Clyde Devlin 1b.

Walking upon Robert Macnamara Square, every one of those Little Miracles assailed, hundreds upon hundreds of souls, teeming, piling over one another like hungry kittens, and those Little Miracles were become somewhat insistent: low thunder in the distance that shook him such that he felt it in the bottom of his stomach.

Greer was somewhere in the buildings beyond, and Clyde was hoping to touch base with him one more time, that with an insistence of its own, them having kind of what the magazines called a "Bromance", something of spermless anal sex, and kissing without holding hands, or watching the news at 11 at night without bothering to cover the nakedness--and yet they barely tolerated one another, a kind of see-saw motion of personalities shoving against one another in a kind of drunken rhythm, and a comraderie that bespoke something of loneliness rather affection.

MacNamara Square had been initiated sometime in the 1980s, sometime when they say things were kind of civil, more civil, it was said, but there were cowboys in charge, and agency people patrolling around, and all sorts--big contracts and important contacts and deals that congealed, solidifying at once, off-the-books, without the awareness of the Nobel Committee.  Nixon had spent much of the decade in China before his health went down; Carter, likewise, failures, maybe, jumping on the grenade of coming hopes, flinging themselves into the electric blue of the bug zapper once more, as to the breach, so it was said.

It had became a safe world, once upon a time, for a kind of ambiguity that erred toward the side of homosexuality.

Not that either was, or particularly wasn't, for that matter, but that it was just not a box that had a check mark on their paperwork, the same way they were not of Hispanic origin, nor Protected Veterans, nor declaring a Disability.

If they were, as Clyde speculated, Little Miracles, he was in a deluge of them, a brilliant day-lit cave of them, in a claustrophobe terror of being overwhelmed by the light of so many hundreds, and to make that even worse, more terrible, they kept on coming and going, even as he was moving along, so many of them, such that in a given span of seconds, no two could be mistaken for another, such that the whole thing was an existential confusion that smelled of pine trees, flowers, all the stuff of commercial soaps, sweet fruit, and herbs, those assholes and armpits generating a kind of ocean of odor about the whole place, finding no purchase in the concrete ground, or the black top, assholes and armpits innumerate, a Clyde's hair, his dark scalp, making a kind of marker point from an overhead view, such that he marked himself out without even knowing it, singled-out himself.


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