RSS 2.0 Feed1954 Revisited by a Former Cafeteria Waitress
Following the style of T.S. Elliot's "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock"
Let us go back, then, where the sky
Can spread its pillowed plumage out to dry
A hundred different ways after a rainstorm;
Let us go by way of curving mountain scene,
And stop at Richie's for gasoline:
That lone retreat where the desert begins
And the jukebox competes with a bowling machine;
A place we came to play and practice argument,
Most serious in bent,
While quaffing quarts of Coors at 3.2 per cent;
Oh, to hear again the tunes we
Played repeatedly by Clooney!
On the Post, civilians and the military
Would come and go in the commissary.
The purple-bearded hills that lounge upon the desert floor,
The stubble-faced hills that hump their backs against the clouds,
Shifted position under cover of darkness,
And rose to their elbows in the dawn:
They blocked with their shoulders a yellow ring of fire
That slowly climbed over their peaks of brawn,
And, shrugging in the wake of its shimmering escape,
Resumed their daytime posture with a yawn.
And indeed there was a time,
As the bearded hills that lounge on the horizon
Were siphoning secrets from the desert floor,
When I would meet the faces in the cafeteria line
By handing out salads on a plate,
Or slicing lemon pies for coffee break;
And I would learn the jargon and the codes
Of life on a post with the military:
There were MPs, RAs, and PX;
NCOs, Motor Pool, and Beer X;
Security, in uniforms of grey,
Stood guard at the Gate night and day.
On the Post, civilians were invited
To dances at the Service Club on Fridays.
And indeed there was a time
To worry if the wind would blow the fog
Of chemicals or germs out of the testing site
And over desert grasses to the area called Dog:
We who worked in Dog were given masks
Which we hung in the kitchen on the wall,
As safeguards when they were testing gas;
And a time came when the breeze did change -
The motor pool arrived with vans for us to clamber in,
And gave us instructions to vacate the place;
My heart beat time to the siren's din
As we roared past Fox in a race to beat the wind.
. . .
Oh, I would count the days in Dugway, count them all -
Would long to quit my waitressing vocation
And get on with my real life's education;
I wished to fly into that grand uncertain
Element awaiting me behind time's murky curtain.
I watched the people leaving, watched them all -
Their time at Dugway was a temporary phase,
Either they were discharged or they tired of the place;
New people arrived when the others were gone,
But when would I move on
To find my great adventure and my place?
A chance I didn't take was to escape with the baker,
Who wore a little moustache and made delicious pies;
I stayed on while those around me said goodbye.
Was there something like regret
Behind their smiles as they left?
I wondered as I wiped the counter tops and sighed
While the jukebox played the very
Latest hits by Rosemary.
. . .
And in the afternoon, the desert dust fluttered
Through the brush at Quonset huts in Dog,
On trailer homes in Fox, and past
Rectangle offices in Easy;
It filtered under sunglasses
And sat on people's lashes,
Powdering their shoes and hair and brows.
It came in the cafeteria on road construction men
With wind-whipped faces reddened by the sun -
Their eyes and forehead whiter, protected by their visors;
And when upon the dust a sudden rush of raindrops fell,
I liked the way it smelled.
And it did seem worth it, after all,
When my working day was over, to be free
To gambol out at Richie's for a while;
To sit among the tables and the beer and listen
To the song about a woman who had lots to learn:
Her throaty voice would vibrate with the question,
"Won't you tell me what I've got to learn?"
And she would croon with a certain warm inflection,
"Teach me - tonight."
And when we danced among the tables and the beer
To the words, "Graduation's almost here, my love,"
In my imagination, beer was love.
And it did seem worth it, after all,
At times it seemed worth while,
To be framed by the mountains and the cafeteria walls,
In a transient position with such momentary things
As short-lived friendships and fleeting flings -
It is impossible to say just why!
But as if strobe lights were throwing patterns in the sky
And the desert floor was a stage;
And the set decorations had places that gleamed:
Beer-bottle caps in the bottom of a stream,
Or foxtail grasses, silvery green,
Waving in the wind where the lizards dream.
. . .
In the spring of '55, I, too, would go;
Would travel many miles on a Greyhound bus
To a city of millions where my plans could unfold,
Learning to become what I wanted to be.
But other kinds of mountains would soon surround me:
My studies in art would give way to a family,
And time, like the vans that roared past Fox,
Would carry me, careening, with sirens screaming,
Through scrambled eggs and PTA and dirty socks.
There are weeds - there weeds among the roses -
My knees won't let me stoop to certain poses.
Computing machines have replaced my working tools;
I shall wear blue jeans and go back to school.
I have heard Rosemary's entire repertory.
Rock musicians do not sing to me.
Outside the cafeteria the dust
Is tapping softly on the windows;
He and I are at a table sipping coffee
When he reads his poem to me.
The tumbled words are a sudden rush of rain
In the hush of the afternoon;
Each one glistens as it hesitates and falls
To be lost among the cups and spoons.