Blasting from Heaven

The little girl won’t eat her sandwich; she lifts the bun and looks in, but the grey beef coated with relish is always there. Her mother says, “Do it for mother.” Milk and relish and a hard bun that comes off like a hat—a kid’s life is a cinch. And a mother’s life? “What can you do with a man like that?” she asks the sleeping cook and then the old Negro who won’t sit. “He’s been out all night trying to get it. I hope he gets it. What did he ever do but get it?” The Negro doesn’t look, though he looks like he’s been out all night trying. Everyone’s been out all night trying. Why else would we be drinking beer at attention? If she were younger, or if I were Prince Valiant, I would say that fate brought me here to quiet the crying, to sweeten the sandwich of the child, to waken the cook, to stop the Negro from bearing witness to the world. The dawn still hasn’t come, and now we hear the 8 o’clock whistles blasting from heaven, and with no morning the day is sold.