Trying for a bit of Nabokov and Carver at once. Some Joyce, would wish.
He was really amazed. It all meant so little to him. Glimpses, maybe. Straight-on, what a waste of time. Blueberry Hill. Stained glass. Fleeting wisps of kindergarten and dancing songs and rainbow people. Palladiums and old Volvos, young parents in galoshes in the California rains after school, Marylls picking you up at two. Lockhart and first poems, a gift of soap in a drawer. Car radios. Rad. “I just sort of said Hell on it,” he self-talked. Many Mollies to go, many starts. Somehow red, the behow blue, or orange. Boulder Creek. Building Masons. All types, figures of white across the sky, black mountains, cults, tripods and sightings. Red Canaries. Cries. Children. Boots on the ground. Rad.
“You’re dad doesn’t really work in a bank.”
“He does too.”
Boots on the ground. Siphoned gas for night trips. Little naps in the daylight. Run! Down! Ricochets. Echoes in my valley. Water stripes flowing through the mud under the Humvee. California rains. Straight-on glimpse: boom. BMX.
What goes in Killian's head goes forever cutting lettuce and tomatoes and filleting salmon for dinner with his friends Can and Sally with his wife Mary and his children Wilma and Harry.
“Hello Sally! Come on in here!” Belittles her in privates. Killian the pirate with a nudge. Keep going! Forever! Exclaims Sally. Sally, bluejean lady, seamstress for the two families. Up and down. She strikes a pose. She breaks down and the others walk in. Jim her boy is in Afghanistan. Considerations! Commiserations, all round, but he'll be home soon!
He considers these people filth of bad ilk and evil brood. Glimpses of them, no afternoon suns with them now or then. Poshlust. Games for the blind. Non-mute. Skipper, schooner. Contriving to the end. Sending their children to war. Aping the one the other, blinkered such.
Killian the knave is especially to his dislike. He rummaged his memories for good things and sun-bent garbage canisters and Christmas chatter Candy Man dark glasses and Killian wrecks it all by nasty glances opaque yellow dog missives to his ilk and brood: Poshlustavists, each to the man of them and woe is all. The Third Rail. No Blueberry Hill. Finito.