Once I drove a school bus in Iowa. Quite a few times, actually, over a number of years. Out in the wild, wide places of time and place long, long ago and I had four little boys who rode my bus. The Vlegers. Their last name was Vleger as I recall and cannot forget and they always smelled of soap and bacon, because their mother always sent them off to school clean and well fed and they were well behaved, perfect little gentlemen of various little sizes in the seats of my bus. I drove Number 15. Their mother, a big handsome farm wife, would stand with arms folded watching them walk down to the bus in the morning or back from the bus in the afternoon, like a hawk, stern and vigilant and loving of her brood and they had a little sister, a golden haired cherub too young […]
Florentino
There is a man who places linen and silverware on tables. He places linen and silverware on tables. That is what he does where people sit and eat. They spoil the linen and soil the silverware and they leave. This man removes once crisp linen and not too long ago spotless silverware and once again places immaculate linen and gleaming silverware upon tables for people once again to do what they do all day long and into the night. He insists the linen be right side up. The factory label must not show. There is right and wrong for even linen and knives and forks and spoons must be exact a certain distance from the table edge. He uses his first and middle finger side by side to measure the distance and napkins, but of course, he folds to pyramids just so. If no one sits where he has worked […]