WITH DON AND PHIL AT THE END OF THE WORLD / Emily Newland STANDING UP STRAIGHT is getting to be more and more difficult these days; always I am leaning into the gray south wind, the land and the sea are leaning, creaking like Greenland ice teetering, everything pale and on tiptoe and leaning downhill all the time. I wouldn't be surprised if I were to wake up tomorrow morning and find the whole thing tilting a bit too steeply and myself sent tumbUng head over heels through Guatemala, Colombia, Peru, straight past the copper mines of Chile. What would happen if I were to just keep right on going, tumbUng like a drunkard down the stairway of the world, all the way down to the bottom? What would happen then? Maybe Td send a postcard to Don and Phil. Maybe on the back Td write: When Will I Be Loved? This evening, when the wind dies and the night lies down on the land and the sea, I will sit down in the doorway of the only cantina in Salobre and say, in Spanish 101, Please, Sir do I want a beer? The proprietor—a brown man, thin as a Christ and not much older than my brother—will very kindly in Spanish reply, Yes, Miss, at once. Very kindly he will bring, in a thick brown bottle, beer that smells like the salt marsh I can see gleaming in the distance as I try to stand up straight on the seaward side of the dune. I shouldn't be here. I have no papers, and not even 1968 is a safe year to be walking alone just out of sight of the old coast road three days south of Matamoros. Exactly twenty-four years from today, on the first of February 1992, at a cocktail and cigarette party— Mix & Mingle With The Pros Eight 'Til Ten In The Kon Tiki Room— on the opening night of a writers' convention in Los Angeles, I will meet a fourth-generation Japanese-American named Mel who will have written, and will be attempting to find an agent for, his combination autobiography/how-to book, Translating Rock-And-Roll Lyrics For Fun and Profit. How extremely, I'll say, bUnking down into the shallows of Mel's fourth martini. Will you excuse me? He wiU not; he'll begin to sing Love Me Tender in Japanese and I will turn and sail away through the clatter and fumes of the Kon Tiki Room with Mel bobbing 246 · The Missouri Review along in my wake. And then, just as I round the piano bar and chart a course for the elevators, Mel will segue into the refrain of Wake Up, Little Suzie, the song Don and Phil sang so many times, so many years before. And my heart will stand still, becalmed in the sea of noise. In a voice bright with hope and gin, Mel will ask me to marry him; I'll tell him Tm not ready to get married, which will be a lie because I will be ready, I most assuredly will be ready. But not to him. Not to him. Even today, here in the sand just out of sight of the road half a day north of the only cantina in Salobre, even today I know that after all those years I will still be in love with Don and Phil. I know also that I wUl not finish out the rest of my senior year at the university in Little Rock; and, because neither Don nor Phil is even remotely aware that I exist, I know also that if I die here on the seaward side of the dune, I will die unmourned by anyone except my tabby, Claudette, and my landlady, Mrs. Foley, a wide pink woman who lives in the house next door and who, the Tuesday after Thanksgiving, went out and bought a hundred and twenty-seven boxes of crayons and now stays up nights perched on a ladder in her living room crayoning on the walls. Two months from now, just before Easter of 1968, Mrs. Foley will stand up on the...