Forward to the Blind Man
“You think
this piece is going to be about Torman and his buddies since the last we heard
from them they were blind? Well, it’s not!”
Maxwell Thermos slapped his gloves on the desktop in the fury of his fart.
“It’s not a
‘piece,’” Hinda Lunt countered, bored at the executive’s emotional antics. “It’s a film. I wish you’d get that straight.”
“Well, who
can tell these days?” Thermos fell back in his basket and gasped out. “Gravitational waves, homemade porn, dogs
voting for cows; I can’t keep track of these changes!”
“All you
have to remember,” Lunt told him, getting to her hooves and crossing to the
battery-powered aquarium globe in the corner, “Is that a film can be a comic
strip can be a cereal box can be a t-shirt.
It’s all interconnected. Just
like the sea,” she added, smiling at the little, multi-colored beings inside
the globe begging to get out.
“And a
collection of tiny written pieces can be a novel,” Thermos brought up the topic
of that day’s meeting.
“If they
are interconnected, yes,” Lunt answered, spinning about and pointing her
feather duster at the executive.
Thermos
glanced to his left, where his son Wickedbathrag sat chewing the toe-end of a
pinball machine and blinking.
“And if
they’re not?” he asked.
Hinda Lunt,
whose name was an inversion of Linda Hunt, the actress, was not an actress herself,
but a boat with three lungs and a glockenspiel that went “floop” when it
rained.
.
