Me and my shadow waiting for the 12. Portland OR. 2017.
A FILTHY MAN with shaggy white hair and brilliant blue eyes, some scrawny hipsters, and me sit in the back of the 12 (bus). I’m doodling Christmas trees in a large black notebook and working on some erotica and character development. Maybe a movie script. Nothing concrete.
JOPLIN (V.O.)
The Paris room is strung with velvet ropes and cognac. His French accent tickles my nipples. I’m looking for love in all the wrong places.
PARIS SWINGER BAR-NIGHT
Joplin sits up on the bar with a goblet of cognac swapping spit with dick spit for tits. A beautiful brunette goes down on her. Joplin orgasms and threesome men topple over with attacks of the heart. Dead as doornails.
I’m writing this script down as Trump sits in the oval. I’m in a killing mood.
FILTHY MAN licks potato salad out of a plastic container with his tongue. He points to a vintage yellow VW in the lane beside the bus.
Hitler made that car. That's some Nazi shit right there. He says this through a haze of mayonnaise.
The hipsters nervously pigeon toe in skinny jeans away from him to the front of the bus. I look out of the window and see a an old drag queen waving at me like Princess Diana from the Nazi car.
A billboard on the side of a building shows a svelte silver-haired model. Could possibly be Elon Musk’s mama but my memory is foggy. I can’t name that face. She's pouring expensive cognac into a snifter for a gorgeous older male. The caption on the board says "Where is your Camelot?" Hillside Pharmaceuticals.
Filthy man is jittery.
How nice—to feel nothing, and still get full credit for being alive. I give him a freebie. Vonnegut’s my jim-jam.
You know Vonnegut? He stops chewing. Interested.
I do. I do. I hand him a twenty for more potato salad.
He's in my top 5 I say.
Filthy Man stops eating and takes off his shirt.
He had the great war. A man could come home and write a good story about dubya-dubya two. My war was all heroin and sweat. Not much you can write home about that.
Filthy man wafts himself with a paper bag he’s pleated into a fan.
I look outside at the rainy day flecked with sleet and snow. Filthy man shivers my timbers.
I can never get warm. I say this as a hot flash swamps my valley of dolls.
I can never get cold. He shivers his own timbers.
Tiger got to hunt, bird got to fly; Man got to sit and wonder 'why, why, why?' (Vonnegut).
He pledges his allegiance. Touche—touche mother fucker. Strips down to his boxers which look remarkably clean. Like Tide white clean. Minty fresh.
The 12 stops. The hipsters waddle off the bus. Duck. Duck. Goose.
I can't remember my name, he shows me the twenty I just gave. It’s shaped into a swan.
You can make one up. I hand over a five. Can you do a Christmas tree?
What would you call me? He pleats and folds. Crosses his legs. Hums a little tune.
I don’t care if it rains or freezes. Long’s I got my plastic Jesus.
I like to use rock star names. I call myself Joplin when I’m just about to black out drink.
I always liked Pink Floyd.
There's already a Pink but you could be a Floyd.
I am—I’ll be Floyd.
Filthy Man stands and walks off at the next stop, shirtless. Pantless. I think about him all of my bar shift. Shake-shake the espresso martini. Filthy man. Floyd. The way he had with words.
STARK STREET-2 AMish.
I light an American Spirit (yellow pack) waiting for the 12 in the rain. Filthy man is playing Rachmaninoff's 3rd concerto on the outside piano by the Zoobomb bike statue. Roark donated the piano. It sits outside the sushi bar I tend. The upright Steinway is his rich man’s oh hello kitten. A reminder that he will never leave his wife. Or me. Alone. A meth zombie jukes by on bowed legs that spool and gum. Fishing line floats from the power lines. I stand with my face turned up to the mist.
Maybe I should have stayed in Miami. Practice tennis and hot Bikram. Instead, I'm lit on Stark and Burnside with the drunks and junkies.
MY RENTED ROOM.
The ROOM is obsessively neat and sparse. One wall is covered with pastel sticky notes outlining my third book. A strip of brown butcher paper is also covered with scribbles. Daisy doodles. Droopy tulips. I will never publish these demon rambles but it's fun to think maybe I might. Rejection. I see 6 missed calls from Roark. Christmas lights twinkle over the futon and in the windows. I look at my notes and go down on a bottle of Old Crow. I pick up a glow-in-the-dark pink dick and lay down on the bed sipping from the bottle nipple and masturbating at the same time. I can multitask like a son of a bitch.
I once loved a man. His name was Elvis. He had perfect hair and worked for Nike. It was like fucking a Norman Rockwell painting.
I FLASHBACK:
ELVIS' BEDROOM-NIGHT
I’m on top of ELVIS. He's squeezing my titties as he starts climbing our orgasm (third time’s the charm). His silver pendant swings. Pendulum. Pendulum. I ding his dong.
I love you, baby. He groans. Gumby legs and words. Spooling from the power lines.
What do you love about me? I slur. A bottle of Woodford Reserve is ticky tacky on my tongue. But still. I want to know. Even if I will forget this later.
I ask hopefully. Tweaking my right nipple. I want him to say brain. I want him to say poetry. I want him to say Vonnegut. Tiger gotta—
ELVIS (orgasms) I (orgasm). Charmed. I’m sure.
Oh. Oh. God. He says. I love—I love your tits. He unchecks my box.
END FLASHBACK:
The battery dies on the swirling plastic toy and the light fades out. I throw it against the wall.
brilliant
Whoa! And wow.