Bullet Park   ::   Cheever John

He gets out of bed for the third time,returns to the kitchen and makes some coffee. He brings a cup for them both. She gets out of bed, washes her face without examining it and then returns to bed. He puts on some underwear and then returns to bed himself. For the next hour they are up and down, in and out, struggling to rejoin the stream of things, and finally he dresses and racked by vertigo, melancholy, nausea and fitful erections he boards his Gethsemane -the Monday-morning 10:48.

There was nothing hypocritical about the Wick-wires' Monday mornings, and so much for the adolescent

The stranger might observe that the. place seems very quiet; they seem to have come inland from the sounds of wilderness-gulls, trains, cries of pain and love, creaking things, hammerings, gunfire- not even a child practices the piano in this precinct of disinfected acoustics. They pass the Howestons (7 bedrooms, 5 baths, $65,000) and the Welchers (3 bedrooms, 1 1/2 baths, $31,000). The wind draws through the beam of their headlight some yellow elm leaves, a credit card, potato chips, bills, checks and ashes. Are there songs for this place, the stranger might wonder; and there are. Songs sung to children and by children, songs for cooking, songs for undressing, water songs, ecclesiastical doggerel (We throw our crowns at Your feet), madrigals, folk songs, and a little native music. Mr. Elmsford (6 bedrooms, 3 baths, $53,000) dusts off his tarnished psalter which is something he never mastered and sings: "Hotchkiss, Yale, an indifferent marriage, three children and twenty-three years with the Universal Tuffa Corporation. Oh, why am I so disappointed," he sings, "why does everything seem to have passed me by." There is a rush for the door before he starts his second verse but he goes on singing. "Why does everything taste of ashes, why is there no brilliance or promise in my affairs." The waiters empty the ashtrays, the bartender locks an iron screen over the bottles and they finally turn off the lights, but he goes on singing, "I tried, I tried, I did the best I knew how to do so why should I feel so sad and blue?" "This place is shut, mister," they tell him, "and you're the guy who shut it." Then there are the affirmative singers: " Bullet Park is growing, growing, Bullet Park is here to stay, Bullet Park shows great improvement, every day in every way…"

Vital statistics? They were of no importance. The divorce rate was way down, the suicide rate was a secret; traffic casualties averaged twenty-two a year because of a winding highway that seemed to have been drawn on the map by a child with a grease pencil.