Our building watchman came up with an explanation about a telephone call he had made to me .Was he drunk and consequently incoherent? No, sir. I had gone out to a club to find our neighbor who was playing cards. Was he not sober? He clapped his palms to gesture the neighbor’s playing cards.
I lost track of the contents of what he was saying. I was merely following the form of his telling. He was just clapping and I merely saw him in a pantomime of a character who was clapping. Funny, how he was clapping, how a watchman hid his laughter under a dark mustache .Funny how he was clapping like a spring-driven monkey clapping its cymbals, when turned on by the key in his behind. There was something amusing about the man who was shuffling his cards in the club. It was funnier to see the repetitiveness of a watchman’s hand movements mimicking the shuffling of the cards.
Stories are made not by human actions per se but more by the form of their telling.