storeeze

Paranoia: Recurrent suspicions, without justification—The Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, 5th Edition  Saint Louis was on his stallion atop Art Hill Saturday night. My pocket buzzed.  “Charlie! I'm sitting here in the green chairs in the middle, in front of the stage [chairs she corralled from the VIPs]. Take a look. I don't know where you're at.” Another call. “I have no idea where you're at. None. I'm on the hill now. I don't see anything. Weird. I'm moving around all over this damn park, and I don't see you anywhere! And you're not answering your phone. I'm wandering around here, and you're like nowhere.” One more time. “I don't get it at all. What'd you do, go to the wrong park? What'd you do? I'm walking around. You should see me!” I fancy Arlene’s eyes and her voice, but I was wondering what was behind the green doors on stage. I looked up: Arlene, hands on hips, looking electric. “Yeah, it’s me.” ...

“Okay ladies and gentlemen, we're gonna be in Springfield in six minutes, here. Six minutes to Springfield. Please make it through the aisles to get to the doors on the lower level if you're getting off at Springfield. Springfield next,” bawled the Amtrak PA. She was at the counter of the café car, followed me to a table, tugging on the cotton underwear peeking out of her pants. Flashy red earrings, brown corduroys, dirty tennis shoes, and a thin black v-cut slip-of-a-top. No bra. Pendulous breasts stretched low, swaying in time with the coach. Expressive black eyes with a look of almost childish sincerity, encased in sleepy purple eyelids, on a face worn by care and suffering. She called herself ‘Michael Jackson’. She boasted eight children: ‘Boo, Boo, Boo, Boo, Boo, Boo, Boo and Boo-Cah’. She came to Springfield filled with promises made by a man. A shadow fell when I probed her religion, followed by much excitement: “Get God all up in you and be the best you can be.” She kep...