Outside San Francisco, a High Curve on the Highway
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Laura doesn’t yell this morning, or cry either. She seems to accept the fog and says, “I love you,
Sylvester,” and Sylvester very much wishes that she hadn’t said that.
She loves his food, too: these days, it seems, she’s sprawled on the couch with both hands in her
mouth, so it has grown easier to accept her “dead-end” speech, her insistence that they “explore
other avenues.” And as much as it pains him, he finally concedes an argument.
But now, just as he crosses the threshold towards sunny, southern California, towards the room of
welcoming faces that will applaud his speech on “cooking with love” and “the versatility of miso,”
she tells him that she loves him. Her words hang in the air like confused ghosts.
He tries to move, but he moves towards a slow arc that resembles half moon bay, past a fleeting,
broken image of La Casita, the Mexican dive bar where they first had sex in a public restroom, past
the signs warning of a redwood forest up ahead.
And even on this windy, foggy day, the gorgeously straight redwoods vault for the sky. He goes
onward to the mountains, and then to the dewy seaspray of the ocean. He doesn’t know where he
wants to go next or if he’s going to be late for his speech, or if it matters. Part of him wants to trick
them all and take another road, even now, go north alone, go diving for abalone. He wants to watch
the kelp change colors and not think of oil slicks. He wants to cook by a bonfire and maybe even eat
hot dogs, the kind you get at a baseball game. He wants so much.
But then the road opens wide, and Sylvester can’t help but accelerate, can’t help but plunge into the
curve above the seabreak. And all the while he’s buzzing as if in concert with the rising and
swelling and crashing waves. And Sylvester can’t help but think that Tuesday morning has turned
out to be a fine, fine morning. No, that Tuesday, the whole day, even the week—that this week has
turned out to be a fine, fine week.
The road bends and descends, and he looks at the clock. There is no doubt, anyway, that this
moment of 9:43 was undoubtedly, indisputably, a fine, fine moment.
Maybe when he gets back, things will work out. Maybe Laura could eat ice cream for daily
happiness, and Sylvester could begin a collection of model train sets. Her backside could grow into a
pumpkin. She could teach seals how to knit scarves; she could do all kinds of things.
But Sylvester knows what he would do. He would get fancy. He would build miniature bridges and
towns and roads; he would even have farmland with miniature plants pretending to grow. He
would wear a conductor’s hat. But Sylvester knows what would happen in the end. He would just
watch the trains go in circles.
Sylvester,” and Sylvester very much wishes that she hadn’t said that.
She loves his food, too: these days, it seems, she’s sprawled on the couch with both hands in her
mouth, so it has grown easier to accept her “dead-end” speech, her insistence that they “explore
other avenues.” And as much as it pains him, he finally concedes an argument.
But now, just as he crosses the threshold towards sunny, southern California, towards the room of
welcoming faces that will applaud his speech on “cooking with love” and “the versatility of miso,”
she tells him that she loves him. Her words hang in the air like confused ghosts.
He tries to move, but he moves towards a slow arc that resembles half moon bay, past a fleeting,
broken image of La Casita, the Mexican dive bar where they first had sex in a public restroom, past
the signs warning of a redwood forest up ahead.
And even on this windy, foggy day, the gorgeously straight redwoods vault for the sky. He goes
onward to the mountains, and then to the dewy seaspray of the ocean. He doesn’t know where he
wants to go next or if he’s going to be late for his speech, or if it matters. Part of him wants to trick
them all and take another road, even now, go north alone, go diving for abalone. He wants to watch
the kelp change colors and not think of oil slicks. He wants to cook by a bonfire and maybe even eat
hot dogs, the kind you get at a baseball game. He wants so much.
But then the road opens wide, and Sylvester can’t help but accelerate, can’t help but plunge into the
curve above the seabreak. And all the while he’s buzzing as if in concert with the rising and
swelling and crashing waves. And Sylvester can’t help but think that Tuesday morning has turned
out to be a fine, fine morning. No, that Tuesday, the whole day, even the week—that this week has
turned out to be a fine, fine week.
The road bends and descends, and he looks at the clock. There is no doubt, anyway, that this
moment of 9:43 was undoubtedly, indisputably, a fine, fine moment.
Maybe when he gets back, things will work out. Maybe Laura could eat ice cream for daily
happiness, and Sylvester could begin a collection of model train sets. Her backside could grow into a
pumpkin. She could teach seals how to knit scarves; she could do all kinds of things.
But Sylvester knows what he would do. He would get fancy. He would build miniature bridges and
towns and roads; he would even have farmland with miniature plants pretending to grow. He
would wear a conductor’s hat. But Sylvester knows what would happen in the end. He would just
watch the trains go in circles.