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[54] DUMBWAITER Around the table, they spoke of their great accomplishments and honors—A woman fished a string of beads out of her jeans pocket and pointed to each in turn, naming the taverns and bars where she’d stumbled onto the stage, microphone or no, to read her verse. One whispered there were at least half a dozen moist narratives growing in his crotch and armpits; he was merely their vessel, obedient slave. Another combed and plaited her muscular hair with a clutch of long dashes. All night they ate platters of words served out of season; all night they drank of what was freely appropriated, wines forced from fruit not certain of their vintage. When they copulated and gave birth to offspring, they were so moved by the originality of this achievement that new industries were built around their need to find footwear or skins of leather equal to or greater in value than their own flesh and blood. But there were others who walked among them filling glasses, folding linen, answering the summons of a buzzer laid in the floor beneath the dining table, dusting the long-untuned grand piano, the books unread in the library. There were others who relished the dusk and the solitude it delivered, the quiet like a seed one is tempted take in the mouth in order to stay elsewhere, underground. ...

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