Home of a Salesman JONATHAN KURTZ
Shoes stand in rows by the basement door, empty spaces in the ranks filling only at night. Blue chalk streaks the walls, shooting stars above the forest of cue sticks leaning in their racks, keeping vigil over tranquil waters, the green lake of the pool table. To the right, stools surround the private bar, enthralled by the Yuengling tap and humming wine cooler. Stairs creak like the joints of old men, though the office door opens without complaint. The mahogany desk displays its trophies: a pillar of human vertebrae and the knob of an artificial knee, price tags dangling from both. Sitting in audience before them, the leather armchair bears deep ravines in its hide, while elsewhere the seats wear skin unmarked by labor. Across the hall, sunlight in the bay window creates luminescent moons that rattle in glass cages, silver plates freshly polished by the maid that sings softly to herself as she dusts the oaken table supported by rearing lions. On the wall, the Virgin watches with compassion in her eyes, comfortable in her place at the center of the house. Alone in the foyer the grandfather clock counts the time with hiccups, wondering why the silence is so heavy.