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Two Holidays 1. Memorial Day Don't smell, said the little girl. The mother rolled her window up. On my wrist the sweat hit 98.7. (This was before Celsius.) The little girl got out mock make-up in compacts, panties for days of the week. You keep this up, her father said, you got a future. Wallets and watches for all my little ladies! Where do you get off, he turned to me. Just past the fishwharf there, the bar (where I will kill a bottle and what time I please, shoot what pool I can, what breeze . . . ) 2. Christmas Eve The TV's busy. No one turned it on. Brad is amused by the Brad-doll ad. A television once went two point something years in some bank window somewhere, so the television says. It shows a picture of a TV set, subtitled ACTUAL REENACTMENT. Outside (if there is an outside) colored creches hum into the dark, a swarming sound, investors, stock exchanges, change—it's all in my head—America, fixed on skillets, quiz show questions, high-priced spreads. On the couch a purple textbook lies, PSYCHOLOGY it says, and harbors small suspicions: men are attracted to red, but women to blue. I'd say the virgin mothers need some pain relief, with all those animals around the house. Nobody turns 73 the television off. A ringing goes on in the ears, and even deeper, in the brain, a bright department store where everyone on earth, oblivious and busy, rushes after hours, deepening the debt . . . 74 ...

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