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Tuesday, May 15, 1973
Audrey’s Hermes trunk is in the dumpster. The blue leather is peeled off, black. The trunk’s charred wooden frame is twisted off its hinges. All the drawers are gone. Looks like the trash-men threw it off the fire-escape.
Sadistically I guess called Georgy –- to report the trunk was trashed and out in public view. He shrieked, “OH GOD SO WHAT!” and as I started to respond he slammed down the phone.
Audrey I am sorry I could not take care of things, I would have treated you more gently…
The blue leather Hermes trunk, legacy to her son, lost in an anonymous Manhattan corridor. Picked up by scavengers, picked over by strangers, ground up eventually with the tons of daily detritus.
I called Georgy back and we just stayed on the phone, “I know.” “It’s all weird.” “I hate New York.” “Me too.” I was leaning on the glass of the booth, listening to him mutter and sigh. Some old bum pressed himself against me on the opposite side and simulated sex. As I complained about it, Georgy insisted I was calling at a MOST inapPROpriate TIME. I should not complain, if I demand anything but the most blase response he runs away… but still I mustered “Pardon me but my superpowers do not extend to seeing through the walls of buildings” and he hung up on me again.
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