path: root/old notes/toppers scene two.txt

toppers scene two


The night feels like a wildfire, a cracker eaten in bed, but downtown itÕs a quiet night. A few swarms of homeless or nearly homeless teenagers drifting here and there in the shadows trying to make a touch for some sort of alcohol. The punk rock syndicate Dean calls them. IÕm a romantic sap about that sort of thing. I always wanted to be homeless, sitting on the steps with a woman I love, humbly asking the world for some spare change. I just never met the right woman. 
We swing in the door at quarter past ten and thereÕs Dean with Sara already hanging off his shoulder and on every word. Her friends are whispering ridiculously. TheyÕre talking Dean in circles while he shoots a game of pool. I go to the bar and buy a round of drinks. I sit down for a moment waiting for the drinks and am promptly set upon by a man who speaks something so mumbly, so thickly southern, and fueled by hard liquor, that all I hear is Òtherinsomefouatin benhavehrd goddamn suckafishafool scratum hars?Ó I nod, smile and stare intently at my money, rearranging it in numerical orderÑbest not to talk to the aliens lest you inadvertently provoke them. Finally the drinks arrive, I pick up two, nod at the man and head over to join my own species. Everyone is congregating around the pool table in the back. I set down the drinks and go back for the rest. Listrene furruf kid, yallgata givinru mushatime goooodlukin gurlsÉ He claps a hand on my shoulder embraces me and then turns around. I shrug to myself and walk away. 
We pile into the corner booth sliding over the sticky cushions to make room for Sara and her friends. The crowd is mostly locals, complete with redneck swamp people that will be punching each other out later in the night. I quickly finish my beer and get up to order another, but when I am about half way across the room the band returns from their set break and begins to kick out the bluesÑmaybe stomp would be a better word. Whatever the case, once the singerÕs gravel voice hits the microphone behind me, the blues are getting tore up from here to Pluto. I have no choice but to turn around and watch. They are the most phenomenal blues band IÕve ever stumbled across, every note is bent against the grain of the next so that they all tremble and wail on top of each other and the piano chases the whole sweeping melody back into the pocket and then they shoot off again. Scratch comes over and throws his arm around me leaning in close to my ear, ÒUn-fucking-believeable,Ó he says, Òwho are they?Ó
I shrug and the drums launch into a solo that crawls all around the room, beating its fists on the walls, leaving footprints on the ceiling. ItÕs all upside down, banging out rhythm and melody together, as inseparable parts of a whole that only the creator can hear. ItÕs mind-boggling; it goes swoosh splatter rat-a-tat tat boom blam a ram pop pop rat-a-tat bamÉ. 
A girl comes up and taps Scratch on the shoulder with a pool stick. I turn around with him and we follow her to the pool table. Over the gargle of a lonely guitar solo I catch her nameÑGina. SheÕs one of SaraÕs friends. Dean has set her in ScratchÕs direction, but IÕm thinking sheÕd be better off with me. GinaÕs a sultry Italian pastry. Her brow is heavy and Italian, it makes me think of Frida Kahlo. Her hips swing wide and she plays them like a backbeat, rollicking around the table, dancing, laughing, and shooting pool. When she leans over to take a shot her shirt hangs down revealing rolling Tuscany hills. She catches Scratch and I staring down her shirt and misses the eightball. Her smile fades to a grimace.
ÒWell? Why donÕt you rack a game,Ó sheÕs only looking at Scratch now. I surrender and head off to get my drink. I think of Maya and slouch toward the bar. Gina may be the thing in this bar, but its a small barÑgive me Maya any day. Oh lordy, wails the blue singer, bring my baby back to meÉ.
I see Jimmy sitting up in the front booth talking to a blond IÕve never seen before. She gets up and walks out the front door while IÕm ordering. Jimmy sits alone in the booth staring glumly at his beer. I make my way over to him. He grins as I walk up.
ÒHey man, howÕs it going?Ó he asks as I sit down.
ÒOh you know,Ó I shrug, picturing Maya naked in my head. 
ÒYes, yes.Ó He stares down at the glass again. ÒSo that was LauraÉ.Ó
ÒYa?Ó The name meant nothing to me.
ÒOh ya,Ó he looks up excitedly, Òshe is fine as hell; fine as hell man! IÕve been trying to get in her pants for years now.Ó
ÒStill not working?Ó 
ÒNo,Ó he says glumly.
ÒWhat about Chloe? I ask. ÒHowÕs that going?Ó
ÒOh come on now,Ó he exclaims. ÒYou got to go there do ya? But, since you did, its going good actually, which I think is why IÕm trying to get all up in it with LauraÑself sabotageÑyou know what I mean?Ó
ÒYes indeed,Ó I nod. ÒEveryone is their own worst enemyÉÓ
ÒI donÕt even know why I do itÉÓ He shakes his head and picks at the label of his beer. ÒIÕve started to realize that I need to get my life in order, figure some shit outÉ I need to figure out what I want to do so that I can then come up with a plan on how to do it.Ó His fingers roll up the peeled label into something that looks a lot like it should be used to snort cocaine. I try not to smile. ÒIÕm tired of groping around,Ó he says, Ònever having a clear idea of where IÕm headed. IÕm tired of the bullshitÉ I mean come on! You know? What do I do, really what do I doÑmanage a coffeeshop?Ó He looks at me as if I might be able to tell him whatÕs missing.
ÒYouÕre just living your life.Ó I offer.
ÒYes, but I want a lot more than what IÕm getting out of it,Ó he says.
ÒThen you have to figure out whatÕs missing,Ó I tell him, Òand find some way to add it in.Ó
ÒExactly. ThatÕs exactly what IÕve been thinking man.Ó He stands the empty ashtray on its side and spins it around the table. I can see armies of thought marching silently behind his eyes.
ÒItÕs just discipline,Ó I offer. ÒYou just have to force yourself to sit down and figure it out. The biggest myth in life is that everything will just somehow work itself out. ItÕs true if you are actively seeking something, but if youÕve got no idea whatÕs going on then nothing can work itself out because you donÕt have any sense of direction. You donÕt know which way to push thingsÉdoes that make any sense?Ó I sat back in the booth wishing I could take my own advice.
ÒYa it does,Ó he says with a discouraged look on his face. ÒI mean, I see what youÕre saying and itÕs true. I have the same thoughts myself, but theyÕre just words, itÕs the actions to back them up that IÕm lacking. I mean, youÕre always sitting down and writing or whatever. I admire that work ethic, but I canÕt do it. Every time I go to put down a thought no matter how simple it seems, I become paralyzed before I can get it out.Ó
ÒDiscipline, thatÕs all it is. Just do something, even if itÕs the wrong thing, just start doing it. Eventually youÕll realize itÕs the wrong thing and youÕll change it and then you do that for a while and see whatÕs wrong with it, and then you do something else and so on to infinityÉÓ
Jimmy is silent staring into his half-empty bottle of beer. I excuse myself and go back to the others. TheyÕre still in full swing. Everyone in the bar is talking at once creating a deafening tumult that blends seamlessly with the general insanity ensuing at our tableÑthe clink of shot glasses being raised in celebration of nothing, the clatter as they slam down empty on the table, the scorching beauty of whiskey searing the back of the throatÉ the pinging of the pool balls and the thump and clatter as they bounce off felt walls and find their way into the pocketsÉ it mixes with voices, laughter, lechery strung out on a line with six fish snapping at a single hookÉ it all skips merry metallic through the night. The clock nears two and Gina yells, ÒItÕs gonna be last call, anyone need a drink?Ó
We hit the strip club around eleven. I find myself sitting at a table wondering what to do. Dean is off looking for Nicole. SheÕs a good looking girl, heavy makeup like all strippers, and of course, since Dean finds her attractive, she looks like Betty PageÑblack hair, bangs, long eyelashes that flutter when she talks. But, unlike Betty Page, Nicole has a giant tattoo of flames leaping off her cunt. Nicole is her real name, but IÕm supposed to be calling her Paige in here. Such imagination the girl has. Mine is growing already. 
Boredom. And with naked women aroundÉ The rest of the men in here seem utterly transfixed by the woman gyrating on stage. They clamor over each other trying to fit more bills in her already stuffed garter. IÕm not buying the window-shopping racketÑ going home empty-handed. I wander over to join Dean and Nicole. 
ÒSil!Ó Dean raises his glass to mine and then turns to her, ÒPaige, you remember Sil? My old roommate?Ó
She smiles and extends her hand. Her fingers are cold from clutching her drink. I sit down and pointless small talk circles the table. Three women come in and sit down in front of the stage waving dollar bills and upsetting the downtrodden atmosphere with their friendly enthusiasm. Nicole tells Dean and I that she has to give someone a lap dance, but doesnÕt want to. She calls us the pick of the litter, which is flattering until I remember the litter that weÕre in. I am third wheeling tonight and I hate the useless feeling it leaves me with. Unfortunately Dean drove down here and IÕm not in the mood for a walk. It looks like other peopleÕs realities will become mine for the evening. I order up another scotch and try to figure out some way to escape. Luckily for me the guy comes up and drags Nicole off to a private booth for a lap dance leaving Dean and I alone. The girl up on stage now is actually quite beautiful. Her stomach looks soft, tightly stretched skin like a drum, a jimbe, and her breasts are two percussive bongos. Her nipples are hard and look like raisins sunk into the flesh. She shimmies and shakes, dropping her dress to the ground. Her hand reaches down and pulls her panties to the side revealing her smooth shaven cunt. An overweight man in a sweat-stained plaid shirt stands up to tuck some money in her garter and the saturnalia collapses. 
Two girls climb up on the table in front of us and dance together for a group of mullet trash. They try to act sexy and one takes off the otherÕs underwear, but itÕs all too obvious that neither one of them is really involved beyond the money. It may well be that no stripper is involved beyond the money, but there are some that can craft the illusion that they love it, that they love you and that they enjoy being naked for you. TheyÕre the ones that send my imagination spinning, the others, like these two, simply work here. Nicole comes back and sits down. We watch the dancers and patrons gyrating around each other in a frenzy of lust and money. Nicole and Dean start whispering something that I donÕt catch and have no real desire to. I see a girl I know from elsewhere come out of a private booth. Our eyes meet and she waves to me. Names race through my head as she walks toward me; I settle on Sasha just as she says, ÒSil how are you?Ó We stutter through small talk and the whole time I am thinking that I wish she wasnÕt a stripper because sheÕs too nice and too smart, but, glancing at the wad of money wrapped around her garter, I understand why she is. I tell her I wish I could take off my clothes for money and she says that I can. She tells me that once a month they have ladies night and amateur male strippers take over. But, as I explain to her, whether I can do it one or two nights a month is not the issue, the real issue is that there is no market for naked men. Even most women donÕt find the naked male body to be a particularly sexy sight. Shaved and buffed up ChippendaleÕs dancers still look ridiculous in the end. The male body lacks the supple symmetry of the female, there are no curves or soft protrusions for the eye to linger on, men are more like a bumpy lump of flesh. Then there is the issue of the cock, which just kind of hangs between the legs and looks out of place like some cancerous growth. Sasha laughs and agrees. Eventually she too gets dragged off for a lap dance and I am left at the table still wishing she wasnÕt a stripper.
I am thinking of Maya againÉ I remember one trip to New York, it was April, and I was in Pennsylvania for a friendÕs wedding. I spent the day with people I hadnÕt seen in years, but the whole time I was itching to drive up to the city to see Maya. Later, after the groom backed out of his surprise bachelor party in Atlantic City, I had my excuse. I left around midnight and got to Manhattan around four. I went to MayaÕs building and buzzed the door. I knew she was still up because she had only gotten off work at three thirty, but no one answered my buzzing. I went around the corner and called her telling her to let me in. I ran back around the block, she buzzed open the door and I vaulted up three flights of stairs. The minute I was in the door she jumped on me and we tore each otherÕs clothes off. We went to sleep around six and were on the road again by nine. We were exhausted and late to the wedding, but neither of us cared. We were ecstatic just to be together. The wedding was beautiful; it was outdoors at an old farmhouse sitting on about two hundred acres of pastoral splendor. It was a glorious spring day, all the trees were in bloom and bird songs fairly drowned out the vows, but the ceremony was brief anyhow. 
Then the day took a turn. Maya has a rather severeÑlife threatening actuallyÑallergy to all legumes and unfortunately, somewhere in the home-cooked food that was going around the reception, she managed to unwittingly eat a peanut. At first she tried some home remedies, Benadryl and other antihistamines, but they didnÕt work. I knew about her allergy but I had never seen it in action; I didnÕt know what to do. It wasnÕt long before her throat was closing up and she began to have difficulty breathing. Her entire body turned beat red and was covered in rashes and welts. She wheezed and gasped, but she didnÕt want to leave the wedding. I was in a state of panic and insisted on rushing her to the nearest hospital. The doctorÕs attitude was nonchalant and even when Maya told him she had a history of anaphylactic shock from legumes, he still refused to be concerned. Like most doctors he thought he was in control of everythingÑeven people he had never met before. He gave her a little epinephrine and sent us on our way. Back at the reception I barely had time to say goodbye to my friends and wish the newlyweds well on the honeymoon before MayaÕs symptoms were back in full force. I drove back to the hospital fully intending to kill the doctor as soon as he took care of her. This time though there was a different doctor, a woman; she was sympathetic and understanding. She gave Maya more epinephrine and demanded that we remain a while for observation. So I found myself at a small hospital in rural Pennsylvania with Maya. That was the moment, when I looked at her lying there with tubes sticking out of her, her skin still pink with fading rashes, that I was overwhelmed by the intangible connection I felt. I realized that for two years my life had been orbiting hers without ever intersecting it in any real way. We had been playing at loving each other. We loved each other when it was convenient, never under the strain of hardship. Now it was torturous and yet I wanted to be the tubes carrying life into her body. I wanted to feed life into her from the unfathomable source that I felt welling inside of me. I wanted to be the thing that could save herÉ
Later, heading home that night, as if enough hadnÕt already happened, I ran out of gas. Luckily for us Maya had a cell phone so we just sat there and waited for the AAA truck to arrive. It was just after dark, the first stars were visible, the western horizon was an unearthly green. I opened the sunroof and we put the seats back to stare at the sky. She was still drugged to the point of semi-consciousness. As we lay in the darkness I started to talk, and forgot about her state of mind. Everything poured out of me and I did something I had never done with anyone, not even my wife. I was honest. I told her how I really felt. I offered up to her all the hopes and fears of my life, and when she looked up at me that cherubic smile I knew again that I wanted to get lost in her. Nothing would ever be right for me until I was with her. We didnÕt kiss, we didnÕt make love, we just lay side by side in the seats of my car staring up at the starsÑwe intersected. It was the single most intimate moment I have ever shared with another human being. I held back only one thing. 
The memory of it makes me restless. I walk up to the stage and stick a dollar bill in the girlÕs garter. She smiles and thanks me. Her vacant eyes are an echo chamber into which a thousand men have already yelled. ItÕs the single most alienated moment IÕve felt in a long time. 
I move to the back of the room and sit alone at one of the tables watching the mirrored walls, trying to be everywhere at onceÑa human quark. The room has the stale smell of too many smokers, not enough air filters, and decade after decade of excess and depravity. The mirrored columns around the room give me fractured half views of breasts and buttocks and g-strings and fat men with mullets. A sensual symphony gurgles and lurches through each minute with the ceaseless effort of the little engine that could. Cartoon character faces fill chairs and resemble the creatures that pop out of the walls in the Tiki room at Disneyland. Zombies with dollar billsÑa swirl of lightsÑdance musicÑsexual illusionÑdrugs lurking unseen in the background. The ruddy alcoholic faces of the derelict men that come here on dollar TuesdayÕs remind me of Las Vegas where the cheapskate old ladies with white hair and blue eye-shadow clutch at their plastic cups slowly emptying them into slot machines. Here the men absently stick bills in the garters of women young enough to be their daughters. At least there are naked women milling about here, but well, come to think of it, there would be in Vegas too. 
Ah Las Vegas! In Vegas it would be nearly nine now. The sun would be but a slice of iridescent orange peel slinking behind the glittery casino skyline. My mindÕs eye can just see the tips of the high rise casinos where the rich gamble in private rooms waited on by topless cocktail girls. Through the walls the owners listen to the thriving sound of tourists dropping coins and laying down bills to line the velvet pockets holding the ownersÕ Cuban cigars. The wheels turn twenty-four hours a day, seven days a weekÑeternally. The velvet gets nicer every year and the girls prettier and the tourists dumber and fatter and always wanting more. More! Newer! Bigger! By god! Screams the frustrated real estate tycoon in horror. What the hell is going on here? He stands up from the table in alarm. Zombie eyes are peering vacantly through one way windows, What do they want? Well sir, says the nervous pimple-faced boy who has been sent in with a message. They wantÉ more... He speaks in a whisper unsure of whether he should be more afraid of the boss or the mob outside. We gave them a pirate ship, recreated the pyramids, and the canals of Venice. What more do you people want from us?! I just canÕt take it anymore! First it was the gall stones, then kidney stones, two bi-pass surgeriesÑthe second one a triple! Are you trying to kill me? He shakes his fist at the drooling faces in the window. The throngs gathers more members and they begin to chant as if spellbound in trance: We want more! We want new! The volume increases as the numbers grow. From all over the world masses gather beneath the altars and chantÉWe want shiny! We want clean! The very enslaved that the bosses sneered at and exploited are now fighting back with incessant dreams; the perfect slave is the uncontrollable masterÉWe want to be richer! We want to be happier! The Boss scratches his head and thinks for while, eyeing the faces in the mirror that stare at him though they can not see himÉ Alright kid, hereÕs what were going to do. You go out and tell them that I am currently drawing up plans to build a half size replica of the Eiffel tower. The hotel next to it is going to be immense; it will have a restaurant in the middle with a clear view up ninety stories to the sky. Tell them that I have plans for a tower to extend up five stories and I plan to fill it with wine bottles which will be delivered to their tables by a girl on a mechanical trapeze swing that can be raised and lowered as needed to fetch their wine. Tell them the expensive stuff is going to be at the top, those cheap bastardsÕll be ordering screw top crap that the waiters can get, but as long as somebody buys the good stuff, they all get to see the show. The Boss beams now. He shoos the kid outside and throws the waitresses out after him. He locks the door and starts sketchingÉ.

Dean swears and makes a run for the bar. Scratch curls his lips and screws up his face. ÒJesus,Ó he calls after him, Òits not like thereÕs isnÕt a ton more back at the house.Ó He pauses a beat. ÒYou are coming over arenÕt you girls?Ó
Sara and Gina confer for a moment and then say yes. Naturally. Everyone is going everywhere and we are all running rampant and expansive by the time we hit the street. The lights twinkle off asphalt minerals dressing the streets in prismatic splendor. All seven of us pile in the Falcon. Gina leans out the window and flashes her bra at a group of high school hoodlums smoking cigarettes on the corner. Jimmy lays on the gas and we tear around the corner to whistling shrieks and cracking hormones. Scratch doubles over in hysterics. 
ItÕs well after two when we get back to the house. Scratch produces another bottle of scotch and by the time the music hits the stereo we are in full swing again. Gina dances with Scratch or tries to. I wait for that crooked, insane seizure dance to pop up, but he refrains. Gina pulls him into her waist and sways her hips, grinding gently into him with the undulations of the bass. You got to get behind the mule every morning and plowÉ Everything is colored in gaslamp light and arranged like European cobblestones. I am overwhelmed with wonder, sheer wonder, at the idea that this might be the very reason all seven of us ever came into existence. That this one moment of abandon might be the penultimate point of our lives. The mysterious permeating rhythm of the universe is leaking out of the heavens into the living room. ItÕs everywhereÉ in their eyes, in the way the numberless pages of DeanÕs book are arranged on the shelf behind the sofa, in ScratchÕs hobbled dance, in ChloeÕs sprightly curls, in the raven sway of GinaÕs hair, in the beat of drums on the stereo, in the pulse of energy that carries them from one end of the living room to the other. Dean is tapping out itÕs beat with his feet. He is sitting on the couch and Sara is standing in front of him looking out the window at the yard. Dean leans over and lifts up SaraÕs skirt, peering at her ass as if heÕs checking the ripeness of produce.
Eventually I get up and pour myself a glass of scotch. Gina and Scratch flop down on the couch in my absence. Gina is lying stretched out across the couch with her head turned down in ScratchÕs lap; her hair covers whatever mischief she is up to. Dean gets up and pulls Sara off the couch with him. They dance slowly for a minute, kissing, his hands groping at her ass, and then they veer off into a dark corner away from me where they fall into the chair and all over each other. There is something hilarious about watching the grunting animal clarity of sex, but IÕm not in the mood. Neither are Jimmy and Chloe. They say goodnight and head off into the darkness.