"The Heathen Section"

The Wrinkled Mouth’s grandchildren enjoy having their hair brushed before school.

They really do.

* * *

An aging socialite is sitting cross-legged on a veranda discussing her grandchildren’s favorite treats.
Not as much discussing as explaining.
Not as much explaining as lecturing.

The old socialite manages a wrinkled mouth.
She is The Wrinkled Mouth.

The veranda doesn’t overlook the sea, though I’d prefer one that did.
I’m there, too – the veranda.
It doesn’t overlook snowy mountain peaks or a bustling urban scene.

Our veranda overlooks the Barnes and Noble sales floor.

* * *

Our veranda offers a breathtaking panorama of what The Wrinkled Mouth calls “The Heathen Section,” though Barnes and Noble employees chose to label the same racks: Self-Help, Philosophy, and New Age.

Our veranda meaning:
My veranda.
And The Wrinkled Mouth’s.
And seventeen others’.

The Veranda’s crew, we’re all in our twenties or thirties.
Most of us have coffees and laptops and looming tests and essay deadlines.
We are all linked – kindred spirits of the Internet generation – save the wrinkly upper-cruster and her gabbing partner: The Gabbing Partner with No Name.

She didn’t need a name, nodding intently at each new mentioned foodstuff, eyes brimming with adulation, pining for the next profound word that would, without doubt, change her life forever.

It was corn dogs.

Epiphany #1: Corn dogs.

The Wrinkled Mouth and her disciple are in their sixties.
They have pill schedules and plastic-covered couches and irregular bowels and biases.

The Wrinkled Mouth, she uses her outside voice.

* * *

They like to eat carrots, the mouth’s grandchildren.
They like cottage cheese.
Every now and then they take pleasure in a bowl of oatmeal.
(They don’t know it’s good for them.)

The Wrinkled Mouth and her daughter have a great relationship.
“Not just great,” The Veranda is told obliquely, “but perfect.”
They eat lunch together three times a week.
Sometimes they get manicures.

Christine’s husband is doing well, I learn.
Darren took up jogging recently.
He looks good.

Darren can do forty push-ups.

“He’s probably going to get promoted soon,” says The Wrinkled Mouth – more than a few decibels above her already elevated norm – eyebrows arched, pupils darting, ears pricked, hoping that we would hear.

Praying that we would hear.

* * *

A half-dozen irritated sighs rise above the ethnic music, confirming The Veranda’s knowledge of Darren’s potential promotion. I can’t be sure how many polite sighers have been drowned out by the tribal drums.

A Brooks Brothers suit near the coffee bar hovers over an audit form, gritting his teeth, glancing up at The Wrinkled Mouth, tearing eight tooth-shaped holes in his Invisalign®.

The modern-day beatnik in the armchair reads a page from The Andy Warhol Diaries, then he reads it again, then he reads it again, then again. . . before slamming the hardcover onto the neighboring coffee table.

The Veranda’s crew is restless.
Our vibrations were getting nasty.

I wonder which one of us will throw The Wrinkled Mouth overboard.

* * *

“Monogamy is everything,” the mouth says with conviction.
The divorce rate is at an all-time high.
Teen pregnancy’s on the rise.

She angles her head toward an expecting twenty-two year old.

“Nancy has all the answers,” she says.
Nancy knows how to make America great again.
The Gabbing Partner with No Name nods, gives a few “uh-huhs,” nods some more.

“She’s a straight shooter, that Nancy Grace.”

We learn The Wrinkled Mouth has a penchant for Tucker Carlson.
She thinks he’s cute.
Not as cute as Darren, though.
She makes sure everyone aboard The Veranda knows that he’s not as cute as Darren.

Darren, who recently took up jogging.
Darren, who can really cut a rug.

“Sarah Palin’s new book should be an eye-opener.”
“She. . .” starts The Wrinkled Mouth before aborting the sentence.

Her lips purse. Her brow furrows.
This next sentence must require special consideration; she needs to get her words just right.
Her disciple leans forward, inhales, eyes wide.

“She’s got moxie.”
“That one is one to keep an eye on,” she says.
The Gabbing Partner with No Name exhales, satisfied.

Epiphany #2: Sarah Palin has moxie.

This country is going to hell in a hand-basket.
“Our country,” says the mouth.

Obama’s the last prophecy, she says.
Then it’s The Rapture.
“It’s all right there . . . in Revelations.”

The Veranda is enlightened.
The Veranda can find the particulars in The Good Book.

“I swear it, I’m moving to Canada if things get any worse.”

* * *

A head comes into view over the veranda railing, emerging from the deceit of “The Heathen Section.”

I watch the heathen head:
It bobs up and down along the rail, nearing the four small steps that lead to The Veranda’s deck.
Steps it reaches.
Steps it climbs.
Steps that reveal its godless gender.

The Veranda learns that Darren speaks a little French.

Darren, who can name every state capital.
Darren, who looks really good these days.

The heathen learns this, too.
He makes his way to The Wrinkled Mouth’s table, nods to The Gabbing Partner with No Name.

He bends forward – the heathen – leaning inches from The Wrinkled Mouth, now silent, now lacking opinion.
The heathen leans in and he smiles.

The Gabbing Partner with No Name smiles.
The heathen cheeks swell.

He parts his lips, blowing thick, putrid air towards The Wrinkled Mouth with deliberation before stepping back from the table.

* * *

The Veranda learns that the younger generation, we’re all going to hell.
We learn that belching is not mentioned in Barnes and Noble’s bylaws.
We learn that wrinkled old socialites know The ‘F’ Word.

Epiphany #3: Old women know The ‘F’ Word.