I feel at home here. I work in Jackson Square. My colleagues are the fire-eaters and the jugglers and the painters and the fortune-tellers. I sit at a little table and my sign says, TALK WITH A SPACEMAN. I do what I have always done. I listen to the voices of this planet, one at a time. I am a good listener. Some people think I really am a spaceman, an incarnate glimpse into the infinite and mysterious elaboration of the universe. Some people think I am just one of them in costume, an Earthbound creature caught in time and yearning his way along. Look around. Listen to each other. I am both, and so are you. So let’s go around the corner, you and I, and get a flaming dessert together. Lately I’ve been thinking there’s a revelation to be had from a sweetly burning banana.
ALSO BY ROBERT OLEN BUTLER
The Alleys of Eden
Countrymen of Bones
Sun Dogs
The Deuce
A Good Scent from a Strange Mountain
On Distant Ground
They Whisper
Tabloid Dreams
Wabash
The Deep Green Sea
Mr. Spaceman Page 21
