Orion You Came and You Took All My Marbles By Kira Henehan Milkweed Editions May 2010, Paperback 256 pages 978-0963753632

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Preamble

It was Binelli’s brainchild and only he knew all the specifics. Many many lists were involved. They were drawn up, copied, distributed, et cetera, with the terse minimum of words regarding the next set of Assignments and travel arrangements. We waited for them like someone might wait for something else. Christmas say, or aurora borealis. Dawn. The lists told us the what and where and when of it all, which in this particular instance were specifically and respec­tively: pillows, in the center lane of fifty-two lanes, and night.

The first had some leeway.

For instance, when I realized that hauling away all the unusu­ally heavy pillows meant there’d be no pillows on the bed for when we returned, for certainly we would return, eventually, at Binelli’s of course discretion, I sent Murphy back with the blue one. He dug up from god knows where some old baseball jerseys in ex­change, and that seemed to go over okay. Although I found that I also kind of liked the jerseys, all shrunken yellow arms and age-cracked words and the like. I held one up against myself even, to suggest perhaps that a jersey, just one, should be mine, but no one took notice or commented favorably on yellow being my color and the size, though made for young boys, being perfectly suited to my frame. And I couldn’t be greedy and Binelli had his eye on me anyhow.

—Binelli, I said to him, nodding casually.

—Finley, he said back with an equivalent head gesture.

We suspect him of being connected.

I’ve come to think he may in fact be dreamy as well and would sometimes not much mind maybe cranking it up a notch or two be­tween us, but there was right then the plan to consider and right then I imagined he needed all his faculties intact.
Though there’s nothing, I imagine, still to this day, quite so ef­fective as a girl in a little boy’s baseball jersey to set hearts to rac­ing. Or some other anatomical specific.

Though racing would not then seem quite right.

Call to attention, perhaps.

Neither here nor there. I had no jersey, we were short one pillow, and I’ve found over the course of my admittedly limited experience that an overall sense of just-having-lifted-oneself-from-a-dip-in-the-lake dampness provides much the same stimulation any one article of clothing could. I keep a spray bottle and some thin white T-shirts close at hand.

Addendum to Preamble

I kept also, I might as well admit at this point for the sake of accu­racy, the jersey, on the sly. I am terribly covetous.

1

It was all over gravel, but better than the last place. There was all over swampland and crocodiles.

2

At the designated location were many men of pleasing visage.

But if one begins with such a high class of word, a word in need of italic, of accent, one can hardly go on with the report. The stakes upped, as it were.

There were many men of pleasing countenance.

Aspect?

Many, anyway. So many so as to be unusual; on occasion there might be one; two, rarely; but here so many as to be unusual. I had to wonder. I was confused, besotted in no less than nine different directions. Confusion made me suspect, suspicion made me para­noid, paranoia made me appear insane, insanity made me desir­able, and from no less than nine different directions did the eyes fall upon me. Centered as I was at a central table, and so desirable with insanity.

I am not desirable.

It’s no single thing.

I have red hair and no freckles. The hair is straight as the edge of a page. There are other things, but I offer these three to illus­trate the nature of the difficulty: I lack the appropriate combina­tions. Red hair is acceptable if freckles are involved. If there are no freckles but only a broad expanse of milky skin, one should be curly. Et cetera. I excused myself with perhaps an excess of formal­ity. I used excuses that clashed and contradicted one another. I, I dare say, protested too much. I took my leave.

Binelli found me. He finds us all, every time. I should likely not have stopped so soon for a shrimp cocktail, but the stand was right there, all the little shrimps so pink and pearly.

—Finley, he said.

—Binelli, I said back.

We maintained a brief but meaningful standoff. I can win any such standoff. I can win any contest involving silence or stillness or maintaining a straight face. I once, presumably out of some heart­felt anger, maintained a silence for so long I forgot who I was. With speech went character, with character memory, with memory me. All I can recall from that time was the feeling of being something very very small, encased within some sort of roomy cocoon. I was erased entirely; that was before Binelli gave me the new papers. We stood off and Binelli lost.

—Finley, he said. —I need you to go back in there and talk to this guy.

—Which guy, I wondered. There were so many, all of such pleasing aspect.

—He’s in the back right corner. He runs Up All Puppets!

—What.

—Up All Puppets!

—Did. You. Say. I continued as if he hadn’t interrupted and then there was again silence, it being unclear whose turn it was to speak. The question having already been answered, as it were.

Again, a standoff. Again, my victory.

—Up All Puppets!

I tried to remain calm. —I will not.

—But you will.

—Puppets, I informed Binelli, —are my Most Hated Thing.

—Not so. He considered for a moment. —Not so at all. What about the Russians?

He had me there. I had no love for the Russians. Less than no love. A negative value of love. Despite my Russian papers and my tidy grasp of the Russian tongue.

—That being as it may, I told him, —Puppets are right up there.

—No, he said. —No, I think you hate that girl dressed in blue a little bit more than Puppets.

He was slick. I did, I did with every fiber of my being hate that girl dressed in blue more than Puppets, although no more certainly than the Russians. I hated also to concede but concede I did.

She was simply too tall, too gregarious. Too easy with her affections.

—Well then, he continued, —Puppets are—and only if there’s nothing I’m forgetting—third on your list of Most Hated Things. Let me, if I may, offer a parallel.

I let him.

—You, he told me, —are one of my Most Hated Things. I find you utterly and irrevocably despicable.

I nodded. This was no secret.

—However, he said, —you know as well that Murphy is, to my thinking, a notch or two ahead of you in despicability. Irredeemable despicability. And then, you are also aware, I find The Lamb perhaps more despicable than that. Making you, you Finley, third on my list of Most Hated Things. Which is why you, and neither Murphy nor The Lamb, are being Assigned the Third-Worst Assignment.

—Up All Puppets!? I said, quite unnecessarily.

—Indeed. Now, should you refuse, as I’m sure you will not, you will rise in despicability and therefore be Assigned perhaps the Second-or even First-Worst Assignment. Having risen in the ranks, so to speak. Would you like to know what the Second-and First-Worst Assignments entail?

His smile was such that I didn’t.