Posted by Atticus on July 27, 2004, at 20:20:51
Picasso at Limelight, 1995
Hundreds of glistening chrome cheetahs
Sit arranged in a gorgeous semi-circle,
Polished steel exhausts erupting
Like muscular metallic tails
From the coils and carburetors
Of engine guts.
Only Harleys
Can look
So carnivorous
In repose.
A gleaming range
Of sissy-bar mountains
Sets off creamy
Black leather seats,
And reflects
Writhing, stylized
Jets of flame
Painted onto glossy, midnight-black
Gas tanks
Shaped like tapered bullets.Behind them looms Limelight,
A deconsecrated church
Turned nightclub,
And I crunch along the frosty sidewalk
In well-worn motorcycle boots
Topped by faded jeans
Exploded at the knees and
Splattered with oil paint,
Admiring each of the beasts
In turn,
Moving along the arc
Formed by the silent gathering
Toward the Hell's Angels
Legal benefit concert
Waiting inside.Orange and white
Candy cane-striped
Plastic tubes
Stand six feet tall,
Scattered along the streets
I walked
To get here,
Bleeding steam
From the subway tunnels
Below,
Hissing out testimony
To the city's hot blood
Boiling in the arteries
Beneath its concrete
And asphalt skin.I know enough
Not to wear
My tattered black
Buffalo
Motorcycle jacket
To a gig like this.
You do that
Around these guys
And they see a poseur.
It's a good way
To end up
On the wrong end
Of a fistful
Of easily pissed-off
Knuckles.Got two free tickets
From the art director
I work with at the ad agency,
Who got them from a photographer
We'd worked with downtown.
Neither wanted
Anything to do
With an event
Meant to raise money
For bikers charged
With drug-dealing,
With racketeering,
With murder,
But Mark handed them to me
And said,
"This sounds right up your alley."
Elvis Costello will be playing,
And the chance to hear him
In an intimate venue
Like this
Is too irresistible
For me to let
Nuisances
Like moral reservations
Intrude.My ankle-length
Black Aussie duster
Trails in my wake
As I push into
Relentless
November winds
That rush between
The buildings
Like white-water rapids.Jonathan Richman
And The Modern Lovers
Talk/sing in my headphones,
"Some people
Try to pick up girls
And get called an assh***,
This never happened
To Pablo Picasso.
He could walk
Down the street
And the girls
Could not resist his stare,
So Pablo Picasso
Was never
Called an assh***."
As always, the lyrics
Draw a smile
Across my lips.I struggle to light a Marlboro
As I arrive at
The huge wooden double-doors
At the entrance,
But can't take a drag
Quickly enough
Before the match's flame
Is snuffed out.
Acid-Addled Walter
Says I should get a lighter,
But
Where's the romance
In that?I wait for Walter
With the unlit cigarette
Dangling from my mouth.
The duster's oil skin
Cuts off
The worst
Of the wind,
But it's not designed for warmth
Once you stop moving.I turn to face the Hell's Angel
Standing
Like a rotund colossus
Between me and the club's
Warm interior.
You gotta be kidding me,
I think,
Careful to keep
Any hint
Of my characteristic smirk
From my face.
This guy's out of central casting,
Clad in a black sweatshirt
Under a blue denim vest
With the Hell's Angels insignia
Embroidered across the back.
Hoop earrings,
Mirror shades,
Head covered
With a bandana,
Could he be any more
Of a walking cliche?I hear my hame
And spin
To see Acid-Addled Walter
Wearing a jean jacket,
Weaving in my
General direction
On rubbery legs.
Thank Christ, I think,
Half-frozen,
Shove his ticket into his hand
And march up the stone steps.The biker takes my ticket
Then politely asks to frisk me,
So I lean against the wall
Beside the door
While he pats me down,
And I'm thinking,
This is just so damned cool.Inside, Limelight has been
Stripped down
For the event.
It's all gray stones, mortar, and concrete
Devoid of ornamentation,
The walls chilly
And moist to the touch.
Acid-Addled Walter
Lights one of his
Throat-scorching Camels.
I touch the tip of my cigarette
To his,
Inhale deeply,
Then head off to the bar
To buy a couple of Buds.He's gone fetal
In a dark corner
When I return,
Sitting on the floor,
Elbows resting on his knees,
His back heaving
Spasmodically
As he's racked by sobs.
I crouch on my haunches,
Rest his beer beside him.
"Que pasa, amigo?" I ask,
Then take a long draught
Of my own Bud."I'm such a waste,
Such a waste,
Such a useless f****n'
Waste," he gasps in gushes
Of tear-soaked words,
Wrapping his arms
More tightly
Around his drawn-up legs
And rocking back and forth.
I wait
Without talking,
Without asking
Any questions.
The rest will come
When it comes,
When he's ready
To spit it out."Pez left me," he says finally.
"She's gone, she's gone."
My eyes widen
Ever so slightly
Because Alyssa
Saw this coming.
My wife and Pez
Have been fast friends
Since Walter
Started dating Pez
In the summer of '94,
And Pez told her
That at 25,
Waking up
Next to a stoner
Left her frightened,
Uncertain,
As she began
To feel herself sliding
Down the cresting wave
Of her 20s
Toward 30.I like Pez,
Who took her name
From a candy dispenser
That was an enduring
Pop-culture icon,
Smelling of sugar
And summer afternoons.
The electric blue-tinted fuzz
Of her hair
Offsets a face
As white as bone china.
She seems a child
In a woman's body,
Always clad
In bib overalls
Smeared with clay
From her potter's wheel,
Always sporting
Oversized cherry-red
Chuck Taylor high tops
On her tiny feet.
Easily mistaken
For nothing more
Than a carefree sprite,
And that,
Of course,
Had been Walter's
Big screw-up.I draw on my Marlboro
And notice his glassy eyes,
So dilated
That the brown irises
Are now invisible.
He shouts,
"NoNoNo,"
And I glance around
And say, "Shush,"
Asking him
What he took
Before he came here.
"You drop acid?"
He nods yes,
Two tabs of Star Blotter.
"What else?"
A peyote button, he says.
I'm thinking,
Jesus Christ,
He's wigging out
On a superzilla hit
Of major hallucinogens
And we're sitting
In the middle
Of Monster Island,
Rodan on one side,
King Ghidorah on the other,
All the lovely beasties
Ready to crack some skulls
If he loses it and decides
To start something
With one of the Angels.I imagine Elvis Costello
Taking the stage,
But Acid-Addled Walter's
A walking stick of dynamite
With a fuse that might
Be burning
Into the nitro
Right now,
So I haul the sorry SOB
To his feet
By the collar
Of his jacket
And drag him back outside
Into the bitter night.
We ride the subways
Until we reach
The No. 6 line,
Heading uptown
To my apartment.He paces up and down
The length
Of the subway car,
Murmuring incoherently
At invisible tomentors,
Cursing at me
For dragging him
Away from the show,
Then clutching at one
Of the vertical metal poles
And crying out piteously
For Pez.Alyssa, clad in sweatpants
And a t-shirt,
Watches, her face
A muddled mixture
Of confusion and irritation,
As I roll Acid-Addled Walter
Onto his side
On the floor,
Spreading a brown garbage bag
Under his head,
Knowing all too well
His propensity
For puking.
"Pez," I say over my shoulder
To Alyssa,
And her eyes signal
Instant understanding
And divided loyalties.We lay entwined
On the sofa-bed.
I turn to her
And whisper,
"Pablo Picasso
Was never
Called an assh***."
She laughs, glances
At the shadowy
Lump on the floor,
Then finally answers,
"Pablo he ain't."
-- Atticus
poster:Atticus
thread:371391
URL: http://www.dr-bob.org/babble/write/20040320/msgs/371391.html