Deconstruction of the Blues

Flame

84 FLAME Moran hulked along the ward wall in the hallway standing still or rocking foot to foot Not just neurochemically strange he seemed a different species almost Very wide tractorish in the hips and legs tapering upwards pearshaped head too big with swatchy hair He was Down’s syndrome maybe but didn’t look like Down’s face more squashed and elfin Every morning coming on the ward “Good morning, Mr. Moran,” I’d say “How are you?” and try to hold it sincerely looking in his eyes which was hard before that cave of him swallowing silence He liked to stand with his hands jammed down the front of his wide tentlike pants rocking foot to foot as if he was gripping his guts and sometimes on his face a silent weep grimace Each morning as a ritual a kind of test “How are you, Mr. Moran,” I’d say and try to be sincere look in his eyes which were blank maybe like a pig’s eyes maybe parrying me And I’d hear my voice tremble and warp a little false and actorish 85 I’m making it seem more important than it was morning after morning But then I’d swirl off into the birdsong of the ward chess and pingpong medication group therapy My only other traffic with Moran was to give him cigarettes He’d puff two fingers to his mouth hungrily I’d lean in place one between his lips light it for him Close to his billowing cavernous head one day hunched over the flame eyes glittering His arm was at my neck so slowly as if a tree had moved Adrenaline surge He seemed dull-ly to be looking at me and I realized his arm was patting not touching but patting at the air around me as if he couldn’t or could only sketch at touch tree slow like a branch swaying in a wind Moran extruded reaching across! What must I have been like to him? Something delicate deft and fast talking intrusive ungraspable like a flame in his brain ...