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 About twenty years ago I rebelled against myself in order to court my magician (I thought he lived south of cinturon, where my Nile meets her maker). I ignored old friends and distant brothers and I begged a new crowd to feed on my poison. I ate maryjane for breakfast and plastic razor blades for lunch. I stopped ironing my shirts and gave the undershorts to charity. I preached a brimstone and bonfire religion to other disappointed priests. I told myself god was a perfect orgasm, that everyone knew this truth inside their musky hearts, but no one dared admit it. I thought there were good reasons for their silence. I observed that half the population turned grey and disgusted before they could hit the mark, and the rest thought talk might break the spell. Warped I was, but I got off for a while, and I never hurt anyone too deep. No one believed my routine beyond the rush of terror inside my eyes.Saturday night was my sabbath. I awoke to uncertain evenings on sweaty couches where I slept disturbed by daylight nightmares. Rent-free and guilty. I shook off dead ghosts' vague recriminations, then tuned my body with plant life and ginseng tea. At moonrise I commanded the subway chauffer to tunnel me home to meet the rest of misery's company. Metro line. Metallic screech and blue lightning. The smell of mildew and drunks' breath. Next stop skyscraper heaven. Downtown. Corner of Hope Street and Hell. First I hit my favorite dance club, one where sex lines blurred and bartenders planted deringers beneath the twenties. Weak drinks cost a buck and served an indefinite purpose. My most memorable partner painted his beard with white powder and pink paste, and her breasts were divine. She told me he'd slap me if I tried to touch, but we smiled as I grew hard. On a special night in the center of that city I strolled curious past the barker and into a Market Street side show. Long corridor painfully bright with marquis lightbulbs. In those days I owned no wrinkles worth hiding, so I walked on. Tired red-carpet road stained with black footsteps. Pine Sol perfume. A fat man wearing dried pimples on a swollen face. I asked him which way to the theatre. He laughed and pointed to a row of curtains. I chose the closest curtain. Behind it I found a booth, a four-foot square closet, bench seat on one side, a cloudy mirror opposite. I sat down and began to study my face till I grew frightened. I knew the fat man hadn't sent me here to kiss my soul, so I searched my surroundings. Below the mirror I noticed a shiny steel tongue with a dollar bill's picture on a plaque above it. Like the laundromat or the carwash. I understood. My jeans hugged my legs too tight, but I shimmied and pinched a smacker from my pocket. I knew what to do. Young and angry, but never a moron. I inserted and shoved, and the mirror began its slow rise into the ceiling. She was tall, her skin much browner and blush than my own. Her nipples swelled larger than her breasts. Her smile rested faint and pretty on a delicate face. I imagined by her kind expression that she meant to tell me I was different. I believed her. I loved her. "What do you want to do?" Her voice scratched tinny through the mechanical speaker, mid-window. "Come over there with you." She giggled, and that's when I saw what she really looked like. I loved her all the more. Nothing would stop me from touching starlight. "We can't do that, but whatever else you want is fine." Her eyes grew warm, and that's when I saw that she really understood me. I unbuckled, unzipped and repeated my shimmy two-step. I'd never been there before, but I felt like a baby bird falling from its nest. Spread your feathers, aquila, whispered my magician. So I spread and I began to fly. She spoke velvet reassurances, but I no longer cared what she said; I'd made my appointment with god on time. I stared and I stroked. I ached and I groaned. But I kept my eyes open. And then suddenly the mirror slid downward. Cranky motor. Cruel elevator. Peter closing the gates in my face. But slowly, as if to tease. I bent my neck and croaked into the microphone. "What now?" Just in time I saw her finger point toward Washington's hand. Half-naked and determined to save myself, I shoved down the Levis till the pockets felt loose, and found more legal tender. This time I set five dollar bills on the ledge beside George's portrait. I pressed their edges flat enough to gain readmission, and the lord reappeared. I finished loving her in a fifty-cent slice of time, used the rest of my money to clean up the mess, cried goodbye and walked out pretending to be just one more hero in a nightstorm. I worried that the fat man might notice the slump of my shoulders, but he was too busy hearing the next confession to notice the absolved. I hopped the next train back to my couch. I fell down with dusty pillows, but I couldn't sleep till my body died around sunrise. I dreamt of god and of my lady behind her mirror. I worried, but for myself, not for her. Religion had failed me, and I couldn't blame it on the weak drinks. *** Thanks for stopping by to visit us here at SpilledBeans.com. If you'd like to be notified whenever something new is posted to SpilledBeans.com, then please join the Spilled Beans notification list. -- Con affetto, Anthony V. Toscano, Editor SpilledBeans.com  |
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