Posted by Atticus on August 5, 2004, at 9:56:20
Meet Me Under the Blue Whale, 1998
The blue titan has just breached
The surface of a phantom sea,
Its back arched,
Flukes pointed downward,
As it plunges toward us,
The great striations running the length
Of the bottom
Of its hundred-foot body
Mere yards
Above the spot
Where Pez and I sit, heedless,
Sipping coffee,
Far too absorbed
In our conversation
To pay any attention
To the enormous fiberglass eavesdropper
Looming above
The cafe,
Frozen in a dive
It will never complete,
Suspended
On chains of stainless steel.I've loved this room
In the Museum of Natural History
Since I first
Laid eyes upon it
As a child.
Such thrilling power
Married to balletic grace,
Bigger than even the dinosaurs
Upstairs,
More impressive
Than the toothy maw
Of the beast
I dubbed
The Cheshire Shark,
Whose colossal body
Has long since vanished,
Leaving only a set
Of prehistoric jaws
Large enough
For six grown men
To sit in.So when Pez called
And needed to talk,
I asked her
To meet me
Under the blue whale.
No kid
Who grew up
In Manhattan
Needs any further
Explanation.In the corner to my left,
A diorama
Shows
The life-sized head
Of a sperm whale
Entangled in the thrashing
Tentacles of a giant squid,
A fount of childhood nightmares
Too numerous to count,
Yet utterly irresistable
To me.
Only
When I was older
Did I realize that the squid
Was not villain
But victim,
Fighting for its life,
Battling to avoid
Being reduced
To sushi.
No one
Has ever seen
A giant squid
That was still alive.
We only know
They exist
Because the carcasses
Of these behemoths,
Who dwell
In utter darkness,
Occasionally
Wash up on shore.This time
Pez's head
Of orange-toned
Dandelion fluff
Is graced
By an elegant black bowler
With a smiley face patch
Meticulously sewn
To the front.
My spiked black hair,
Frayed motorcycle jacket,
And steel-toed boots complement
Her bib overalls and
Cherry-red
Chuck Taylor All-Star
High-tops perfectly.
We look
Like a living diorama
That should be labeled
"Punkus Artistus Angstum."My legs and feet
Are restless
From the Paxil,
Dancing a relentless
Spastic beat
On the linoleum
Beneath the table,
And not even the Xanax
Is able to control
This dysfunctional
Pairing
Of Fred Astaire
And Sid Vicious.Pez's face
Seems to have been drained
Of its typical
Animation,
As if she had made
A white ceramic mask
Symbolizing Greek tragedy,
And donned it
Before
Leaving her flat.
She'd been swept
From the arms
And apartment
Of her ex-boyfriend,
Acid-Addled Walter,
By a rising tide
Of drug use
That had finally
Overrun
The emotional seawalls
She had built.Pez found herself
Drowning,
Flailing
For solid ground,
Pulling my wife Alyssa
To safety
With her
When my mental illness
And alcoholism
Has themselves become
A torrent.
I glance up
At the gargantuan creature
Hovering serenely
Overhead, thinking,
Only whales
Can navigate
Such dark currents
For any length of time.Tears hover
In her green eyes
And I lean forward,
Grasping her trembling
Right hand
Between both of my own,
Musing about
How desperate she must be
To seek help
From the likes of me.
"Pez?" I ask uncertainly,
Trying to meet
Her lowered gaze."I can't," she says,
In a tone
As delicate and wispy
As gossamer.
"I just can't
Be everyone's mother."
She pauses,
Sips her coffee,
Half-stifling a sob.
"It's OK," I say,
Trying to ignore
The swirling sensation
In my scalp,
As if vicious riptides
And maelstroms
Were churning
Just under the surface
Of my skin.
The Paxil has
My brain
Racing
In so many directions
At once
That it takes
Every bit
Of concentration
I can muster
Just to assemble
A handful
Of words
Into a sentence."What can I do?" I manage
To force out
In a stutter, adding,
"What do you need?"
Before the tiny pieces
Of linguistic driftwood
Are scattered once again.
She looks up
With the same
Defeated expression
I saw
Draped
Across Alyssa's face
So many times.
"Talk to Walter," Pez says,
Her voice a watery quaver.
"I've heard he's in deep sh**,
And I feel like it's
My fault."Jesus Christ
On a popsicle stick,
I'm thinking,
You don't send a person
Who can no longer swim
To rescue someone
Who's going under.
"You're his best friend,"
She pleads,
But I'm not so sure
About that anymore.
I think his new best friend
Comes in a syringe.
I want to say,
Walter and I haven't seen
Each other in months
Because even I
Could see
We were dragging
Each other down
Like a pair
Of entwined anchors.
I want to argue
That one Lost Boy
Can't do much for another.
But I owe her
So much.
She hasn't allowed me
To bullsh**
Myself
About my condition,
Not even
For a second,
So I dump
A bunch of Xanax
Into my hand
Like they were
M&Ms,
Wash them down
With the rest of my coffee and say,
"OK."The door
To Acid-Addled Walter's
Apartment
Has been left
Unlocked,
And when you do that
In New York,
That's a bad sign.
I open the door
And step
Into a darkened room
Lit only
By the purple light
Of a lava lamp,
The blobs inside
Engaged in an amoebic tango.
Place smells like a dumpster
On a hot August
Afternoon,
So I light a Marlboro,
And two gleaming feral eyes
Appear in the Stygian gloom,
Widening in apparent recognition.
Even though
I'm just a silhouette in the door,
I figure
He can tell
Who I am
By the spiny shape
Of my hair."Thought you'd be
In a rubber room by now,
Looney Tunes," he says
By way of greetings.
I sigh,
Thinking,
Fools rush in
Where angels fear to tread,
And answer in a cloud
Of smoke,
"Good to see you, too."
My eyes begin to adjust
To the darkness,
Which seems thickened
By the stench
Of decomposition.
"We're worried," I begin.
"Just wanted to see
How you're doing.""Same old same old,"
He answers blithely,
His soggy words emitted
In a kind of contented purr,
And I figure
He shot up some smack
Not too long
Before I arrived.
I decide to stop
Dancing around my point
Like some half-assed ballerina
And spit it out.
"You're going to fu**ing die,"
I say evenly,
My emotions flatlined
By all the Xanax.
"So what's your point?"
He responds,
Lighting a cigarette
Of his own.
In the momentary flare
Of his lighter's flame,
I see the face
Of a cadaver
That doesn't know
That it's time
To stop twitching."Jesus, Gator," I say,
Using an old nickname
That hasn't touched my tongue
Since high school,
The moniker pulled
From a lame cartoon character
Called Wally Gator.
I blurt, "Pez and I ...,"
Freezing in mid-sentence,
Realizing too late
That I've just fu**ed up
This whole thing.
"That b**ch sent you?" he shrieks,
Rising from the couch
And coming toward me,
Face contorted in rage.
"Get out, get out,
Just drag your crazy ass
Out of here!"
I hold my ground
For a moment,
But then turn
And trudge back
Toward the stairs.I plop down next to Pez,
Who's sitting on the stoop,
And I offer her a cig
When she reads the expression
On my face.
"I'm sorry" is all
I can offer.
Sometimes that seems
To be all
I say anymore.
We sit there
For a long time,
Neither looking at the other.
He's down too deep, I think,
Hoping
That the next time
I see him,
It won't be
Because
He washed up on the shore.
-- Atticus
poster:Atticus
thread:374327
URL: http://www.dr-bob.org/babble/write/20040729/msgs/374327.html