Ten Million and One
    by: Eric Rossborough

    On my way home from work I went to the bank, then
the Santa Monica Public Library where I got some
criticism books on Emily Bronte. I missed the bus, so
I went to the comic book store next door and bought an
R. Crumb comic. I stood under this massive spreading
tree a while, today, but I forgot about it. When I
went into the barbeque place, after I got off the bus
in Venice, the black guy at the counter, middle aged,
was watching a tiny portable TV. I sort of know him
I've seen him a lot of times at his store. He told me
about the bomb going off in Oklahoma City. "Yeah, I
heard about it," I say, "But not directly. You got it
on your TV."
    "It's all that's on," he says. "It's awful.
Seventeen children killed, 300 unaccounted for."
    "Jesus," I say. I feel moved together with this
man. The sustaining quietness seems precious. Each
moment and quiet drop of conversation is a pearl or
some kind of jewel floating in the sea of air, the
whole city. I want to do something really kind right
then, to make up for what's been done, to try to right
it a little bit. I just say "Jesus, it makes you sick
to your stomach to think about."
    He scoops my dumplings and beans into separate
styrofoam containers, closes them. Bags them. I pay
and watch the little TV which he has turned so I can
see it too. Now just commercials.