Thousand: Four Hundred Twenty-Six

to his feet and strips off Bernie’s pants. He takes Bernie’s hand and leads him naked to the bathroom. In one corner, taking up most of the small space, is a round wooden tub set into the floor. Wisps of steam loll upon an unstill surface under the mild light of three candles. The man whirls out a dark towel and wraps it around Bernie’s chest. It is heavy, damp and so warm Bernie shudders, the last of the cold lifting off like moths. In another corner waits a low stool with a hole in the middle, a porcelain pot

Thousand: Four Hundred Twenty-Five

smells the warmth of the room. A wood stove’s shifting glow faces him as the man seats Bernie on the bed. Soon a kerosene lamp adds a brighter and friendly light to quilt-covered bed, a small dresser, wood floor with throw rugs. Dazed, Bernie listens to the soft splash of water in the next room. The man bustles back and slips Bernie’s shoes from his feet, his torn jacket from his back, and is busily unbuttoning his white shirt when Bernie says, “I. I think I can do that.” But the man brushes away Bernie’s hands. The man raises him

Thousand: Four Hundred Twenty-Four

on the word. There are other buildings, shacks, in the darkness. Bernie can’t make out how many. Two? Twelve? The man’s firm grip pulls Bernie completely out of the light and now only by keeping pace can he hope to avoid stumbling. The man is. Whistling? He’s whistling. Bernie imagines whistling along. He even puckers his lips. But he needs his breath for other things. The man pulls Bernie alongside and puts his arm again around Bernie’s shoulders. “Step,” he says, and Bernie lifts a foot. “Step step step.” Then the rattle of a key, a door sweeps back, Bernie

Thousand: Four Hundred Twenty-Three

cozier. Bernie lets his head fall on the man’s chest and gets a squeeze and tut-tut. “Come along, come along. We have a room for you. Sir has it all arranged. He will meet you in the morning.” “Sir?” “Sir. Yes. Your tour guide.” “The dog? That’s the dog’s name? Sir?” Bernie has let himself be led by the hand from the warm building back onto the porch. He watches the man’s carpet slippers kick through weeds and gravel as they leave the yellow light behind. “Why is the dog called ‘Sir’?” Bernie almost adds, “sir,” but closes his mouth

Thousand: Four Hundred Twenty-Two

a sympathetic tone. Although. What? “You know my,” he begins, but, having made a checkmark in the book, the man slams it shut, and interrupts, “Anything else with you?” “My. Uh.” “Yes, yes,” the man says, waving off Bernie’s attempt to speak. He steps from behind the counter and puts an arm around Bernie’s shoulders. A big old fashioned key on a necklace sized ring swings from the man’s hand. His rumpled robe, Bernie notices, pressed against it as he finds himself, smells much worn, but strangely comforting. The smell under a hen may be gamey, but you couldn’t be

Thousand: Four Hundred Twenty-One

nose softens some when he yawns. His teeth are yellow and crooked, but they’re all there. Scratching his cheek, the man flips through a canvas bound ledger he’s flopped open on the wooden counter. “You Went?” says the man, frowning at the page. “Came?” says Bernie. “Came?” The man echoes the word, mystified. “Went! Your name! Went!” “Oh! Oh, yes. Yes. Went. That’s me. Bern. Bernard. Bernard Went.” Bernie thinks the warmth has calmed the shivering, but a sudden violent shake suggests it was just the surprise. “Didn’t dress for the desert,” observes the man with what Bernie hopes is

Thousand: Four Hundred Twenty

swings out with the quietest creak. He touches the knob of the wooden door. The voice inside, is it inviting him in? The knob turns and Bernie pushes, the warmth and light reminding him how cold he is. He steps into a shabby lobby. A slouching couch, a shag rug of tangled orange, a dusty floor lamp with a cracked shade, a wooden counter worn three colors. “Close the door!” says the voice which Bernie sees belongs to a man with a long black beard, two precise gray stripes framing the chin. A deep scowl line striking up from his

Thousand: Four Hundred Nineteen

followed in following the first. This makes Bernie feel better. The sudden revelation of the porch and the yellow light bathing the two steps up to it, those help, too. He picks up the pace, huffing up the drive. A bell pull hangs just to the left of the light. He tugs it. And is rewarded with a jingle. It sounds cute. It makes him laugh. He tugs it again, gently. Jingle. He hears a voice calling out from within. He leans forward. Listens. He reaches again for the pull, then changes his mind and tries the screen door. It

Thousand: Four Hundred Eighteen

lost track of his goal. “Serious hypothermia is cozy. You feel all relaxed and comfortable and unmotivated, and who would want not to feel so nice. You sit down and smile and congratulate yourself on finding your way to the frozen waste that will creep into your bones, loving you, taking your life in its fine white hands.” Bernie isn’t even listening to himself by this time, but talking keeps his teeth from banging together in violent shivers. Then he notices that he hasn’t had to step around anything, that one foot is able to follow the line the other

Thousand: Four Hundred Seventeen

here. I bet it winds safely through the prickly bushes and skirts the rattlesnakes and if there’s a big crevasse at the bottom of which lurk sharp rocks, the path takes you to a tidily constructed steel bridge. I bet when day comes it will be obvious and I’ll kick myself for not seeing it. For not seeing it at all.” Having to detour around murky threats increases the sense that the yellow light is not getting closer. Bernie has to keep his eyes low; when he looks up to reorient himself there are times he is sure he has

Thousand: Four Hundred Sixteen

them. His hands, not really warmed, grip the grate and he rocks it back into place. Then he rubs his hands together again. They are starting to ache. “OK, dog,” Bernie says, as the wind picks up and the blobs thrusting up here and there over the paler soil quake and sway. His jaw quivers, he tightens his thin sport coat around himself, and, shoving his hands under his armpits, he tries to trot, but gives that up for a brisk shuffle after kicking a cactus and tearing a pant cuff on a spiny twig. “I bet there’s a trail

Thousand: Four Hundred Fifteen

aside. Bernie pops his head out and takes deep breaths, gives the grate one more shove, then scrambles free of the earth. It’s dark up top. Except for a night sky blasted with stars. No moon. You only know a cloud by the way it hides stars. And in the distance one light, yellow and weak, loomed over by humps of shadow. Could be trees, a porchlight. Bernie looks back down at the grate and the hole. Should he put it back? He really thinks about it. Nobody to say he has to. He rubs his hands together to warm

Thousand: Four Hundred Fourteen

and the lights in his brain fade to an ache. “Shit!” He rubs his head. “I’m not bleeding. For once. Get a nice bump, maybe.” Bernie tips his head back and sees the shape of the grill covering the hole. “You better not be locked, you fucker.” He eases himself up, pushes with a hand. Nothing. So he moves closer, maneuvers his shoulder against the grill, takes a deep breath, and heaves with legs and back. And the grill shifts. Half clinging to the grill, Bernie feels around until he finds the new gap. He heaves again and lid grinds

Thousand: Four Hundred Thirteen

better be, cuz I have fuck all my wallet, at least I have my wallet, unless it fell out in that scramble through the bushes and, I wonder if hell takes American Express, oh these rungs are whew are cold. Up we go. Hell’s supposed to be hot. Damn, it’s. Cold. Shit. This wind is blowing right down my shirt. Blowing. Down.” Bernie pauses and sniffs the air. Smells like the great outside world. So he climbs faster. A faint glow shows him his hands. Then, staggered, he almost loses his grip. Gasping, he rests his chin on the rung

Thousand: Four Hundred Twelve

guess he’s sure.” Bernie reaches up, he can’t see anything up there, so he flails a bit, and panics, and finds the next rung, and feels how sweaty his hand’s gotten, he lets go the rung and wipes his hand on his shirt, and thinks he’s probably getting a big smudge of rust on his shirt, and he reaches up again and there’s the rung where he left it, no problem, and he raises a foot and puts it on a higher rung and pushes himself up. “Well, Bernie, here we go. Here we go to hell, all expenses paid,

Thousand: Four Hundred Eleven

from the bottom and looks at Bernie. “Uh. You want a boost?” Bernie starts to crouch to hoist the dog up, but the dog ducks around him and butts him with a hard yellow head. “Hey! OK! The sign said. But you say. No carrying dog, right?” Bernie puts a hand on a rung and a foot. He lifts himself up. The dog claps his jaws together under Bernie’s ass; thus encouraged Bernie mounts higher. Higher. He looks down. The dog is watching. “Are you sure?” Bernie asks. The dog drops his head and trots on into the darkness. “I

Thousand: Four Hundred Ten

hands to climb. He looks down at the dog in question, who seems uninterested in Bernie’s internal debate. Bernie heaves a sigh. “Well,” he says, “let’s give it a try.” He kneels beside the dog and reaches his arms around the dog’s body to lift him up. But the dog backs away. “I gotta carry you. The sign says.” The dog settles once again on his haunches so Bernie crawls closer to attempt the lift. But again the dog avoids him, this time going around to stand under the green bulb. The dog puts a forepaw on the rung second

Thousand: Four Hundred Nine

have to carry the dog.” Ladder. Yes. Metal rungs protrude from the wall. The rungs proceed into the upper darkness. Dog. Yes. Bernie imagines the kind of ladder that is more like stairs. A dog could do that. Maybe? He doesn’t think a dog could do this totally vertical thing. So the carrying is. The only way. Really. He tries to picture ways of balancing a big yellow dog across his arms or chest. Over the shoulder? When he raises one hand he sees the dog slipping to one side. He raises the other and. And. You kinda need both

Thousand: Four Hundred Eight

foot as it turned. There is a light in the darkness. So tiny and so like the cold sparks of his optic nerve that Bernie tells himself it’s not there. Until, step by careful step, it gets nearer. Although he keeps hoping it is the end of the tunnel until long past realistic, now that he faces the dull green bulb and the credit card sized metal sign it illuminates, he feels a little bit better. LADDER. Under that is taped a yellow note. Bernie holds down a curling corner with a finger as he squints at the scrawl. “You’ll

Thousand: Four Hundred Seven

nudge into his shoe. It tickled but it wasn’t uncomfortable. There was plenty of room. “I’m getting out,” crooned the sky boy in the earth boy’s ear. “I’m getting out,” agreed the earth boy, wanting to giggle, “the ice cream.” “Aye aye aye yeah yeah yesk reeeeeeeeemmmm!” they sang together, using one tongue, one strong throat. One boy dropped from the tree’s lowest limb, wearing the earth boy’s clothes. And bounced. Oh he could bounce right back up to heaven, couldn’t he! But he didn’t. He did a little spin, arms out, eyes closed, the soft earth obligingly holding each