Contact, p. 3

©2003, by Jeff Glovsky

<< ...Beats on my chest like an ape as I walk!  Now it's late out...The streets scream surrender like I do.  "Get OFF me!" I whirl, run back into the bar.

I am trapped.  Bar scene ciphers and echoing void...I see thirty-some bobbling, babbling skulls; catch the homely Cigar Girl half-snarl at me (She's ignoring the cop trying buying her drinks)...Richling Huff puffs the words to some witless rock classic, still air-drumming back of the bar, looking stupid.I spin...Pick a payphone up, punch in some numbers:  a bright, tight, white skirt there, just wanna get close to.  I haven't got change on me, no one to call...But I stand there, and punch in some numbers beside her.

This violent, loud tone comes on, screeching buzz static:  "'d like to make a call, please hang up..."  I stare at the cunt in the bright, tight , white skirt.  At the her juncture between thigh and moon.  Nest of succulence...scented, damp anticipation...

Her meat-getter seizes her, drags her outside.

Fuckin'cunt ("...please hang up...")!  She was too vibrant, anyway...New England imbecile down for the night!  Watch her ass in the bright, tight, white skirt swing away.  Singing happily, laugh, not a care in the world; not a thought in her head, save the morning's alarm clock...She looks at her watch.

She has declared fun dead.

...A hand spread palm flat on the window between us:  a face from some gig I worked ages ago.  Mouths my name, smiles, hurries past, waves recognition...The ass in the bright, tight, white skirt is not there.

Isn't there...there is nothing so grey as illusion.  The bathroom:  I tap on my teeth in the mirror...They're grey.  Craven.  Indolent.

Longing to score...

Walrus-hanging, I think, as I Tap Tap and stare...As the bathroom door slams open:  Cigar Girl there!  In she clomps, on heels too long, and she stumbles, and, hands on her hips, asks me why I ignore her.

"Ignore you...!?  Look, bitch," I exclaim.  "C'mere, baby!"

...That song by Jack Jones, how's it go?  I start humming...No, that's not it...Maybe it's Tom...Anyway.  Now she's singing...Spanking my ass in the mirror!

"Oww...Wait!" I say, startled.  She's burning the hairs off my leg with a match.  "Jesus!  Hell are you doing!?"

She's laughing now, up on the edge of the sink.  "You are wicked...You're evil, bitch!  Come down off there..." She is laughing, she dance...Standing up in the sink!

"Uh...My name's Jeff, anyway...What was yours?  Look, I'm thirsty.  I gotta get in there, man...hands are dirty..."

She takes one, and slides it up into her legs.

"I love you!" I blurt out.  She squats and starts gurgling...The door to the squalid, foul room slams again.  Richling Huff, Child Actor, crawls in on all fours.

"Oh!  I'm sorry, I..."

Kick him back out where he came!  "Fuckin' cripple..."

...Cigar Girl is crying my name!

I stand outside, picking my nose in the peace dark.  I'm feeble.

The stars and great night swell about me.

I'm asked for change not once, not twice, but four times.  "Good luck, man," I off-put the last sorry sack.

"Good luck...!?"

!...Fuck you, then.  Prick.  Get a job, motherfucker!  Door guy from a club near the bar flails happily...The guy he's deranging is claiming to sue.  From another door, whores peer out challenging toward me...They're black as the night and my soul...

I go home.

Read Again
* * *

originally published (2004) in Strawberry Press

To Natalie, who inspired the title and Patti, who inspired me ... and everyone else who appears in these stories and in me, in some way, to this very day ...

Underwear Woman Digs the Sea

(These Are Some Travel Stories!)

©1999-2013 by Jeff Glovsky.  All Rights Reserved.

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