Posted by Atticus on August 9, 2004, at 9:03:42
Feet of Clay in Steel-Toed Boots, 1999
The cig smoke's thick and tactile
And poisonous as jet exhaust,
Just the way I like it,
When I belly up
And ask the barman at McSorley's
For two fingers
Of Bushmill's, neat,
And a pint of Guinness Dark.
The delicious and delirious
Babble of raised, beery voices
Is punctuated
By the rhythmic
And somehow reassuring
Thumps
Of steel-tipped darts
Striking the cork
Of the board,
Where they hang,
Embedded,
Like used stingers
From robotic hornets.Eight Xanax and my glass
Of whiskey are gone
In a gulp,
And my Buffalo jacket
Squeaks with the sound
Of leather against leather
As I slip through the herd
Of ruddy-faced,
Sweaty,
Wobbly
Patrons
On my way toward a corner
Where I can set down my Guinness
On a shelf crammed
With Irish-themed bric-a-brac
And fire some nicotine
Into my already
Well-polluted
Bloodstream.
I love the flavor
Of Marlboro reds
With an ale chaser.I've jettisoned the Paxil again
Without telling my doc,
And I know
Pez'll give me hell
If she finds out,
But, f*** it,
The sh** wasn't helping
Anyway.
I'm well on my way
To becoming
Blissfully blurry,
An impressionistic pastel smudge
In somewhat human form
That can only be glimpsed,
Momentarily,
From the corner of the eye
Before it's gone again.Then I spot
The living buzzkill called
Tokin' Tiny Tim
Apologizing his way
Through the interlocked throng
In my direction,
And grimace."S'up, Opie?"
I say, exhaling down
Into his face,
Feeling mean,
Feeling hurt,
Feeling like I'm just looking
For something to hit
Besides myself,
Because that's
Getting real old real fast.
"Cops got Walter," he blurts.
"Sh**," I answer,
Draining the rest
Of my third pint
Before following him outside
So we can talk
Without the din.My pickled brain
Tries to organize
Tim's machine-gun bursts
Of words
As I lean back
Against a lamp-post
For support.
Seems Walter got nailed
In a drug sweep
Of Washington Square Park
While he was trying
To make a buy.
"Was he carrying
When they took him?" I ask,
But Tokin' Tiny Tim isn't sure.
If Walter was,
That's felony possession,
And he's in serious
Fu**ing trouble.
"What precinct
They take him to?"
Another blank stare from Tim.
"You're just a fount
Of helpful information, aren't you?"
I snarl.Not a damn thing
I can do anyway,
I think, fidgeting
With my cigarette,
But, Christ,
I don't envy Acid-Addled Walter
Cold-turkeying it in lock-up
As the smack
Pisses and sweats
And sh**s and pukes its way
Out of his system.
Tim had gone
To Washington Square
To score a little weed,
But timing is everything,
And he saw the cops
Moving in
And made tracks.
"What a pisser,"
I say, imagining
A strung-out Walter,
Ink on his hands
From fingerprinting,
Shakily holding up the number placard
For his mug shot,
Quivering with the sickness already
And knowing
Far worse
Lay ahead.My legs go rubbery
As beer and benzos
Finally finish
Dissolving the bones inside them,
Sending me sliding
Down the post
Onto my ass on the sidewalk.
My wife gone,
My mind gone,
Now my former
Best friend gone.
"Jesus," I mutter
To no one in particular,
"What a colossal
Cluster-f***."
Tokin' Tiny Tim
Tries to help me
Back to my feet,
But five-foot-five
Of chubby pothead
Is no match
For six feet
Of dead weight,
And he ends up
Getting pulled down
As well.
"Run for your fu**in' life, Timmy,"
I say, grinning wickedly,
"I'm poison on the hoof,
Mad-cow meat,
These days."His facial muscles bunch
Into a red fist,
Trembling with rage.
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, I think,
His head's going to pop
Like a gluttonous tick.
"Little fu**ing
Lord Byron in leather,"
He hisses at me
From between lips clenched
Like two white-knuckled fingers.
"Thinks he's the center
Of the g**damn universe,
Thinks he's the only person
On the planet
Whose life's
So tragic."
I regard him dully,
Detached,
Aloof,
Reclining in my anesthetized gray matter
As if it were a chaise lounge.
"You're so fu**in' self-centered,"
He goes on, and I smile
A drunkard's idiot smile,
And say,
"Don't beat 'round the bush, Timmy,"
Slurring the words into
One long
Sodden
Susurration
That slides across my tongue
Like a slug
Made of vowels and consonants.
"What's on your mind?""I can't believe
I used to admire you,"
He says quietly,
And this admiration
Is news to me.
"Back in high school,
You didn't give a damn
What anyone thought,
Just did
What you wanted and
Never
Got called on it.
Best thing
About you
And the worst.
All black leather, all attitude,
With straight A's,
And you weren't
Even trying."
He shakes his head
In disgust.
"Some of us have to try,
We're trying so hard
All the time," he adds,
Rubbing his right hand
Over the stubble
On his head
In agitation.
"But you, almighty you, just
Have no fu**ing idea."
Tears glide down his face,
A saline waterfall reflecting
The red tail-lights
Of the traffic inching along
Behind me.
Staccato blasts of car horns
Create a progressive jazz soundtrack
So complex it sounds dissonant,
Perfect for this impromptu piece
Of street theater."You'll never know
What it's like
To be short
And fat
And gay
In high school," he continues,
"Scared sh**less
To tell anyone,
Hoping you
And Walter
And Temple
Can show me
How to handle being -"
(A pause,
A drawn-out heartbeat
Of time
That feels like
An interrupted metronome)
"So different,
So fu**ed up."
Tim sags now,
Exhausted by the effort
Of exhuming hopes
Long dead
And buried.His self-loathing,
His bile,
Wash over me,
Leaving a taste
That's becoming
All too familiar.
Tim gathered
His courage
And swung
The closet door
Wide open
In '90,
To find
An empty room
In an empty house
Abandoned
By his parents
By his sibs
By his frat buds,
A persona non grata,
Especially,
I see now,
To himself.
Nine years ago to me,
Nine minutes ago to him.
Explains all the weed
He sucks down
His windpipe,
Trying
To dull the pain,
Trying
To fend off the fear.
But it's
Never enough
To create a memory
Of an embrace
Of acceptance
Instead of
A backhanded slap
From the people he loved most
At his moment
Of greatest vulnerability,
Played and replayed
In endless
All-night screenings
In his skull
For a decade now.I try
To light a Marlboro,
But my depth perception's
Shot to hell,
And the match
Wavers around,
Fluttering wildly
Like a blazing moth
In flight,
Until he grabs
My wrist
And guides the flame
To the tip
Of the cigarette.
"We all knew, Tim,"
I say. "We all could tell.
Temple, me, Walter,
We just didn't
Give a sh** about it.
Figured
It was like me
Having blue eyes.
Just happened, just happened."
I shrug my shoulders,
Adding,
"If I'm supposed
To have been
Your oracle,
You made one sorry
Fu**ing choice."We sit on
The chilly concrete
By the curb,
People glancing, then giggling
At the two sloppy drunks,
The human debris,
They think they see
Far below them.
The street
Is spinning now
And if I'm going
To say anything
Coherent,
I better
Make it fast.
"Whatever else you think,
About me,
About anything,
Being gay
Doesn't mean you're
Fu**ed up."
I raise my right hand,
Clutching the cigarette
Between the index and third fingers,
To my forehead.
"I'm the one
Who's sick,
Not you."
I roll over
Onto my left shoulder
And begin the long
Black slide
Into sleep,
My only
Goal in life
Anymore.
"You're not the one
Needs fixin'," I finish.
The cement's cool, comforting
On my cheek,
And I draw up
Into a ball,
Hoping Tim can,
At long last,
See the feet of clay
Inside
My steel-toed boots.
-- Atticus
poster:Atticus
thread:375565
URL: http://www.dr-bob.org/babble/write/20040729/msgs/375565.html