Stiltman loves his job, and everyone loves Stiltman. He is the handsomest man in town. His cheekbones are the highest and his longbones are the longest. His red beard snakes in the wind like a dragon kite from Chinatown. His chondiles are bulgy and fused. His shafts are as long as telephone poles. Every pace takes him another city block.
He steps mincingly, placing his huge, hard hooves down as soft as new peaches, dread careful of the cars. They fascinate him, these tiny little shells, each holding whole, precious human beings. "How lush," he thinks, "to be riding! Just think, all their soft, pink little feet pampered in luxurious rest. What a sweet life that must be, so much rest!" Stiltman walks all the time, but it's a fine job, so he doesn't much mind.
Stiltman did ride once, on top of a load of uncut logs stacked open on a flatbed eighteen wheeler. The trucker sounded friendly blasts of his horn now and then, and Stiltman grinned and giggled through the whole glorious ride, gripping the truck with his long fingers, the wind so strong he like to cry with the beautiful power of it all.
He drops by his wife's apartment on the 21st floor, and she is breathtaking, as ever. She tethers herself to the landing and leans out to hug him, wrapping her arms and legs around him. His torso is about the same length as hers, and they make an adorable pair. She breaks away from the embrace and tells him excitedly, "Darling, Your sweater! It's finished! Eight months of knitting, but it's finished now, and a good thing too, for winter is coming on!"
Stiltman rumbles in unabashed joy as Martha wraps a warm, woolen tunic around his torso. Then she positions his arms just right, and uses the dressing pulleys to raise the sleeves around them. They are almost too heavy for her, but years of dressing him have made her strong. She ties them firmly to the tunic, and he is suddenly warmer than he's ever been. "I'm the luckiest guy in the world!" he says, and she holds him very close. They drink tea and talk, and then they part and go to sleep, she in her bed, he leaning against the building, shaded by his special awning. She dreams of running free in a field of roses, far away from flourescent lights and adding machines. He dreams his only dream, that bittersweet, aching, longing dream, the dream of being enclosed.
I find Martha's sermons real.
