Number Stations
Number Stations
Excerpt:
Goldsmith’s mother took her own pictures of the ostrich. A man had led the bird to her door and kept it on a small chain. A sorry-looking sack of shit, she thought. The man and the bird both.
Her granddaughter caught sight of the thing and scooted outside, underneath it, and begged to climb on as soon as the man said he was selling rides. The bird dropped its head down to the girl and hung there like a pipe from under the sink, inspecting her. For five dollars the man would put her on it and take a Polaroid. He pointed to the camera slung around his neck and showed his mangled teeth in an approximate smile. The ostrich chuffed hot little clouds of breath.
“I see what this is,” Goldsmith’s mother said, holding closed her cardigan at her neck.
The man had taken off his cap in the manner of an older generation, holding it like reins. “I know Goldsmith,” he said. “I’m Bill. I work for him? Washing dishes?”
So this was the parolee her son had hired. She pulled the girl back inside. “I’m not paying you anything for anything,” she said. (One Story)