Roy from his high perch on the side of this
black, glass building.
Roy removes his headphones. One of the foam covers comes
away, sucked off by the wind. He is bundled up in his Carhartts
and two woolen shirts. A black, woolen Seahawks watchcap
heats his hairless dome. His hands are insufficiently warmed by
fingerless, woolen gloves
Behind him a body rockets past, in league with devil gravity,
swallowed by the yawning canyon of converging lines.
Off in the distance of the blue, blue sky, an airliner balances
in mid-air, performing the twin miracles of lift and drag.
At the other end of the railed platform on which Roy stands
is Rick the Asshole, also bundled in Carhartts, also wearing
woolen fingerless gloves and watchcap, only his is gray with the
Mariner’s logo stitched on.
In every way he is the opposite of Roy—short and gaunt,
angular, ferret-faced, with cold, black eyes. He leers at Roy. His
hands grip the guardrail.
Stark white ferries scratch the turquoise green of Puget Sound.
ROY ROGERS IN THE 21ST CENTURY 2