It was a starlit, livid city night in a neighborhood (with fire escapes and storefronts and anthemic tunes coming from rooftops). From a moving car, I saw a young woman through a shop window buying fish with $5. I rode down a hill, and saw Eastern European women with matching plastic shopping bags readying themselves for a night in the streets. I took up with them (my body disappeared). Their high-heeled sandals clicked to streetlight spots where they stood, dragging makeup from the bags, doing each other's lipstick while insects shot around in the glow. I stuck with one, who chose her place to work the evening with the precision of Sam Beckett. I found myself in a luxury car, passenger seat buckled, with a familiar driver; a Chiropractor's daughter I'd known from High School. As she rounded dark curves in the silent Mercedes, I looked out of the window for those painted up ladies. I saw at once that I'd been wrong about them, as I watched the silver Benz run over the one who's features struck me as bold. She was laying in the deepest dark corner of the curve in the street. The rich bitch driver halted and got out. She spoke to the body: "Now get up, I know that didn't hurt you. This is the kind of thing you do. Get in." A black plastic garbage bag in the backseat took the shape of a side-slumped woman.
I moved on. The streets wound and ran me through, I passed by faces, the fish shop girl, the other Eastern European prostitute. I met a couple at a late night diner, and we sat with coffee. We were loud sometimes, charged with energy and making a scene, until the hostess came over and asked if we wanted jobs. I said no; but my brother might. The place was staffed by young people, all attractive and seemingly good. It got later, and the mood changed; the TV broadcasted what looked like 1960's riot programming, with close-ups of Black Panthers and students and Algerians and Vietnam. Content took dominance, and I lost my body again, watching the people in the diner smoke pot, eat and die. A young white man with dark hair sat in a corner booth, lost in thought. Soul music played, and I rose above floor level, hovering. The young man had taken up talking to the blond hostess, she was teasing him, and behind them a Korean girl and a white girl made out on a table. The owner of the diner came, a short fat man with in a blue 70's jumpsuit. Speaking to himself and me; he said "I know what's going on, I can see through all of it". I thought at first that he was referring to the unconcealed use of marijuana in his diner, but as my gaze moved through the room I realized he was telling me about America. I looked at the scene, and saw large the television. Three dying homeless people, wrapped in dark blankets, lay in a row. Their toothed mouths were obscene abysses. They kissed openly with their revolting faces moving jerkily. They soon died, and a boy covered them up.
I saw the dark haired man lose control, his hands pulled at his hair. I loved him, and didn't want him to be crazy. He got up to leave, walking out down the street; I could see him through the windows hitting the sides of his head with his fists. Up close, his face was twisted in agony, he shoved off a dealer and a kid who was hassling him for money. Out into the moonlit streets he disappeared. I soon followed, leaving the diner and turning left after him. I crossed the street, standing still, I heard from over the rooftops a song that put me into a trance. When it finished, I turned and saw the girl who had been buying fish. She had little uniform braids with white beads on the ends. "Do you know what that song was?" I said. "No, but I can sing it to you".
I moved on. The streets wound and ran me through, I passed by faces, the fish shop girl, the other Eastern European prostitute. I met a couple at a late night diner, and we sat with coffee. We were loud sometimes, charged with energy and making a scene, until the hostess came over and asked if we wanted jobs. I said no; but my brother might. The place was staffed by young people, all attractive and seemingly good. It got later, and the mood changed; the TV broadcasted what looked like 1960's riot programming, with close-ups of Black Panthers and students and Algerians and Vietnam. Content took dominance, and I lost my body again, watching the people in the diner smoke pot, eat and die. A young white man with dark hair sat in a corner booth, lost in thought. Soul music played, and I rose above floor level, hovering. The young man had taken up talking to the blond hostess, she was teasing him, and behind them a Korean girl and a white girl made out on a table. The owner of the diner came, a short fat man with in a blue 70's jumpsuit. Speaking to himself and me; he said "I know what's going on, I can see through all of it". I thought at first that he was referring to the unconcealed use of marijuana in his diner, but as my gaze moved through the room I realized he was telling me about America. I looked at the scene, and saw large the television. Three dying homeless people, wrapped in dark blankets, lay in a row. Their toothed mouths were obscene abysses. They kissed openly with their revolting faces moving jerkily. They soon died, and a boy covered them up.
I saw the dark haired man lose control, his hands pulled at his hair. I loved him, and didn't want him to be crazy. He got up to leave, walking out down the street; I could see him through the windows hitting the sides of his head with his fists. Up close, his face was twisted in agony, he shoved off a dealer and a kid who was hassling him for money. Out into the moonlit streets he disappeared. I soon followed, leaving the diner and turning left after him. I crossed the street, standing still, I heard from over the rooftops a song that put me into a trance. When it finished, I turned and saw the girl who had been buying fish. She had little uniform braids with white beads on the ends. "Do you know what that song was?" I said. "No, but I can sing it to you".
No comments:
Post a Comment