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Will you have some more coffee? Good, good, how about a slice of pie? Cherry for love and apple for knowledge, that’s what Miz Sylvia says. I tell you, I’d ask that woman to marry me if I were ten years younger. I’ll just wave Cherise over here to refill your cup; she won’t be a minute. Quick as a wink, that girl is, and twice as cute, although I trow she probably couldn’t light a bulb with thought-power. But that’s fine since she’s pretty. The pretty ones always seem to land on their feet like cats, but I knew a woman in St. Louis who—oh, wait, you’re not with the Gazette, are you? Never mind. Cherise, thank you, honey. What about a kiss, sweet thang? (He rubs his cheek as he speaks, as if keeping the kiss fresh on his fingertips, a thing that will never dry or decay, a dewy touch of eternal youth.) Let’s see, where was I? That’s one of the worst things about getting old. You forget your train of thought so damn easy. Sorry, ma’am. I ought not to have said that. Devil gets into me sometimes, so I think I’m still at sea and I don’t remember my manners in gentle company. I told you about my three brushes with fame and how this place came to be. Well, mostly. The name of that dishonest gambler was Jebediah R. Cruickshank and on this plot of land, he opened a waystation for cattle drovers. He offered supplies and place to get a bite to eat. I hear tell he sometimes let the men bed down above the stable. You can almost hear the cattle lowing, can’t you? Hard to believe over a hundred years have gone by. In some ways, this patch of ground here, it’s the land time forgot. Cities, they can’t take root out here. People have tried from time to time, thinking they’ll found a new Las Vegas, way out in the middle of nowhere. Rockefeller, he tried to buy up this land as my granddad told it. But the Cruickshanks, they wouldn’t let loose of the deed. And folks tell me that a mobster like that Mr. Seigel -- I’ve forgotten his partner’s name now -- he even leaned on old man Cruickshank but nothing but a woman could move this earth. It all came down to Virginia Cruickshank in the spring of 1957 when she married Olan Oberst. No, I’m not making that up. Someone really named her child Olan, although it seems to me that his mother must’ve held a grudge. Born to them, a son named Ronald James, let’s see, that was 1960, I believe. And he took over his father’s business, not too long ago, a company called The Avalon Group. Yes, that is a laden name. But you see, my dear lady, everything fits. When you hear Avalon, what do you think of? Oh my, very good, very good: the enchanted island where Arthur’s sword was forged and where he was brought after his last battle. There are folks still waiting in England for his return, you know. Poor bastards don’t realize he’s already come and gone. That’s right, very clever, you are. But we already talked about the King. Death wasn’t kind to him the first time, nor the second, and I don’t know that I’d trade a golden bier for a white Cadillac but then, that’s me and I’m naught but a simple sailor, grown too old for the sea. That’s same as saying I’m a toothless lion or a lame horse. You have kind eyes, indeed you do, but I believe you’ve studied some of the more arcane truths, if I’m not mistaken. And…dear lady, please don’t reply to that. I’m too old to be asking such questions; I’d never live long enough to sort you out. Part of me wishes I’d met you long ago and part of me is glad I didn’t. Regret is a heavy burden and I laid mine down years ago, my soul singing out like a Negro on a barge. Still and all, this land, it’s touched. The Native Americans knew it. Why, some nights you'll still see Coyote himself out on the roads, playing his pranks. His favorite jest is to frighten motorists into thinking they've killed him and then bounding away into the shrubland Beyond. Haunts, spirits, angels, demons, the Midway’s seen them all. Some go and some stay. Thursday nights, you might find Mephistopheles himself nursing a cup of coffee over yonder, looking to make a deal. And you might find Raphael, playing a celestial harp shaped like an acoustic guitar with his hat down for miracle money. Seraphim, Nephilim, they’re real as well, you see. If you’re asking yourself, now why would an angel be killing time down here on earth, well: “In heaven an angel is nobody in particular.” That Mr. Shaw sure was a clever fella. Now I’m not a godly man, but I’m not a stupid one and I believe what my eyes show me. As the good book says: “The Sons of God saw the daughters of men that they were fair; and they took them wives of all which they chose.” The line runs strong and true down to this day. In this world there live learned men who could draw you a family tree but proof doesn’t lie in lines made in ink. Evidence comes in through the eye but it percolates in the heart and mind. In a way belief is like love. What is it about seeing that person that made us feel that thing, the skipping heart, the hitching breath. Something about the way she smells makes you feel like your soul is nothing but a helium balloon, something about her makes you feel like you could fly. But is that empirical? No. There just comes a point where you know what you know, and it doesn’t matter how wrong the rest of the world believes you to be. You can’t base your certainty on the judgment of fools. Like that clever Mr. Emerson said, “Reality is a sliding door.” Things slide in when you’re looking the other way, things that live in cracks and shadows. People don’t see things because they refuse to; they don’t want to. When you stop refusing to look, then you See. And if you’re lucky, you don’t go mad before you Understand. One of those Daughters of Eve, well, you’d find her in the space between the lights, a slither and a hiss in the dark, something you don’t want to let sink her nails beneath your skin. She’s poison, sure enough, but I don’t suppose that sort of thing is your vice. You haven’t the look and I’ve learnt a few things about human beings over the years. And now...we’re coming down to what you came for, aren’t we? The truth of it all. Yes, ma’am. I’ll wait.
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