Phil had finally come into money, in a big way.
The money, despite his neurotic concerns to the contrary, was steady, large and ceaseless.
A man who had, partly through his own contrarian yet sweet nature and partly through the envy and ignorance of the multitude, never in his life had good money or stable money for any length of time worth a damn was now on easy street.
It was unfamiliar and it made him uncomfortable.
For him, the walk of eleven blocks to Disneyland was a pilgrimage and a trial worthy of epic poetry. His health was shot, worse than even he thought, but in the pleasant morning light and relatively pollution free environment (the pollution having been temporarily exorcised by a thunder storm) he ambled along the roads of his familiar California.
He felt like one of those early nineteenth century Americans who had inherited a paradox of their own making. The ones who had walked through prehistoric forests, selecting what vast swathe of destruction to make through the trees and what perfect river to pollute or dam, then, when the inevitable had happened, forlornly mourning the passing of an elder more perfect world.
The settlers always built their homes on the bones of the pioneers. Which in its way is fitting, the pioneers having first carpeted the ground with garlands made from the bones of the natives.
He arrived at the entrance.
Not for him the tiresome line. He was a VIP, bought and paid for.
He had no current wife to play the harridan or chide him gently for his expenditure so other than a couple of stunned and horrified friends, no one knew what a large chunk of his first Hollywood money had been spent on.
He had blown his Blade Runner money on an all seasons all year pass to the House of Mouse.
The Six Foot Rat had hooked him up and now he was mainlining Americana at kipple central HQ.
7/23/2016 6:07:24 AM
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