You got the fan in the window, tunes on the box, fumes from the sun and nothing to drink. Well, no matter. Got all this stuff & nothing, this table, this hot tail of incense wagging lazily through the air in here,<br> it’s time for<br> the dumb show<br> with no loads of guilt as you wag<br> no loads of guilt as you weave<br> no buckets no cups no bowls no guilt<br> as you begin to sway and do<br> your little dumb show.... We all work in a big stone building. Welcome to this building. I promise you, at the end of the tour lies something sweet. Please keep close to my heels, and remember to bow and scrape every now and again. And please, no pictures unless they are pictures of me. For I am your oracle, your god, your slave and your dog. Anyway, whatever. This department is over here, that department is over there, through those doors is another department, and up that hall is the door to the hall that goes to some other department. Did you know we’re famous all over for having the largest number of— What? him? oh, that’s just Poor Old Widmouth. Do? As far as I know he doesn’t DO anything. Just looks on in bafflement, his shabby desk before him, a corporeal gelling of the essence of futility. Actually, that’s his new desk. He got a new desk, only to discover that it sags in the middle and one of the drawers sticks and the handle broke off when he tried to pull it open. Look at him. He walks crooked, he has a bald spot, his mouth hangs partway open, his tie is half-tied, his shirt hangs down to his knees in front and halfway up his back in back, and he has ray-gun sun glasses on. Nobody ever approaches him for any reason. (EVERYBODY ELSE GOES INTO THE ADJOINING ROOM FOR CUPCAKES, BLOWJOBS, WHATEVER, BUT YOU, YOU GO OVER BY POOR OLD WIDMOUTH FOR SOME REASON) Poor Old Widmouth is sitting blankly at his desk. His organizer looks like something he had in high school. You think he might be a plain nice guy, or he might not be. You aren’t sure what he smells like. You light up and offer him one. To your surprise, he accepts. You sidle closer for some reason. There is a piece of open mail on his desk, which you just happen to read. It says, WHO ARE YOU TRYING TO BE? There is a great, watery moan from the other room-someone having a writhing, whiplike orgasm. You could be in there, you know—with your little pink dress and your pretty silver earrings, and your exquisite little bitty earlobes, you’d make a scrumptious feast for some wellwishing, cum chomping, titsucking naughty boy fucker why don’t you go on in and get you some. and get you some. In fact you start to turn around—you have discerned what it is Poor Old Widmouth smells like, and decided you don’t like it. You start to get that fizzy tingle in your loins, and your asshole loosens up— Just then Poor Old Widmouth says, “I have to make a phone call.” But he doesn’t have a quarter and they didn’t give him his own phone and he doesn’t have a quarter and he’s looking at you. Tell me something. Why did you elect to go on this tour, anyway? For some reason, you reach into your hot little pocket, pull out a brand new quarter, the one with the shiny picture of a tree on it, and put it between your lips. This sort of thing has never happened before, that you can remember. Meanwhile, Poor Old Widmouth’s lazy eyes are still on you, full of promises of late night greentinted bus stations, convenience stores, weeds beside highways, squarish American cars, a language you don’t understand. You move slowly forward like a trout. The current swirls your pink dress. You move your head forward and can feel every move by every little muscle in your neck. You move your head forward, and the mouth of Poor Old Widmouth swims up and your lips meet briefly, coolly, dryly, as you pass the quarter to him. The pay phone behind you rings. More bemused than startled, more amused than bemused, you turn around to pick up the receiver. (Somehow you get the feeling you are not going to get reimbursed for this.) It is ringing that particular, bright-metal ring that only a pay phone can ring. You answer and Poor Old Widmouth asks for you. As your words falter, he asks you to describe what you are wearing. Is the air conditioning working properly in here? Your feet are cold. “Well I, uh...<br> “Well. Okay.<br> “My hair is still a little damp from my shower. It’s pulled back by a brown and gold scrunchy thing. My neck is bare and smooth. I have on a pink dress with a wide, round neck line and loose, short sleeves. It pulls in a little hungrily around my waist but there’s no belt or anything. My legs are freshly shaved and I can feel the dress caressing my calves as I move. I have on tiny silver earrings. I have sandals with many thin, black straps that offset my arches nicely.<br> “And. Uh. Well. I have on shimmery green underwear.” He has of course been watching you the whole time. Just then the tour guide comes back out into the hallway. Where the other guests have gone is a mystery. What do you think you are doing? Suddenly you’re very uneasy. It feels late. I am sorry but the tour. Is over. Your heels sound empty on the empty hallway floor. Under the tour guide’s watchful stare you head obediently toward the stairs. The tour is over. The tour is over. Accept it. It is time to go back to work. At the first step to go back down to ground level, you stop, turn around, look back. There is the tour guide, resplendent, undiminished, proud. There is Poor Old Widmouth, hunched over his faltering desk. The water fountain’s compressor clicks on, sending ridges of wiry noise out into the hall. The green, cool hall. What are you going to do? I can’t tell you. You can’t call someone and ask, cuz you gave away your last quarter. And anyway, everyone you know works in this building. Welcome to this building. As you dance, as you swim, as you swirl in your little pink dress no guilt— as you do your little dumb show.