I fall into my bed in the Gloucester like I am lying
supine on a life raft. A coffin. I am falling inside my body, the snout of the
phone still lying like a wounded snail between my unfledged nipples. I am
falling, I am plummeting in supersonic velocity, hurled through a hiccuping blur.
I am descending.
London is a giant ship, Big Ben serving as the mast.
Somehow we are on this ship wearing life jackets with little YC 93 motto. The
Big Ten is dressed up like Pirates. Spencer tells everyone he is not a virgin
and before breaking out into a rendition of I AM THE VERY MODEL OF A MODERN
MAJOR GENERAL. I am looking for Harmony even though she in on the opposite side
of the ship, even through the ship itself is fifty miles across. I am walking
to find her, splinters ravaging my bare feet. I see Greta and Tamera and they
are looking over the edge. Tamara is holding a fishing pole. I am still calling
Mark by his middle name which I do not yet know, hoping that he will somehow appear.
Sir Charles has a basketball and is playing a pickup
game with the southern lad from Alabama.
Vivian’s umbrella has transitioned into an epee and is slashing
everything in sight buccaneer style. London is a ship is a sylvan caravel, as
if the smattered jigsaw crumb of the British Isles. Eight members of the big ten are wearing
laurel leafs and togas and forming a conga line that, when viewed from
overhead, looks more like a question mark.
Lynn Minton has a group of Young Men with short
Haircut and ties who she is preaching is the future of our generation jump-kicking
in the cadence of the Rocketes. No where in sight is Mark who I keep referring
to by his middle name. Dan the future rabbi is wearing a yamaka that looks like
a crop circle timing Josh and the girl with the blush is running laps, holding
hands, running like they are cavorting. Bryan from Alaska is listening to Bob
Marley on Discman, addressing everyone as Mon, boasting that he is about ready
to decimate 4:30 in the mile even though he has not run once on this trip. Kenny
points at the Spin Doctors who, almost ironically, are mopping up the poop
deck.
I swear I see little Betsy wearing a cardboard Long John Silvers pirate's hat while whistling a number from the HMS Pinafore. I see Dawn Michelle missing
several teeth holding a cylinder of lipstick painting the lips of everyone in the
entire trip in the fashion of Amarillo girl
and her goddamn pins.
I am on a ship. I swear I can hear the ocean crashing
and purring against the shoreline of the vessel. I am my own compass, my own
navigational throb; everyone is wearing their official Young Columbus ’93 life
vests, as if everyone is almost fateful at an time this gargantuan block of
life we have find ourselves buoyed upon can sink. Can leave everything behind.
Can drown.
I see Jim Baker. His trousers and what looks like Revolutionary war-era knickerbockers are furled down around the caps of his knees.
His torso and loins are painfully white, almost the color of chalk. He penis is
unfurled across the bow of the ship like a carpet kicked out of a celebrity limousine.
He is calling me Harry. He is calling me
Fuckhead. He is telling me that the only person who wants to hang out with me
is that British Gay dude with the bottle of J & B scotch. Jim’s penis seems
to stretch out twenty feet. Next to me I can see Vinny with his camcorder
wedged into his eye who is calling me Tony.
Jim is telling me that I need to walk his penis like a
Kim Zmeskelesque balance beam she fell off of in Barcelona. He is telling me
that if I want to see Harmony again I am going to have to walk the plank. The
minute I step on his ameliorated penis the toga-clad Big Yen begins to go crazy
They are calling me Harry. They are calling me Tony. I swear Spencer even calls
me Charlie and states that he doesn’t know the territory. I am walking one foot in front of the other. I am
hurting, I am in pain. I am wondering why, with my stress fracture, how far I
would have gone this season in cross country. Jim’s penis seems to sprouting. From afar I see Meg Weaver. She is blushing. I
see Rita who is smiling before looking sad. She is stating the sometime vowel
y. She is asking me is all of this is actually worth it. She is asking me if
all I am is the person on this plank.
Jim has both his arms cupped into fists planted into
his shoulders. He is jiggling his body. His penis reverberates, I am quavering
left to right. I am trying to remain stationed on his cock. There is a vein
that looks like a jiggling eel placed on a seismic reader. Jim is calling me
fuckhead. He is stating that if I would like to see Harmony once more all I
have to do is remain stagnant and balanced and she will be mine.
I am walking. There is millionaire Frank McNulty
taking another picture with his wife. There is Liz Madigan. Every time I look
at Sheila I want to call her Rapunzel.
The edge of Jim’s penis looks like a sorrel mushroom
on steroids. He is calling his unit a canon. He is squirting from the mast. The
second I get to the edge she appears in front of me. She looks like princess
Jasmine from Aladdin. I am half expecting to hear Robin William’s geniesque
voice doing mid 20th century caricatures. I am walking toward Harmony. Behind her is the edge of the plank but instead
of oceans it is the dilapidated bluff of West Peoria, it is the steeple to
Christ Lutheran Church. It is Manual high school.
Harmony is juddering. She is doing a belly dance. A translucent coral valence dripping from her
temple like a stage curtain over a puppet show of her smile. She is undulating
her body.. I am walking. It is if I am being reeled in the
direction of Harmony. I am heel toeing it. The closer I come to Harmony the
closer I can see through her diaphanous outfit. I am getting to the circumcising
tip of Jim Bakers penis. I am next to Harmony that I can swear I can see her
navel winking at me, it looks just like the pyramidal Blenheim palace eye that is oddly on the back of my home states currency.
When I am in slow dance swaying proximity of her, her
coral drape drops. It is not Harmony. It is her roommate. It is Jenifer Flood
who hails from somewhere in Michigan. Is
is Janelle La Flaneur and she is biting her fingers while undulating her hips. Janelle La Flaneur who keeps on titillating
me in some sort of sign language. She is telling me to follow her. She is on
the plank . She is communicating to the mermaids who are caroling to each other
each to each, She is enticing me closer.
Before I know it she is licking her finger like she is
blowing into a kazoo. I am lost in her oscillating azure of her Blenheim palace
winking navel. She is licking her finger and sliding south, between her thighs,
she is smiling, she is hiccupping, she is biting her lip, she is touching her
body telling me that this is the place that Harmony needs me to take her,
informing me that this is the place I need to go, she is wedging her body into
her body, she is taking herself someplace she has never been before. I am at
the edge of Jim’s unit The precipice. The plank.
I am next to Janelle La Flaneur who has her hands down the
front of her pants the way the drunk British Bloke did when we checked into the Gloucester. I swear our vessel downtown London passing under Tower Bridge. I
am about ready to leap off. I am ready to delve somewhere I have never been
before.
I am ready.
I am ready to leave.
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