In mid June it is light out by 5:15 am, a tea flavored haze graces the avenues. During the summer months I do the route by myself allowing my parents to rest since they help me during the school year.
Sometimes I run on my route and then take off upon finishing and run to Bradley park to do hill workout then come home and shower and get ready to catch the 8:15 bus to go to French class.
***
The first official time we talk on the phone are
voices merge in a rippling stream of run-on sentences for over four hours. I wait until my parents are out at my
grandmothers then use the phone in their room, more than likely talking to the
creature of my dreams on the same bed in which I was conceived.
I take my glasses off and look at myself in the
mirror. She tells me she wants to be an actress once she graduates from Washington.
She tells me that she wants to study theatre in college and maybe pursue opera.
When she inquires what I want to do with my life I tell her that I really don’t
have a clue. That I might end up teaching high school history.
That I really want to go overseas for a couple of
years and live.
I tell her that more than anything else I just want
to run.
I tell her that I usually run a cool down run at
night before crashing.
“You run three times a day?”
“Yes,” I add telling her that it is really the only
thing I want to do with my life.
That and spend the rest of my life watching her cheekbones blossom in a bouquet of smiles.
***
She says hi.
She looks down. She is wearing a pink dress.
I swear she calls me Charlie when she says my name.
“I’ve been thinking about you. How you’ve been?
How’s your poetry class?”
"Sorry I don't have much time. We're supposed to have a famous published poet come to our class today
Remember you still need to read me one of your poems. You promised.
Laurie glances again in the direction of her knees.
"Yes, she says.
She promises.
***
We talk about music. I tell her I am mainly into rap
and hip-hop. I tell her that I also like some alternative bands from Britain and
that for some reason I really fell in love with this New Age Irish Singer named
Enya.
Anastasia tells me she has never heard of Enya
before
Anastasia
mentions a lot of names of Broadway singers. She tells me I need to get into
Harry Connick since she swears I am his doppelganger.
“Also, My favorite band is Guns-n-roses. I cried the
first time I saw the video for November Rain. She was like the prettiest bride
I ever did see.”
***
Have you ever heard of a band called Depeche Mode?” The French teacher says. Almost immediately I intervene.
“Yeah,” I say, “ I have the tape at home.” Alluding to Violator.
The French teacher looks at me. Her face the color of a wheat field in Bretagne, every part of her cheekbones radiating wit a copper grin.
***
Every time I ask Anastasia over the phone is she has a boyfriend she becomes mute.
“There was someone I thought I really loved and who
was really special and important to me only it didn’t work out.” She will later
say.
She then add that she is in a way grateful it didn’t
because if it did she wouldn’t have met me.
When I ask her if this elusive-other has a name
Anastasia grows silent again.
“Let’s just say, in the immortal words of the poet,
about the dead, nothing but good.”
***
On Sunday mornings dad gets up early to count the papers and have them arrayed on the front porch. Sometimes he will do the houses on the corner. He then sits down on our front porch swing and sips his coffee, indulging in a hidden joy perusing the Sunday paper while it is still if not hot off the press, stove top tepid.
“You know phat?”
I turn around and ignore him. I hold my papers under
my arm like I am carrying a sign at an binding protest rally.
“I’m a phire man—did you know that. I butt out
phires.”
I ignore him,. I tell him I am late.
I stop. His high school jacket indicates that he graduated two months ago.
"Ney Nephavor phoy. Fimma Phirefan. Few need-dih fatch fee -fhutt -out a phire."
he stands above the ashy crater of the flickering smoke pit. Without thinking he unzips the top of his jeans and begins to urinate on the flame.
He then begins to shake his dick in my direction, like he is waving a handkerchief at a steamer rolled out to see.
"Flay fith fi fose. Fister vaper-foy. Flay fifth fi fose."
I walk back into the direction of the rising sun to get more papers from my front porch and continue on with my route.
I say nothing to my father.
Nothing at all.
***
Saliva is yo-yoing from his lips. He is standing over the fire pit.
“Niter Newsphavor phoi you needs to watch me phut-out a phire.”
I ignore him,. I tell him I am late.
I stop. His high school jacket indicates that he graduated two months ago.
"Ney Nephavor phoy. Fimma Phirefan. Few need-dih fatch fee -fhutt -out a phire."
he stands above the ashy crater of the flickering smoke pit. Without thinking he unzips the top of his jeans and begins to urinate on the flame.
He then begins to shake his dick in my direction, like he is waving a handkerchief at a steamer rolled out to see.
"Flay fith fi fose. Fister vaper-foy. Flay fifth fi fose."
I walk back into the direction of the rising sun to get more papers from my front porch and continue on with my route.
I say nothing to my father.
Nothing at all.
***
It is two o ‘clock in the morning and we have been
chatting over the phone for hours Anastasia has already publically excused
herself to go pee twice. I try not to envision her setting the phone down next
to the balustrade of stuff animals lining her bed, going to the linoleum echo
of the bathroom, pinching at the top of her jeans before reeling her jeans and
whatever majestic pastel coloring of her panties might be handcuffed into the
untanned albino caps of her knees, giving the horseshoe toilet seat a backwards
lap dance before releasing herself.
Every time
she picks up the phone after using the bathroom she adds a much better.
“Much better.”
“I’ve peed three times since we started talking.”
“But I didn’t hear you flush.”
“That’s because I peed in the sink.”
Anastasia says ewe and gross and then comments that that’s disgusting before
beginning to laugh
We have spent the last two hours talking about
music. I ask Anastasia where were we.
“I think you were about to tell me all about your
dreams.”
“I was?”
“Yes, you already know that I want to conquer the
stage in New York or the screen in LA. Besides running all the time and being
in the Olympics what do you really want to do with your life?”
I grow silent.
“The thing is, of the other reasons I am taking
French this summer isn’t just because I am trying to get ahead in in high
school. For the past two years I was involved in this contest where if I would
have won and would have gone to France. It’s crazy I know. Last year I thought
I was close and I lost to this girl who I secretly had a crush on. It’s really
no big deal now that I reminisce over it.
There is a pause from her end. I say hello several
times. There is still a nuzzled serenity.
“Sorry I was falling asleep,” Anastasia confesses. I
can hear her yawn.
I ask if I can kiss her forehead over the phone
goodnight.
She says yes.
In French class I sit between Andrea and Jenay. The air conditioner is on, cool wisps of air skirting around our ankles. The kid who is always wearing a Ross Perot t-shirt looks at me with awe when he sees me sandwiched between the two girls.
Jenay’s bangs are dirty yet alluring. Andrea smells like chlorine and suntan lotion. Her legs are extremely well shaved and wears corduroy short and white socks and shoes.
"You said that we are taking a trip today,”
Madame tilts her head and smiles in Jenay’s
direction.
“Yes, we are going on a trip to France. “ Madame asks Ian to hit the lights.
She wheels up the layered TV VCR in the front of the
room.
“Today, each of you are going to be little world travelers.
Today each of you are going to France.”
Madame passes out diminutive blue books that have
our student id picture plastered inside.
Madame serves as our Tour guide. There are pictures of the Eiffel Tower. There is Notre Dame the gargantuan inverted air-conditioner of the Centre Pompidou, water splurting out of two story periscopes. There is Musee Dorsay and the translucent rhombi christening the glass pyramid serving as the Euclidean entrance for the Louvre.
Madame is giving me a tour over something I have lost yet never had in the first place.
There is the grisly mathematical Pi sign Arc Di trumphe serving as the time signature for the cosmopolitan bustle of the Champs-elysses.
Madame is serving as out tour guide speaking en francais. It is obvious that Ian and Ross Perot boy think that the trip is kind of cheesy. Andrea and Jenay seem to be going along for the ride.
There are pictures of cafes. There is pont neuf. There is Pere Lachaise and the graffiti on Jim Morrison's grave. The church of the Madeleine.
There is the metro stops. The underground cavity of the catacombs. Students sharing a croissant outside the Sorbonne.
I haven’t thought about that I could have visited all these structures. That by being immersed in French soil I would already have an elementary comprehension of the coral music that is the French language. That had I won Madame would be reference me in the vicarious tour.
I look at the city of lights, nostalgic splashes of the speech I delivered last January sting the back of my neck like salt water hissing off the shoreline near Mt. Saint-Michel.
I look at the City of Lights and realize that, two years in a row, I have immeasurably failed.
***
When I get back from Terry Inman’s Dad is still on the
front porch reading the Sunday paper.
“What?” I say, He holds up the paper.
I don’t know what to say.
***
Midway through the vicarious trip I find myself thinking about Karen Christmas thinking about how the last time I saw her was when I was exiting the conference after they announced her name as the 36th Young Columbus all I could see was her back, dress attired in an orchard of flowers, her blonde hair seeping down the gush of her shoulders. I am in Paris and it is April and I am directly behind the back of her gilded head, her haloesque tresses ushering me into new experience, accompanied by the succulent kiss of spring.
***
I am waiting for Anastasia outside of the church. Next week practices will move to Peoria players where we will come in early and work on the stage set before rehearing four hour nights for the next three weeks straight until first performance is scheduled to begin.
I still keep my lime flavored script with me everywhere I go.
Last night I talked with Anastasia until two in the morning.
Several kids enter the building. Next to me is Couri who plays Ethel Toffelmier and Jenny who plays alma Hix. Anastasia has told me time and time again that she vehemently despises the fellow members of the Piccadilly ladies, especially Couri.
Couri, Ethel Toffelmeir comes up to me.
I ask her what she is talking about.
“Stacia. She’s like this."
“I mean, you go being all romantic and she has three guys on the side."
"What? I ask nonplussed.
"She flirts with you incessantly and you seem to be really into you but she's like this with everyone."
"What? I ask nonplussed.
“Every new boy who struts him hear Stacia always comes in and bats her eyes at them and sends them a letter with her phone number telling them that they are really cute.”
"She flirts with you incessantly and you seem to be really into you but she's like this with everyone."
“Trust me,” Alma Hix replies “We share the same dressing room. We have seen her naked. We know what’s on her body.”
“What?” I say, trying not to picture Anastaia stripping in slow motion.
Alma Hix says the words Hickies.
Couri places her arm around my shoulder.
“Listen, Charlie. I’m sure as you were well aware there was some drama before you joined this little troupe. First Stacia was all over the person you replaced. Then she was, I mean, like throwing herself at Anthony. It was pathetic.”
I tell Couri I’m fine. I tell her, removing her arm. I just want to meditate and go over my lines.
“I mean, you should have seen Stacia when she first met Anthony. She was drooling all over him night and day. She kept telling Anthony that he looked just like that guy from Boys to Men."
“Trust me. The next chorus boy who comes in her Stacia will be batting her eyes at him. Trust me. It’s a given.”
***
" You seem like a really good guy and we would just hate to see you get hurt."
I pause. I have been rehearsing the scene in the second act where I make-out with Marilyn the Librarian who it turns out, is using her feminine chicanery to waylay my character from availing certain truths about the hero Harold Hill.
Couri tells me again that you are one of many, trust me, .
I pause. I have been rehearsing the scene in the second act where I make-out with Marilyn the Librarian who it turns out, is using her feminine chicanery to waylay my character from availing certain truths about the hero Harold Hill.
Couri tells me again that you are one of many, trust me, .
“I mean, you should have seen Stacia when she first met Anthony. She was drooling all over him night and day. She kept telling Anthony that he looked just like that guy from Boys to Men."
“Trust me. The next chorus boy who comes in her Stacia will be batting her eyes at him. Trust me. It’s a given.”
After I hear of Todd McQuellen's death I tell dad I am going to go for a quick run. I only mean to take my 5k course, running down the labyrinthine avenue abutting Bradley university, wending my way over to the house on the corner of Baker and Moss avenue that looks like a ship, but instead I find myself in Bradley park. I think of the son with the blonde hair. I think how naïve I was to think that they were hosting some sort of surprise party.
As is the daily routine I do the hills.
I end up at the statue of Christopher Columbus. My head in my lap wishing somehow this didn’t happen. Wishing I could walk up to his twin sister and be a anatomical pillar. Wishing I didn’t knowingly deliver something that served as a validation of loss.
I can't imagine how Mr and Mrs. McQuellen would feel getting their paper and then seeing a vehicle with their sons dead body ravaged inside on the cover.
I throw up twice, on the plinth, below the statue of the explorer whose contest I have failed more than once.
I can't imagine how Mr and Mrs. McQuellen would feel getting their paper and then seeing a vehicle with their sons dead body ravaged inside on the cover.
I throw up twice, on the plinth, below the statue of the explorer whose contest I have failed more than once.
***
“Well Hey—“ Bob says and he props open the screen
door and I go to collect from my favorite customers.
I stare at my shoes and smile. Bob inquires how French class is going.
“It’s going tres
bien.” I say. Bob laughs, he always tilts his head back when he laughs.
I tell Bob and Frank that I am an actor.
I think about the Dottie West shrine in their dining room.
"We’re big into theatre. Every year for about seventeen years we used to go out and stay
with some friends out in New York and see all the shows." Bob proclaims.
There is a smile on Frank's face. He says it was cheaper back then.
“There was kiosk next to the world trade center where if the show wasn’t sold out they would sell tickets the day of the show for half off because they like to have a packed house for each performance.
Bob says that they were both in New York on the bi-centennial and you should have seen all the sailors in the city.
They laugh. I have no clue what they are talking about but I laugh too.
It's hard not to laugh when Bob and Frank our around.
Bob Looks to Frank.Bob says that they were both in New York on the bi-centennial and you should have seen all the sailors in the city.
They laugh. I have no clue what they are talking about but I laugh too.
It's hard not to laugh when Bob and Frank our around.
"Show me what?" I retort.
Here, come down stairs, we have something to show
you, sailor.
***
At the end of the lecture Madame Breton again speaks
in French. She thanks us all for our cooperation and thanks us for traveling..
She then points to Ian to again hit the lights. She speaks
in English.
Arms raise like planks from the side of everyone’s anatomy.
She then asks us how many if giving the opportunity
thinks they will see France someday.
I think about the back of Karen's head.
I don't raise my hand.
***
After church dad goes to Bogards and buys a sympathy card. I stash it in the newspaper like a magazine subscription card.
We sign it with Love, the Von Behrens.
In the morning when the wedge the paper into the mail slot that Tim Flanagan said I was ass-fucking over a year ago on my birthday. I can see funeral flowers arrayed in the foyer.
I decided since the strange lady I thought was planning a surprise birthday party gave me ten dollars and told me to keep it that I won't collect from the McQuellens from a month. That I can factor my tip and pay for their paper, the paper I delivered with their dead son on the cover.
I try not to think of his twin sister who I covertly fantasize over nightly drenched in a planetary ring of tears, mascara smudged around her prominent cheekbones unable to stop crying, wishing she had someone to squeeze her lithe waist tight and make this all just disappear.
***
We sign it with Love, the Von Behrens.
I decided since the strange lady I thought was planning a surprise birthday party gave me ten dollars and told me to keep it that I won't collect from the McQuellens from a month. That I can factor my tip and pay for their paper, the paper I delivered with their dead son on the cover.
I would feel morally wrong asking someone to pay for a paper in which I delivered where there son was featured on the front page. I feel morally wrong intrinsically charging them to read about their only son’s obituary.
It doesn’t seem fair.
I try not to think of his twin sister who I covertly fantasize over nightly drenched in a planetary ring of tears, mascara smudged around her prominent cheekbones unable to stop crying, wishing she had someone to squeeze her lithe waist tight and make this all just disappear.
***
As I walk in there is a new member of the cast. He goes to Richwood’s. He is a sophomore. He is on the speech team. His name is Matt. His mom is currently serving as vice president on the Children’s Community Theatre board.
As I head back to my place after Rock Island I see Anastasia introducing herself to him. He is smiling, She is shaking his hand. She is flirting. As I pass her she gives me a perfunctory starfish finger wave. She doesn’t even say hello.
I help the fellow traveling salesman array chairs to pass as ersatz railroad car seats in the opening scene. Without feeling her creep behind me I hear Couri’s breath pollinate my ear as I flap out a folding chair.
“See, told you you were one of many.”
She says, with a toddleresque smirk stitched into her lips.
***
***
In Bob and Franks basement there is an entire wall
laminated with Broadway Playbills. There
are shows I have heard of and shows I have never heard of. There is Bye Bye
Birdie and Chorus Line and Annie. There is Hello Dolly and Oklahoma and
Starlight express.
“Like said, every July we would go to New York for a
month and just live it up and sop up all the museums and musicals.”
Frank pinches out the stem of a cigarette from his
top left shirt pocket. He lights it, take dual drags and then pinches it out.
I have just graduated eight grade. I lam learning
French and learning how to portray someone devious and conniving on stage.
I have just graduated eight grade.
I am learning how to socialize with adults.
“Which is favorite?” I inquire, pointing to the sallow
and black tapestry.
“Probably Jesus Christ Superstar.” Bob says.
“And Hair,” Frank amends, he turns to his cousin.
“I think HAIR was the first musical on Broadway to
be nude.”
Bob laughs, “Your not gonna be naked in you play are
you?”
I look down. I tell them no.
“Damn,” bob says laughing, Franks says if I was
going to be naked on stage they would probably need a larger spotlight.
The two of them laugh again. I laugh.
It’s hard not to laugh when Bob and Frank are
around.
***
In rehearsal that night I fumble over my lines my then usual.
I am thinking about Anastasia and the new Barber shop quarter . Several lines I come in early. The female lead seems to be PMS'ing out of control that I am coming on to her.
“Charlie, wait baby. Wait.”
Anthony looks at me and informs me that I am doing fine. He calls me brother.
Pam says, again. Before saying good, go on, before laughing.
I continue on. I an trying to flirt with Harold Hill’s love interest. From back stage I can see Anastasia still hanging out, filtering, smiling in ribbons sitting next to the new chorus boy.
I don’t talk to Anastasia for the remainder of the performance.
When I get home, I don’t call her as I had planned.
***
“Just
don’t go in there. Unless you want a spanking.”
***
As I go back up the stairs I notice a thick black
curtain than conceals an additional room. Bob points in that direction.
“That’s the pg-13 section of the house,” He says
laughing. I ask him what is behind the obstructing black curtain.
“We’d show you but we have to tie you up and gag
you.” Bob says, with a laugh, before asking me if I like to be trussed and
gagged.”
He laughs. I laugh. I have no clue what I am
laughing at. I tell him no.
Both
Bob and Frank break out in reams of laughter. I laugh too even though I don't
know what is funny.
It's
hard not to laugh when Bob and Frank are around
I leave Bob and Franks. I walk down Moss, take a right on Waverly to Sherman. I go to collect to Terry Inman’s I notice that the front door is unlocked. The
living room is flooded with what looks
like over fifty cans of Busch Light all in v various forms of corrugation.
I’ve let Terry slide before.
Diminutive grunts are echoing in the direction of the bathroom.
“Mr. Inman,” I say again, deliberately traipsing
through his the crushed beer cans of his living room as if I am in a mine field.
He is lying on the floor in the bathroom. There is a
beer and an overturned ashtray next to his hand. His pants and boxers are
lassoed around the caps of his ankles. He looks like he was drinking on the
toilet and then keeled over.“Mr. Inman are you alright?” I go to help him up. He barks in my direction. He asks me who the fuck I am. He asks me what I am doing.
He is silent. There are gray hairs sprouting off his back in thatches like a lawn with a court order to mow or abate.
He tells me again that if I am going to strike out to strike out swinging.
***
After our trip to France I realize that we have
three French classes left.I am mentally trying to divorce myself from
Anastasia, realizing that it probably wouldn’t have worked out anyway, even
though it is hard for me to refrain from looking at the sentences I am memorizing in the lime-colored script book w/out seeing her face.
I think about Andrea, seated next to me, with the straightest back I have ever seen.
I think about Andrea, seated next to me, with the straightest back I have ever seen.
I have just been to Paris with this creature. I am going to ask for her phone number.
I am going to ask her out.
I tell Jenay goodbye. As is customary I thank Madame
for her time even though I have a feeling she feels I am linguistically
incompetent. Andrea’s hair is the same svelte
black as Anastasias. I am directly
behind Andrea, the scent of what can
only be described as baby shampoo seems to leap off the back of her scalp in
rococo-shaped treble clef signs. I am about ready to ask seven digits of her number, directly behind her, walking out
the classroom as if in a truncated togo line about ready to escape into the ash
tray contoured russet interior of ICC
when I feel a tug.
“Hey man,” I look back behind me. It is Ian.
He is next to the student who for some inexplicable reason is always wearing an H Ross Perot t-shirt.
“What’s up man?” I say to Ian, a bit disgruntled.
He is next to the student who for some inexplicable reason is always wearing an H Ross Perot t-shirt.
“Dude is that your girl?
He points at Andrea who, due to the parabolic nature of the hallway, is now the size of a lost button.
“No, but for your information I was going to ask her out. I was trying to think of something witty to say like, " Since you’ve already seen Paris once today I was wondering if I could call you up tonight and relive the journey.”
The H. Ross Perot kid snorts. Ian smiles.
“Maybe I can still catch her.”
I look at Ian and ask him what is up.
“Hey, this was on HBO last night and I dubbed you a copy.”
I look at Ian and ask him what is up.
“Hey, this was on HBO last night and I dubbed you a copy.”
He reaches into his book bag and hands me a
cassette..
“Its kinda ironic. It’s Guns-n-roses Live in Paris.
I think you will like it.”
I think about Andrea. She has completely disappeared thanks to the curvature of the hallway.
I accept the gift. I tell Ian thank you.
***
***
The night after I learn of Todd McQuellen’s death I
have a dream bout his twin sister Mary. It is 4:30 in the morning and I am
walking up with my paper bag into the direction of the white house, which in
this dream really is the White House, although it is situated on Moss avenue
next to the suburban domiciles located on my route. It is four in the morning
but for some reason I feel compelled to collect from the family. As I press the
doorbell the hinge on the door flaps open like a the hinges on a sarcophagus. I
am all alone in the house and no one is there.
For some reason when I say hello I start speaking
French.
I am saying salut, I am saying bonjour. I keep saying
Ou and allo.
As I continue to walk I can smell Todd's twin sister Mary. She smells like strawberry perfume and tears.
I begin to speak French again. I am walking in the
dark. I am asking where she is at. I am asking if she is alright.
There is what sounds like a muffled stampede humping overhead. I realize then it is the sound of spotlights breaking into darkness and that I am on stage.
In front of me where I can surmise the McQuellen’s
back yard used to be I hear Pam. She is screaming my name. There is what sounds like a muffled stampede humping overhead. I realize then it is the sound of spotlights breaking into darkness and that I am on stage.
She is calling me Charlie.
“Charlie baby!! Charlie!!!”
As I look down I notice that my collection book has morphed into my lime green script. I continue to speak in French. From in the audience I can hear Pam.
“This is your scene baby. This is your moment. This
is it!”
I ask Pam what she is talking about but it sounds
like my cheeks are full of gummy worms. As I look out into the audience I see
Anastasia seated next to the new lad in the barber shop quartet. I see Madame
Breton from French class lambasting me in a fusillade of nasal whizzes
zat zeye z’am z’oing it z’all wrong.
“This is your moment Charlie. This is your moment baby. This is all yours. Make the audience feel.”
I still have no clue what I am supposed to do. I am still speaking illegitimate French. I still haven’t the clue what I am trying to say.
In the audience I can see Andrea from French class. I can see Jenay looking back at me with a bemused look etched into her lips.
“Charlie this is your moment baby. Charlie this is
your moment.”
In the audience I see a red-haired beaver that I can
only intuit is Coach Ricca. I see Terry Inmann seated in the front row passed
out. I see his girlfriend’s son standing over him with his legs like empty
pyramids fondling with his zipper ready to avail himself.
Two rows back I see David Best and his girlfriend
the ever elusive Renae Holiday. They are laughing in the similar manner.
I have no clue what I am to do.
I have no clue what I am to do.
I can hear Pam yelling at me. She is not chastising me. She is simply telling me to say my lines the way I rehearsed them.
As I open the green book blood trickles out forming pools of question marks on the center of the stage. As I look down as see the McQuellen listless planted in the center of the stage.
I have no clue what I am to do.
As I look out in the audience I see Laurie walking
to her poetry class, catching an inexplicable Peoria bus trolling in the back
of the theatre. I see a person who looks like cousin IT from the Adams family
that on second perusal I realize is the back head of Karen Christmas, talking
on the phone, informing her progenitors just what a kick ass time she had in
France.
In the front row near where Terry Inman is passed
out I see Bob and Frank each fanning themselves with a Playbill featuring the
name of a Play I have never heard of before. Bob is holding up a beer and saying “YEAH!!!”
Frank is taking one drag off a cigarette then stamps the cigarette out and then
somehow lights it again even though the theatre is obviously no smoking.
“Charlie,” Pam is cackling aloud, “Now is your moment baby. Now is your time to shine!”
“Charlie,” Pam is cackling aloud, “Now is your moment baby. Now is your time to shine!”
I look in the audience, Andreas is staring back at
me like she is bemused, her lips welded together in a listless hyphen. Jenay is
swatting at flies that appear to be orbiting her body. Renae Holiday is seated
on David’s lap and behind them I see that Anastasia is seated on the lap of
Anthony, Harold Hill.
He is combing his fingers through her forehead. They
are looking at each other like they are madly in love.
Finally I know what I need to do.
I drop down on both knees as if in supplication. Pursing
my lips I close my eyes and, as if learning to snorkel, press my entire face
into the dead son’s body. The lids of my eyes are stapled close. I am blowing as hard as I
can.
As I continue to blow into he corpse of my patron in
an endeavor to bring him back to life I can feel his tongue worm his way into
my lips. It is moist and plum-scented. I can feel his fingers spider and
crochet and then press into the back of my neck.
I am having a junior high make-out session with a corpse.
From the audience I can hear Pam applauding saying Bravo. I can hear Bob and Frank saying now there it is.
From the audience I can hear Pam applauding saying Bravo. I can hear Bob and Frank saying now there it is.
I am kissing a male.
From the audience palms begin to patter like spring rain. I can hear Madame Breton state, “Z’at ezz zit. Z’at ezz zee kiss!!!”
I look down I realize that the cadaver I was making out feels like it has boobs. I crack open the lids of my eyes and see that I am kissing Mary, his sister, she looks like she had previously been crying, but now she is smiling, she is reaching up towards the balcony of my lips.
She wants me to kiss her again.
***
“Laurie!! Hey!!!!”
It is the first time she has walked past without noticing me at the bus stop. It is the first time I have flagged her down voluntarily. I say Bonjour mon amis.
I want to tell her all about how I am learning to
dip into the flesh of a character on stage. I want to tell her about the
feeling I have when I performing my lines on stage and how it feels to evoke a succinct emotion from a random faces in the audience.
She looks at me as if I am about ready to have a
stroke.
“Are you okay? You seem sad.”
“No, “ She says,
“ I guess I’m just kinda pensive.”
I have no clue what the word pensive means.
“Oh I hate being pensive. Screw being pensive.
Life’s to short to be pensive.”
Laurie smiles. She glances at the emerald scroll of
my Music Man script I have rolled like a telescope in my back pocket.
“Listen, I’m in kinda of hurry.” She says.
“That’s okay. The bus should be here any second
anyway. Hey—when am I going to hear one of your poe-hymns. I would love to hear
one of your poe-hymns. You promised.”
Yeah, I promised. It’s just that, all the other kids
in the class are older than me and last class period the teacher brought in a
published poet and he ripped my stuff apart so I’m feeling rather self-conscious
who I share my writing with.”
“What did he say?”
He said they sounded like sentimental sonnets
written for a feminine deodorant commercial and the entire class laughed. Even
Terry and Scott Laughed and Scott just writes plagiarized rap lyrics.”
“Did the poet laugh at anyone else’s work?
“No, he was to busy talking about contemporary poets that don’t rhyme that no one has ever heard of and the only reason people applaud their work is because they seem to be academic or deep . He then passed around copies of the skinny chap book he self-published and said he would sell us copies for fifteen bucks a pop.”
“No, he was to busy talking about contemporary poets that don’t rhyme that no one has ever heard of and the only reason people applaud their work is because they seem to be academic or deep . He then passed around copies of the skinny chap book he self-published and said he would sell us copies for fifteen bucks a pop.”
There is a sadness welling in Laurie's eyes. It’s
like she doesn’t even wish to attend class.
“I’m sorry. He’s just full of himself. I’m sure your
stuff is wonderful. I’m sure I would fall in love with every syllable exuding from the tip of your pen."
The bus is aprowl down the street in an elongated
chrome shuffle.
"Okay, I gotta go. I’m so sorry. Please I want to
hear your poe-hymns though. I’m infatuated with this girl and I sometimes I think
she really likes me but other times I just don’t know. Maybe if I could write
her a poe-hymn she would feel about me the same way I feel about her. Maybe you
could teach me how to write a poe-hymn.”
“Bye,” She says, followed by something that sounds like the words Bob Markley. It’s
like she forgot my name.
When I board the bus I realized that she didn’t say
Bob Marley.
She called me Charlie.
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