brush her waist again. Be attentive, dance with her in mind. Be as suave as a quiet wave. Do not forget your own hips: shake them sideways and never back and forth. Shine your shoes, clean your ears, always have a nice ironed suit on and no hat, it will cast a shadow on your own beautiful eyes.
THE STAGE
AFTER I’D EATEN I left the Bolero and went back to the streets.
Customers came in and out of my car. Some were silent, some were polite, a few were busy talking to each other about the Carnival and work and life. I encountered the usual old lady with groceries, the lost tourist, the businessman.
Then two guys, a couple, I assumed, got in, softly bickering with each other. It is hard not to listen to others’ quarrels. A quarrel imposes itself on your hearing. A quarrel is made of little ultrasonic waves that can be heard and felt through earplugs, dreams of distraction, and even, one might say, the low, ever-present humming of reverberating erections.
In this case, it was a quarrel about money. The older, bald guy seemed to be supporting the younger one, who, from what I gathered, was an opera singer.
You insult me all the time lately, the young man said.
No, you are sensitive, very sensitive lately.
I am poor and my career is going nowhere. Who wants to be an opera singer in these times except crazy romantics like me? So I have a right to be sensitive. I am sensitive.
You are constantly irritated. You have the right to be sensitive in your art, but not with your lover.
My keeper, more like it.
No one is asking you to stay, though I would be sad if you left.
No, you wouldn’t, you would just keep some other young man.
I am not keeping you in any way.
Well, you know I will be on the street if I leave you. And you know I have nowhere to go in this city. You are keeping me.
You are keeping yourself.
Well. Then, if I have a choice, I should just take it and make do. Taxi, stop here, please, the young man said.
Taxi driver, go on, do not stop, the older man said.
Stop, please, the younger man said.
Driver, carry on, the older man said.
Stop, please! the young man shouted.
Carry on, I am paying your fare, driver, said the older man firmly.
I have to stop when a passenger asks me to, I said, it is the law. I wasn’t actually sure that it was, but I make my own laws to encourage people to flee their confinements and chains. I stopped at the next corner.
Don’t go, the older one said, as he held the young man’s hand.
The young man started to cry. You know I left everything for you, he said. You made me come here. And live with you. You promised to support me until I got on a roll. You know how important it is for me to sing onstage. And I have the sense that you’ve lost patience. You want me to leave.
All I want is to make you fly, my love.
Don’t call me that. Not now.
My love.
You’re making me cry.
My love, my love, my love.
See, now my whole face is full of tears. I hate tears. But you like tears and you never shed any.
The older man started to look for his handkerchief. I turned and offered them my box of Kleenex.
Thank you, driver, the young man said, and they both giggled and then laughed and held each other in the back seat of my car.
The older man paid. And then he took some more money, a large tip, and handed it to me.
This is for your trouble, he said, and I watched them both leave under a full moon and over the wet streets.
TARGET
THE TIP BROUGHT my night’s total to about fifty dollars. I had given myself a target: once I reached a hundred, I would call it a night and go back home, check in with the spider on the wall, call Mary, and then read a book and masturbate.
I possess an arsenal of books, a stack of which can be found on the lowest shelf, next to my carpet, within reach to incite my tendencies to sin and to awake my fist into motion. That particular shelf contains a respectable and varied literature that once belonged to the bearded lady. Books such as
THE STAGE
AFTER I’D EATEN I left the Bolero and went back to the streets.
Customers came in and out of my car. Some were silent, some were polite, a few were busy talking to each other about the Carnival and work and life. I encountered the usual old lady with groceries, the lost tourist, the businessman.
Then two guys, a couple, I assumed, got in, softly bickering with each other. It is hard not to listen to others’ quarrels. A quarrel imposes itself on your hearing. A quarrel is made of little ultrasonic waves that can be heard and felt through earplugs, dreams of distraction, and even, one might say, the low, ever-present humming of reverberating erections.
In this case, it was a quarrel about money. The older, bald guy seemed to be supporting the younger one, who, from what I gathered, was an opera singer.
You insult me all the time lately, the young man said.
No, you are sensitive, very sensitive lately.
I am poor and my career is going nowhere. Who wants to be an opera singer in these times except crazy romantics like me? So I have a right to be sensitive. I am sensitive.
You are constantly irritated. You have the right to be sensitive in your art, but not with your lover.
My keeper, more like it.
No one is asking you to stay, though I would be sad if you left.
No, you wouldn’t, you would just keep some other young man.
I am not keeping you in any way.
Well, you know I will be on the street if I leave you. And you know I have nowhere to go in this city. You are keeping me.
You are keeping yourself.
Well. Then, if I have a choice, I should just take it and make do. Taxi, stop here, please, the young man said.
Taxi driver, go on, do not stop, the older man said.
Stop, please, the younger man said.
Driver, carry on, the older man said.
Stop, please! the young man shouted.
Carry on, I am paying your fare, driver, said the older man firmly.
I have to stop when a passenger asks me to, I said, it is the law. I wasn’t actually sure that it was, but I make my own laws to encourage people to flee their confinements and chains. I stopped at the next corner.
Don’t go, the older one said, as he held the young man’s hand.
The young man started to cry. You know I left everything for you, he said. You made me come here. And live with you. You promised to support me until I got on a roll. You know how important it is for me to sing onstage. And I have the sense that you’ve lost patience. You want me to leave.
All I want is to make you fly, my love.
Don’t call me that. Not now.
My love.
You’re making me cry.
My love, my love, my love.
See, now my whole face is full of tears. I hate tears. But you like tears and you never shed any.
The older man started to look for his handkerchief. I turned and offered them my box of Kleenex.
Thank you, driver, the young man said, and they both giggled and then laughed and held each other in the back seat of my car.
The older man paid. And then he took some more money, a large tip, and handed it to me.
This is for your trouble, he said, and I watched them both leave under a full moon and over the wet streets.
TARGET
THE TIP BROUGHT my night’s total to about fifty dollars. I had given myself a target: once I reached a hundred, I would call it a night and go back home, check in with the spider on the wall, call Mary, and then read a book and masturbate.
I possess an arsenal of books, a stack of which can be found on the lowest shelf, next to my carpet, within reach to incite my tendencies to sin and to awake my fist into motion. That particular shelf contains a respectable and varied literature that once belonged to the bearded lady. Books such as
Similar Books
