On the night train to Paris I looked out the window and saw a school of merpeople practicing lawn tennis. The ghost of Gertrude Stein and the ghost of Alice B. Toklas sat sipping Pinot Noir and munching on olives as the merpeople fantasized about beating Roger at Wimbledon, but the women just laughed and the train went faster.
On the morning train to Mumbai I glanced out the window to see a flock of pelicans playing cricket in the sky. They had no cricket bats so fruit bats with large ears and large teeth graciously assisted. Instead of a ball they used peaches. The bats grabbed the fruit in their teeth and spit out the pits, but I wasn’t sure who was winning because I don’t know how to play cricket.
On the noon train to New York I looked out the window and saw JD Salinger chanting like a Buddhist and Jack Kerouac ranting like a madman and Allen Ginsberg howling at the moon, and I thought, “I want to go home and read books written by women! All this testosterone is way too sticky.” So I got off at the next station and got on a train to California.
Hope I don’t have to pass through too many westerns on my way home.