Last night I read my story Blah Blah at the KGB Bar in the East Village. I was happy to receive a lot of laughs. Here's the beginning of the piece. For once, it really is a narrative, a "story." As usual, the narrative followed from the first sentence.
Nobody knows why the manatee hurled itself headlong off the curb into the oncoming traffic. Officially, the Secret Police don’t know, though of course one never can tell with them. Obviously, I stopped short the instant I noticed the animal, but I couldn’t help tossing the tee into the sky, and when the poor creature fell, it was mangled and inedible. Actually, I recognized it immediately as a mutant side effect of oil spill; its eyes were lopsided and one ear was missing. And you could taste the oil in the air, feel it seeping through the intricate loop-ah-dee-loops of your cerebella if you hadn’t been lobotomized. I knew but don't ask me how. Maybe empathic cogni-chic. Why would a mutant act rationally?
So I steered away from the spillage, proceeded along the highway and met Slomo at a truck stop, no, a pit stop, no, a rest stop. Not that I meant to meet Slomo or anyone else anywhere. I was in this stupid old cockroach colored car -- what the hell like I should remember the brand name when it had combustible issues -- and I seemed to be fatally entombed in the stale casket with the three fuckacta kids of the waning boyfriend in Louisville Correctional Facility; and those kids had bad bad issues. They were playing at killing each other in the back seat, screaming to make me deaf and threatening to shoot me with plastic silver laser guns… real real looking weapons of destruction. Zzzzaaappp zzzapppp… ziipoww zii you’re GONE!
I just had to stop and find a quiet toilet stall, an extemporaneous room of my own where I could bang my ears against a wall of shit so I wouldn’t have to bang the boyfriend’s fuckin’ car against a useless mountain or steer the Chevy clear across a cliff and I had to pee off a few cans of diet coke anyway. Always good at golf; get it? So okay, I stopped, so sue me. I decided to meditate, cogitate, ruminate, flagellate, confiscate some soap and swig a shot or two of tequila I keep in the boot for apparent reasons, but I had to try to avoid crashing with the little shittots playing shootouts in the car so their daddy wouldn’t kill me in case I survived.
Enough with the fuckin’ and shittin’. I was boring me, the kids were boring into me, Greg and Bobby, punkstar wannabes with pins in the middle of their tongues and purple neon goo in their hair; could never get enough sleep or fast food. I occasionally tried to tuck them in at night and introduce them to Salinger, as if maybe they could identify, but those kids always pushed me away.
Why and how was I happening to be in this predicament? Stupid adolescent obsolescent question. Old Dickhead used to be a better than average technician with the tongue and thrust and I was in my alleged prime, barely spitting on 30 despite the post-op degrees, JD and MFA. Jimmy Dean, Fuckowski, and Kerouac had long ago passed out dead, for Chrissake. Dicky would have to do. Maybe it was the way the guy’s mermaid tatoo danced in the moonlight over
Blame me for everything that happened. So go ahead; nothing new. I get out of the pitstop at the reststop, wade through parking lot hiphop. Hummers with Jesus Luvs George W bumper stickers, and a subdued slow hurricane of dour obese women in powder blue and tepid brown walking about the place like zombies. And I see the car’s gone. The fuckin’ car with the alienated kids has been abducted by aliens. So I panic. I have breathing issues when I panic, going back to the days when Mommy … no, I’m not going into that. Mommy believed in the classics, love do us apart, watched too many idiot TV shows during the 50’s, all about classic families who never fart with their legs apart, particularly in elevators. Enough said about my childhood. I walk straight into the food mall, where all these pathetic lard heads named Wendy and Ronald and Kernel and Bud are getting their sustenance for Road Rage and Kill. And I’m skinny, see. Too skinny, I realize almost anorectic despite the density of dark meat in my head and I’m about to scream if I don’t shut myself up. What the fuck am I going to do? I don’t eat enough. I think I’m starving.
So of course that’s when I meet this guy Slomo. Yeah, Slomo as in Slow Motion fingers, tall and full of sinews, Slomo standing by a video game in front of the mini Burger King, watching me and grinning like crazy. So I go “fuck you,” and he holds up his hands as in don’t shoot. And he says, “It’s just your skirt, ma’am. It’s stuck to your pink panties in back, ma’am. Thought you might want to know. Very sweet panties, coochie coo.”
“Maybe I don’t want to know,” I reply. “I have more important things to think about, like where my brilliant, psychotic boyfriend’s idiot kids have taken the car for a joy ride and what he’ll do to me when he gets out of Louisville Correctional Facility if nobody finds them dead or alive, but especially if somebody finds them dead.”