China Knowles—Saturday Night—House of Letters

I’m China and I am no longer a walking anything other than a human being.

Lansdale and Shane and I go to talk to the dangerous bush man.

He’s not in his bush so we ring the doorbell at his house.

When he answers the door, he’s dressed in shorts and an old T-shirt with the sleeves cut off and he’s not wearing his trench coat. He invites us in, but we stand at his doorway looking in.

Patricia sits, freshly showered and hand-combing the knots from her hair. She is naked, but not in a bad way. In front of her is a lamp that shines hot light onto her and in front of the bush man there is a block of plaster already partially carved, white dust on the floor, of her basic shape.

“Forgive me,” the bush man says. “I can’t stop working.”

He leaves the door open and we stand on the doorstep and watch him pare away at the block of plaster in long, sweet strokes.

“If you come in, please try to be quiet,” he says. “My mother is sleeping upstairs.”

We can’t come in. It’s too full of quality letters. There’s a kitchen and each plate is a letter. Each fork. Each glass is a letter. Every inch of the walls is a letter. Every crack in the ceiling, every spill on the carpet. Every piece of furniture is a letter. Patricia is sitting on an L. The bush man is sitting on an M. The door is an enormous lowercase i.

We can’t walk through the i.

“My house is full of answers,” the bush man says.

This is when we realize we don’t understand the questions.

I’m China, girl with many questions, girl with no answers.

Shane asks, “What’s with that guy’s house?”

“The dangerous bush man loves letters,” I say. “It’s his thing.”

“Oh.”

Lansdale says, “Doesn’t really clear anything up, does it?”

“No,” Shane answers.

“You’ll understand,” Lansdale says. “Our town is very strange.”

“Our town is very ordinary,” I say.

“What will you do about your friend?” Shane asks.

“Stanzi will come back,” I say. “She probably needs more therapy.”

“Her lab coat,” Lansdale says. “She needs her lab coat.”

“Yes,” I answer. “Let’s take it to her.”

When we get to Gustav’s house, I ask him if he’ll come with us and if he’ll bring Amadeus with him.

We are a gang of four teenagers now. We walk down the street as if we own it because we do own it. It’s our street. We were born here. We’ll either stay or we’ll leave depending on how you treat us.