XVII. WALLS

That night they went out painting.

 

Geryon did an early red-winged LOVESLAVE on the garage of the priest’s house

 

next to the Catholic church.

 

Then passing down Main Street they saw fat white letters (recent) on the side

 

of the post office. CAPITALISM SUCKS.

 

Herakles eyed the paint supply dubiously. Well. He parked in the alley.

 

After crossing out the white letters

 

neatly with a bar of opaque black he encircled it in an airy red cloud

 

of chancery script.

 

CUT HERE. He was quiet as they got back into the car.

 

Then down the tunnel

 

to the on-ramp for the freeway. Geryon was bored and said he couldn’t see any

 

good spaces left,

 

got out his camera and went off towards the sound of traffic. Up on the overpass

 

the night was wide open

 

and blowing headlights like a sea. He stood against the wind and let it peel him

 

clean.

 

Back at the tunnel Herakles had finished printing his seven personal precepts

 

in vertical black and red over a fading

 

stenciled LEAVE THE WALLS ALONE and was down on one knee scraping

 

the brush on the edge of the can.

 

He did not look up but said, There’s some paint left—another loveslave?—no

 

let’s do something cheerful.

 

All your designs are about captivity, it depresses me.

 

Geryon watched the top of Herakles’ head

 

and felt his limits returning. Nothing to say. Nothing. He looked at this fact

 

in mild surprise. Once in childhood

 

his ice cream had been eaten by a dog. Just an empty cone

 

in a small dramatic red fist.

 

Herakles stood up. No? Let’s go then. On the way home they tried “Joy to the World”

 

but were too tired. It seemed a long drive.