Sometime during the winter. In the West Wing the caretaker stacks (neatly, with axe) 20 legs of lamb, 12 turkeys, 2 dozen pork roasts. The Adler on the table in the great white hall (lots of ideas, no good ones). And elsewhere the maze—polaroid dangling from the hand. Topiary fever. Worst we’ve had in years. Downstairs, at the bar, he says: “I love the little son of a bitch” [high-pitched noises, screams] Some blackhearted things, out of the Games Room with their blue dresses walking.
Scene: floral blue on white. Look, Jack, there ain’t nothing in [elevator music, twins] The carpet soft, geometric. Emerald-green and on the bed (blue robe)—most dream I ever. Had to see: bathroom, open, green and chrome. Is there is there? Who draws the curtain wide, steps. Out of the bath toward you (you toward her) in the floral West. Marks on the back, pretty white legs. Faithful hands slicing toward you like love.
Music, balloons. Back at the bar, Lloyd—whiskey for time. Been away but now I’m back. Been away but now I’m. Wolf Creek. Red Mountain. All work and no meat makes [violins] [screams] Where the hell did you, Lloyd? With limp and axe in hand, axe to the heart (the immaculate suit, the voices). Through snow and into the maze Overlook we go.
Elevator. Every little photograph on every blank wall: a dull boy. The quiet summer.