He called me from a payphone in New Hampshire. He didn’t like the mountains in New Hampshire. He didn’t realize there were so many of them or how they closed in on the village like a bully.
The kind of mountains that aren’t really mountains, he said. The kind you wouldn’t want to paint.
I don’t paint anymore, but he likes to believe I still paint, the way I like to believe he will make it big in L.A., so big he can come back here.
New HampshiretMassachussettsConnecticutNewYork and then Pennnnsssyyylllvaaaaaaannniiiaaaaaaa, he said. That’s what it felt like getting to Lancaster. There was nothing in Lancaster, he said. Except a buggy. It made him think. He had never once thought about the Amish, but now that he had, what the fuck? Why do they do that? The insides of the buggies looked cavernous, unsafe for the women, and who knew what kind of crimes were being committed inside those things.