Posted by Atticus on August 20, 2004, at 11:16:43
Naked Fat Guy on the RR Line, 1987
Just fu**ing forget
About the
Grand-blam
Tree-lighting
In Rockefeller Center,
And
The giant snowflake
Hanging suspended
Above the holly-jolly
Carbon monoxide-scented
Winter wonderland
Of Fifth Avenue near 57th,
And
Even
The living Nativity
Complete with real camels
And real camel sh**
Bedecking the stage
At Radio City.Let it go, daddy-o,
Because,
God’s honest truth,
There ain’t nothin’,
And I mean nothin’
That brings out
The true
Christmas spirit
Of joy
In a subway car
Crammed with
Cranky New Yorkers
Like a sh**-faced,
Sweaty,
350-pound guy,
Leaking gin fumes
From every pore
In his Jabba-esque
Body,
Doing a slo-mo
Striptease
On the RR line
As it zigzags
Along the tracks
Heading downtown.Flanked on the left
By Temple
And on the right
By Acid-Addled Walter,
I’m schlepping
By rail
To the 33rd Street station,
Where we’ll
Pick up the PATH train
To Christopher Street
And
Hoof it
To the apartment
Of Temple’s friend,
Hello.
His real name’s
Hiram,
Used to go
By Hi,
’Til he decided
He preferred
The more formal
“Hello.”
No one ever
Gets his name wrong
When they meet him
The second time,
Even if
They’ve forgotten it,
And Hello thinks
That’s swell.
He also answers
To “Bonjour”
And “Bonsoir,”
Depending,
Of course,
On the time of day.Temple and I
Are Gothed
And punked
To the max,
All black jeans
And black leather
And black humor,
My spiked hair
Matching her spiked bracelets,
Two animated slices
Of midnight
That are up and about
A bit early,
17-year-old
Slashes of
Film-noir shadow,
Looking to make
Trouble
But too impatient
And too impetuous
To wait
Until the clock
Strikes 12.We’ve been
Trading whispers
About the
Behemoth
Spilled
Across the seats
Along the far wall
Of the subway car
Like a
Gargantuan dollop
Of blood pudding,
Wrapped in stained
Brown fabric
That once
May have been
A suit.
His watermelon-sized
Head lolls to and fro
With the motion
Of the train,
Though how
He manages this
Without the benefit
Of anything
Remotely
Resembling a neck
Leaves us baffled.
He wheezes,
Huffs,
Snorts,
Beads of perspiration
Covering his beefy,
Beet-red kisser
Like hundreds
Of swollen, glistening
Bee stings.He suddenly
Lurches to life
Not so much
Leaning forward
As simply
Oozing
In that direction
Like a humanoid amoeba,
Unties his shoes
And doffs them.
His socks follow
A moment later,
And then,
With a wriggling motion
That sets his whole torso
Rippling,
A windswept lake
Of skin and cloth,
He peels off his jacket,
Tossing it
On the subway floor
On top of
His socks and shoes.A bald
Mustachioed
Little man
Whose jaw is
Furiously
Working
A piece of gum
Lowers his Daily News
And scowls.
“Whattaya think?”
I ask Walter
As he assesses
The fat man.
“Could be,”
He answers,
Grinning.
“Just could be
We’re in for a show.”
Jabba starts to unbutton
His yellowed dress shirt,
And the people
In the immediate
Vicinity
Begin to react.
Some
Move farther away,
But
Most lean slightly
Forward
With the
Odd combination
Of curiosity
And blase detachment
That's the hallmark
Of this town’s citizens.The shirt’s off
On the floor,
And before
We can even react
To that development,
His sleeveless
T-shirt follows.
“Oh Christ,”
I say, laughing,
Averting my eyes.
“Mr. Scott,” I bark to Walter,
Doing my best
Over-the-top
William Shatner,
“Can you give me
More power
To the forward shields?”
Acid-Addled Walter
Picks up the line
I’ve tossed him
Without missing
A beat.
“I can’na, Cap’n,”
He responds
In a shaky
But passable
Scottish accent.
“Th’ warp core’s
Barely keepin’
It together
As it ’tis!”
I pause, then ask,
“Scotty, are you
Stoned again?”
“Yes sir, Oi am.”
“Right, carry on, then.”I hear
The unmistakeable
Clicking
Of Jabba's belt buckle
Being opened,
And whirl to face Temple.
“Bones?”
She stifles a smile, then deadpans,
“Dammit, Jim,
I’m a doctor,
Not a transit cop.”
I hear the
Moist
Sound of felt trousers
Being pulled
Down
Ham-hock
Thighs,
And now the entire car
Has been drawn
Into the drama.
I notice a vein
Pulsing
On mustache-man’s temple,
As his olive skin
Gradually
Takes on the purplish tone
Of an eggplant.
“Good chance
We’ll suffer
Retinal burns
If this goes all the way,”
I proclaim, slipping
My sunglasses
From inside
My Buffalo motorcycle jacket.
“Don protective eyegear,
On my mark.”
Walter and Temple
Yank out their shades,
And I
Shout
“Now!”I look up
And see
That the fat man
Is down
To his briefs.
“Sulu! Evasive action!”
But it’s just
Too g**damned late
For that now.
“Jee –”
(Think he’s goin’ for it)
“Zuz”
(Thumbs are hooked in his waistband)
“Wept.”
(It’s showtime!)
And just like that,
There’s a naked fat guy
On the RR line
As we pull
Into the 42nd Street stop
Directly under Times Square
At the heart
Of the city,
And somehow
That just seems
So fu**ing right
That all I can do
Is applaud.
Walter and Temple
Join in
As the clapping
Ripples
Through the entire car.
I rise to offer
A standing ovation.
“The Off-Broadway
Feel-good
Hit
Of the season!”
I proclaim,
And
This
Is the last straw
For Mr. Mustache.“You little sh**s!”
He bellows at
Me, Walter,
And Temple.
“How can you
Encourage this?
There are women
In this train!”
I turn to Temple.
“Is this true?”
“About time
You caught on, spud,”
She smirks in reply.
The mustachioed man
Strides over to the
Naked fat guy
And announces
To him,
“You’re under arrest.”
“You a cop?” I ask.
“I’m making a citizen’s
Arrest, wisea**.”
He screams at the man
To put his pants
Back on,
Without success,
Then tries to haul him
To his feet,
Also
Without success.
The doors
To the car open
And Mr. Mustache
Spots
The blue uniform
Of a real transit cop
On the platform.
As he goes over
To talk to him,
The fat guy
Seems
To emerge slightly
From his stupor.A second train,
Bearing the markings
Of the N line,
Pulls in across the platform
And the doors
Slide open.
Commuters erupt
From the opening
Like a swarm of ants,
And the naked fat guy
Decides
It's time
To make his move.
He snatches
Up his clothes
From the filthy
Floor,
Waddling
Toward the other train
And
Into the churning mass
Of riders,
Which,
Understandably,
Parts
Like the Red Sea
When the individuals
Within this colony animal
See what’s heading
In their direction.Our entire subway car
Is chanting,
“Go, go, go!”
I hear Mr. Mustache
Shout, “Hey!”
But the doors of the N train
Snap shut behind
The naked guy
And it pulls out
Of the station.
A rousing cheer
And applause
Rise
From the appreciative
And amused
Audience
He left behind.
We all settle
Back down,
Chattering madly
As the transit cop
Tells our conductor
It’s OK to go.
The electric chimes sound
And the doors slide shut.“Dare you to sit over there,”
I say to Temple,
Pointing to the
Damp
Plastic
Where the naked fat guy
Had been moments before.
“Eww!” she giggles.
“I can’t wait to tell Hello.”
I guess this is what passes
For “A Christmas Carol”
In the ’80s,
I think,
Hoisting an imaginary toast
To Temple
And to Walter
With the words,
“God bless us, everyone.”
-- Atticus
poster:Atticus
thread:379884
URL: http://www.dr-bob.org/babble/write/20040729/msgs/379884.html