Four First Paragraphs of Stories I Have Not Finished
“The old woman wanted Platt on a plane to Raleigh by sixteen hundred but he wanted to meet in person, which is why he was sitting in the back corner booth of the Home Turf Sports Bar in LAX drumming his fingers on the table and wishing for a cigarette. There were no cigarettes and there weren’t going to be any. He had quit for the seventh time and thrown his last pack of kreteks in a trash can in Chhatrapati Shivaji with a yellow Bic and a sheaf of torn boarding passes. He had been through ten time zones since Tuesday, running on airport burritos, instant coffee, and a need to get paid that was beginning to make him sweat. And the old woman and her lawyers were late…”
“It happened that years back, when I was still in the Navy, I attended the wedding reception of a friend in California. My friend was quite widely traveled and had an extensive acquaintanceship, which may explain why once the delighted couple had left the reception did not—as so many do once shorn of their central purpose—cease to entertain. It happened that I found myself still seated at a long table outside in the dead of the night, zipped in my jacket against the chilly mist of the Presidio, when I had the privilege of participating in the most peculiar conversation of my life up until that point…”
“It came to pass that before the coming of the Prophet, peace be upon him, in a certain lonely and desert land there was a citadel. The sultan of this citadel was a mighty ruler, blessed by Allah with great riches, a strong army, and two heirs, each of the same age, having been born of the sultan’s two most beautiful wives on the same day, in the same hour, yes, in the very same moment, as much as any other. They were the great pride of the sultan and he lavished every possible thing on them: the most wonderful stallions, prized jewels, and delectable sweetmeats that came out of all the debatable lands about, procured at great cost. But these worthy sons were both well accomplished: they sat horses well, could draw any bow, and speak to any man, whether he was a shepherd or a noble vizier, with a pleasing tongue. Furthermore, they were both considered wise, discerning, and courageous…”
“We go to sleep between four hundred thread count sheets. Our humidifiers and air conditioners hiss and hum quiet, sighing lullabies. Do birds call in the night or does the wind roar? Turn the sound machine on, hear the mute and castrated murmur of the waves, or the distant drum of rain captured by microphones planted under a banana leaves in Puerto Rico. It is imported for us. For our comfort. For our pleasure…”
