Pick me up, says the baby.
No, says Sweezus. I need thinking time. There are movies about this kind of thing....
Waah! wails the baby.
Pick him up, says Ortega y Gasset. What's the problem?
He's met himself in the future, says Sweezus. Can't happen.
Too late! says the baby.
Too early, says Sweezus. How old are you?
Two thousand and twenty six, says the baby, pulling numbers out of the air.
A snort is heard overhead, and a vague tutting.
No one looks up.
How old? says Ortega y Gasset.
Three, says the baby.
You are not three, says Ortega y Gasset.
One, then, says the baby. Pick me up, NOW!
Sweezus thinks: Man, this is cosmic!
He pokes at the baby.
Nothing.
I want to be like you, says the baby. I want those shorts and that haircut.
Get back up here this minute! snarls Saint Joseph. Or I'll come down there with my hammer.
A pigeon alights on the lap of the Virgin.
She folds it to her bosom.
It's all right dear, says the Virgin.
The baby looks up at the pigeon, which has taken his place.
That's my parrot, says the baby.
As long as it doesn't come near me, says Sweezus. I hate birds. I never could stand them.
Wrong, says the baby. You used to love all the birdies.
Sweezus is puzzled. How could this have happened?
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment