T.J. Simoneaux

The Nihilist's Holiday

iUniverse Inc., 2003.

A bench beckons on Primrose Hill. I lean back, letting the wind whip freely over me, my face, my legs and hands, flimsy jacket flung open to the chill. I gaze back toward the City. Below, in the big pond, swans drift, looking like snowflakes awash from here. Somewhere beyond, unseen, the Thames

Ulyse Bland, 'a castaway in the chaos of the late 1970's,' has fled Louisiana for London after discovering the Sex Pistols on TV. Visitors from abroad often provide an intriguing new perspective, but a vision of swans on a non-existent pond at the bottom of Primrose Hill raises doubts about this fictional one.

My path to the park skirts the brown, patchy, vacant and forlorn cricket grounds. Past the pitches I stroll, past shouting ruggers in long-sleeved jerseys booting and tossing balls back and forth with much scurrying, legs ruddy in their shorts. Past the zoo, where I stare through the bars at crowded beasts, blank eyes staring. Past couples sauntering snug in bright colored woolly jumpers, ungloved hands clasped cold and white-fingered in unity. Past dogs pulling against leashes, squatting, growling