Chicken Little: The Inside Story (A Jungian ... - Inner City Books

5
Philosophers’ Stone
It was after six before we were back together. In the meantime, I
had been home to change.
D. was still shoveling snow when I left, whooping and singing
like someone demented. It’s nice to see him happy; he’s usually so
serious and he works such long hours. Every morning he’s down at
the P.O. box like his life depended on it. I’m not making fun, because
for all I know it does.
Norman waved good-bye from the bookcase. I nudged Arnold—
he’d gone straight back to the couch after lunch with a detective
novel—and he just snorted, which was typical. D. says Arnold’s
mother complex is of the negative kind—unlike D.’s own, I’m glad
to say—and that makes him suspicious of women. Well excuse me,
I never done him no wrong. I don’t actually dislike Arnold, but I
can’t say I’ve ever been fond of him. I wouldn’t be surprised if he
feels the same about me, though looking for feeling from Arnold is
like waiting for a peach to speak. I mean zee-ro. I don’t know what
D. sees in him, but then it’s not really my business is it, and anyway
some of my friends drive D. up the wall as well. I guess I put
up with Arnold because he’s D.’s friend. So maybe vice versa and
that’s all right too. The three of us get along when we have to.
I took Sunny with me, to give her a long romp in the park I live
across from. She gets really down unless she has a good run about
twice a day. It’s always a thrill to see her race around, sniffing her
little heart out, peeing at every tree and post. I meet a lot of interesting
people that way; I don’t always know their names but I recognize
their pooches. It’s such a friendly neighborhood, so different
from the posh area D. lives in. A lot of people on my street
are immigrants—Italian, Chinese, Indonesian, Portuguese and so
on; even some Americans. There are three bocce pits and a playground
in the park. We have a block party every summer, with
races and games for the kids; pot-luck plates of food on trestles and
dancing till midnight. On D.’s street they hardly know who lives
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