Academic journal article TriQuarterly

Gold Rush: 1848/1996

Academic journal article TriQuarterly

Gold Rush: 1848/1996

Article excerpt

The motorcycle cop was performing rodeo stunts when I called, "That all you got? Serving and protecting worn you out?"

Yesterday, while Chicago's Best put on their Denver boots, Ms. Nature kicked some lake into the Planetarium. The lower stars got soaked.

Today, the air is thin and gold.

I'm in fake fur; he's in Sergeant's blues. He gets a hot dog, I make do with coffee.

He asks if I want something else.

Like a contestant in a beauty pageant who can't say "baloney sandwich," I reply "World Peace."

Everybody comes to private terms with public eyes.

Do I limp apologetically in tattered satin through a classy bash when all the other partygoers sparkle loud enough to make Miss Universe feel shabby?

Or be glad I've got a mouth on me, and, when someone's listening, lines to speak?

While gusts begin to whip at us, I tell the cop my top secret: I once stripped for a magazine, like starlets do for art. I did it to be nude.

Nobody's girl was everybody's baby after that - for five lousy hundred bucks. Everybody's glitter-driven nitwit's what I was, though I'd studied all the Best Plays in the language.

Now I know my destiny: no destiny. Now, of all the tragic, comic, and romantic heroes, it's the fools I love. Who cares who they are? They just walk on and harmonize -

nothing like the fools in the Commodities Exchange, where we escape the gale. Here, it blusters inside, with shrieks for "Wheat! …

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