Desolation Angels Read Free Page A

million characters—here they all come, as swiftly we roll east, as swiftly the earth rolls east.
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    For smoking all I have is Air Force paper to roll my tobacco in, an eager sergeant had lectured us on the importance of the Ground Observer Corps and handed out fat books of blank paper to record whole armadas apparently of enemy bombers in some paranoiac Conelrad of his brain—He was from New York and talked fast and was Jewish and made me homesick—“Aircraft Flash Message Record,” with lines and numbers, I take my little aluminum scissors and cut a square and roll a butt and when airplanes pass I mind my own business although he (the Sgt) did say “If you see a flying saucer report the flying saucer”—It says on the blank: “Number of aircraft, one, two, three, four, many, unknown,” reminds me of the dream I had of me and W. H. Auden standing at a bar on the Mississippi River joking elegantly about “women’s urine”—“Type of aircraft,” it goes on, “single—, bi—, multi—, jet, unknown”—Naturally I love that unknown, got nothin else to do up there on Desolation—“Altitude of aircraft” (and dig this) “Very low, low, high, very high, unknown”—then SPECIAL REMARKS: EXAMPLES: “Hostile aircraft, blimp” (bloop), “helicopter balloon, aircraft in combat or distress, etc.” (or whale)—O distressed rose unknown sorrow plane, come!
    My cigarette paper is so sad.
    â€œWhen will Andy and Fred get here!” I yell, when they come up that trail on mules and horses I’ll have real cigarette paper and my dear mail from my millions of characters—
    For the trouble with Desolation, is, no characters, alone, isolated, but is Hozomeen isolate?
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    My eyes in my hand, welded to wheel to welded to whang.
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    To while away the time I play my solitaire card baseball game Lionel and I invented in 1942 when he visited Lowell and the pipes froze for Christmas—the game is between the Pittsburgh Plymouths (my oldest team, and now barely on top of the 2nd division) and the New York Chevvies rising from the cellar ignominiously since they were world champions last year—I shuffle my deck, write out the lineups, and lay out the teams—For hundreds of miles around, black night, the lamps of Desolation are lit, to a childish sport, but the Void is a child too—and here’s how the game goes:—what happens:—how it’s won, and by whom:—
    The opposing pitchers are, for the Chevvies, Joe McCann, old vet of 20 years in my leagues since first at 13 age I’d belt iron rollerbearings with a nail in the appleblossoms of the Sarah backyard, Ah sad—Joe McCann, with a record of 1–2, (this is the 14th game of the season for both clubs), and an earned run average of 4.86, the Chevvies naturally heavily favored and especially as McCann is a star pitcher and Gavin a secondrater in my official effectiveness rulings—and the Chevvies are hot anyway, comin up, and took the opener of this series 11–5 …
    The Chevvies jump right out ahead in their half of the first inning as Frank Kelly the manager belts a long single into center bringing home Stan Orsowski from second where he’d gone on a bingle and walk to Duffy—yag, yag, you can hear those Chevvies (in my mind) talking it up and whistling and clapping the game on—The poor greenclad Plymouths come on for their half of the opening inning, it’s just like real life, real baseball, I cant tell the difference between this and that howling wind and hundreds of miles of Arctic Rock without—
    But Tommy Turner with his great speed converts a triple into an inside-the-park homerun and anyway Sim Kelly has no arm out there and it’s Tommy’s sixth homerun, he is the “magnificent one” all right—and his 15th run batted in and he’s only been playin six games