Удушье (Choke)

his forehead. He tilts his hand-held microphone toward my mouth, asking, 'What are you building, then?'

We won't know until the very last rock is set.

'But when will that be?'

We don't know.

After so long living alone, it feels good to say 'we.'

Watching me say this, Denny points at the TV and says, 'Per­fect.'

Denny says, the longer we can keep building, the longer we can keep creating, the more will be possible. The longer we can tolerate being incomplete. Delay gratification.

Consider the idea of Tantric Architecture.

On TV, I tell the reporter, 'This is about a process. This isn't about getting something done.'

What's funny is I really think I'm helping Denny.

Every rock is a day Denny doesn't waste. Smooth river gran­ite. Blocky dark basalt. Every rock is a little tombstone, a little monument to each day where the work most people do just evap­orates or expires or becomes instantly outdated the moment it's done. I don't mention this stuff to the reporter, or ask him what happens to his work the moment after it goes out on the air. Airs. Is broadcast. Evaporates. Gets erased. In a world where we work on paper, where we exercise on machines, where time and effort and money passes from us with so little to show for it, Denny gluing rocks together seems normal.

I don't tell the reporter all that.

There I am, just waving and saying we need more rocks. If people will bring us rocks, we'd appreciate it. If people want to help, that would be great. My hair stiff and dark with sweat, my belly bloated over the front of my pants, I'm saying the only thing we don't know is how this will turn out. And what's more is we don't want to know.

Beth goes into the kitchenette to pop popcorn.

I'm starving but I don't dare eat.

On TV is the final shot of the walls, the bases for a long log­gia of columns that will rise to a roof, someday. Pedestals for stat­ues. Someday. Basins for fountains. The walls rise to suggest buttresses, gables, spires, domes. Arches rise to support vaults someday. Turrets. Someday. The bushes and trees are already growing in to hide and bury some of it. Branches grow in through the windows. The grass and weeds grow waist-high in some rooms. All of this spreading away from the camera, here's just a foundation we may none of us see completed in our life­time.

I don't tell the reporter that.

From outside the shot, you can hear the cameraman shout, 'Hey, Victor! Remember me? From the Chez Buffet? That time you almost choked ...'

The telephone rings and Beth goes to get it.

'Dude,' Denny says, and rewinds the tape again. 'What you just told them, that's just going to drive some people crazy.'

And Beth says, 'Victor, it's your mom's hospital. They've been trying to find you.'

I yell back, 'In a minute.'

I tell Denny to run the tape again. I'm almost ready to deal with my mom.

Chapter 43

For my next miracle, I buy pudding

. This is chocolate pudding, vanilla and pistachio pudding, butterscotch pudding, all of it loaded with fat and sugar and preservatives and sealed inside little plastic tubs. You just peel off the paper top and spoon it up.