They walk down the path towards the train station and all around are the bird sounds and all a long the path he finds his lost memories of dawn’s drunken stumble home. They are like bread crumbs on the path layed out in reverse: here he danced for joy at spotting the chalet, here he picked a fight with a tree, here he stumbled, here he held her and wiped her tears and gave her his jacket, here he lost all hope and sat at the side of the road in despair, here too she started crying, here he paused to watch the sun pop up ubove a ridge of mountains and turn the lake a fire red, here he sang “Smoke on The Water”, here he saw a fox, here he saw an enormous white rabbit, and here was the train and they hopped on.
“How do you feel,” he asked.
“Fine,” she said.
“You’re not too high are you?”
“No,” she said. “I can’t tell anymore where the omlette ends and the hangover begins… It’s been a few hours, right?”
“I think so… hard to say really… Time and space being relative and all.”
“Whatever,” she said…
They were silent and sitting on the train waiting for it to depart and she stared out the window and he closed his eyes and in the suddenn dark, the silence gave way to low decible electric buzz, perhaps coming from a flourescent light bulb and the longer he kept his eyes shut, the more destinct and facinating the buzz grew in his ear untill it sounded like a hive of bees and he thought of how bees gather honey and if one bee finds a patch of flowers, it comes back to the hive and informs the rest of the hive and they all pour out and go to the exact same place as the flowers and gather the pollen. For a long time, no one knew how the information was realyed from the first bee to the hive and then some super intense bee person observed the scouts coming back and dancing and dancing and dancing around the hive and all the other bees watching the first bee, like it was Gene Kelley, or some pop and locker and then all the bees would start dancing and shaking their money, or honey makers and this dance was the directions. Someone figured out more or less how the choreography would break down into a simple syntax of five ass shakes to the tree, a twtich straight on, a wing flutter passed the rock, or whatever… it was what scientists call observable, verifiable, and repeatable. The bees had not only invented complex arhitecture in the form of modular, hexagonal housing and storage, but had invented some kind of syntax and vocabulary…. a language of dance. Bees were some freaky creatures he thought and the buzzing screamed now in his ears and he opened his eyes and woosh the world came flooding in and he was staring at a small green hexagonal sign on the wall. It depicted an abstract cigarette.
“Do you hear that noise?”
“What noise?”
“That electronic buzz?” he said.
“I don’t hear anything,” she said. “Maybe you’re hallucinating.”
With his eyes open, the buzz seemed distant and vague. “Maybe,” he said. “We should go dancing tonight.”
“Wow. This REALLY IS opposite day,” She laughed.
“I feel the urge to shake our money makers.”
“Money maker, money money money maker,” she sang.
“Bend over let me see you shake a tail feather,” he sang
And they sort of hummed down and smiled to themselves and danced in their imaginations as the train hissed and lurched to life.
