The Ballad of Baby Gumdrops

X. Do you want baby gumdrops?

Z. Do you want anything while I’m up?

Y. It’s 72 degrees in here.

Z. No, I don’t want baby gumdrops.

Y. This here says a tree fell on a house. It’s crazy out there.

X. You sang Hall & Oates’ “Private Eyes” in my dream. Then you sang Einstürzende Neubauten’s cover of Lee Hazelwood’s “Sand” in Spanish to me, while our bedroom splintered in the vortex of a tornado.

Z. In the vortex of your libido?

X. A mosquito? An albino? Tragic Mulatto?

Y. Wait, are you talking about the literary trope—or the post-punk band from out west?

Z. You don’t sing “900 Foot Jesus” for me anymore!

X. Wait. Wait. Can we start this r.e.m. cycle over again? It’s gotten out of hand.

Z. You mean like baby gumdrops?

X. Shut up. Stop!

Y. Yes, I’d like to hear Judo for the Blind in its entirety, please.

X. Stop.

Z. Stop it!

What I’m Reading:

“My dreams are peopleless and inhabited by gusts of wind and flattened grasses. Last night the dark was sticking to the walls of the cabin and to the corners of my mattress. The dark stuck to the window in the loft and coated the dirty glass, then the dark straddled my chest. It held me down against the mattress last night with a heavy pressure as it exhaled on my face slowly.”

— Debbie Urbanski / After World: A Novel