Unsung Payment

A suggestive illustration in the dictionary sparks lively debate. Rotten snow makes access questionable. Careful decoration, modest makeup, and the right pair of boots might keep you awake. A heartfelt response. Maybe not heart. Maybe you lead with your sex, as if it was most important. A joust. An interface of lances. My spear is bigger than yours. It's a zit, pretty baby, everything is illusion. The merest teardrop of reality is a staged fake. Nothing is what it seems. Stoke the fire, go back to bed. Almost overslept because of the overcast sky but got to the museum right on time. A critical day, D, James and I absolutely must get all 13 dioramas, and the pesky triptych packed. None of these have any box, crate, or packing. We bought UPS Store cardboard boxes, stout ones, 275 pound crushing strength, in a couple of different sizes, had 10 sheets of half-inch foam, and a large supply of ethafoam scraps. Wrapped the triptych, then sandwiched it between two sheets of ethafoam, reinforced the corners with heavy cardboard, then wrapped completely around with that stretchy clear stuff that sticks to itself, it's called something clever, like Flat Twine; good stuff, we're fond of using it with blankets when we return art. The boxes are sold flat, so we have to assemble them, tape them into shape, and that's as far as we get before lunch. I'm concerned. But after lunch, after we had devised a strategy, we were a packing machine. I cut the foam, D did the assembly, James fetched. I cut 78 pieces of foam to fairly precise measurements, D would line the box with the pieces, put the diorama inside, then cut ethafoam blocks to hold it rigidly in place, James would hold the folded cover in place, D would tape it, label it, draw the necessary arrows, for orientation, and write large that this box was not to be tipped or tilted. James would have already retrieved the next unit and D would give me my numbers, so I could have the pieces precut. The first one took an hour, the last one took 15 minutes. We got them all done and were amazed, it had really seemed impossible, and suddenly it's done. We're so good at this, D and I work so well together, and we keep the banter going. It's one of the great jobs ever, handling art. And someone has to do it. A skill set. Sometimes, like today, it's as if my entire career, a strange and winding path, had prepared me for doing this. I don't subscribe to any higher power, cream rises and shit flows downhill. The temple of the destitute. Mostly everything depends on specific gravity, which is to say, drainage. But we pretend to exercise control. With our locks and dams. Cancer going to get me or the left foot will. It's a dead heat. The walk up, tonight, was treacherous, I hate rotten snow, even crampons are no assurance. But I have a pack full of food and I am very careful. I want a large drink and a simple meal, I would get to my house if I had to crawl. The three crows are at the top of the hill. I want to ignore them completely, but they're not having any part of that, they squawk a hallelujah chorus, they control the ridge, I'm the interloper. It's good to be put in your place by a bird. Makes you more aware of the world. The actual world. The real world. Where you melt snow and gather acorns as a matter of course.