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- June, 2000: Junior Prom
My god, the world is a different place at night. Self-consciousness sets itself in motion. It’s to the point where forecasting criticisms of future critics has become commonplace. Every thought is filtered through its eventual perception by an audience of fans and critics, admirers and detractors.
And so does the machinery of the corporate world trickle down into personal applications. We are the first wave of buyers who accelerate the market penetration of new products and ideas. Our product is ourselves: the newer, better, cooler versions of ourselves. (Note: As I lit my cigarette just now, I pulled the lighter from my cigarette and my cigarette from my face in an overly dramatic manner.) (Note also: I smoke Camel Lights, as they offer the time-tested Camel brand name combined with the reduction in perceived-risk of a light cigarette.)
And so it is that our mirrors become proof-sheets for a photo shoot that hasn’t happened yet. (Note: I am currently wearing tight jeans with an interesting, but not overwhelming, wash. To complement my jeans, I am wearing a Shins t-shirt. I have donned a jaunty army cap for the occasion, complete with a small button advertising an up-and-coming local band that you have never heard of, yet are the best band in the history of music.)
That last paragraph was really only one sentence, with a three sentence parenthetical. Strunk says perfunctorily (Does he ever say anything otherwise?), that parentheses are far too formal for conversational style (Strunk can be a real dick sometimes).How witty, how clever. “He really is the voice of his generation.” “Look at how he subverts grammar and structure to fit his ends.” The point of knowing the rules is to be able to break them.
And so are we left with a grand design that has been implemented six billion times too often. We have learned how to ride a bicycle so that we can invent a tricycle. We “said no to drugs” so that we would do drugs in moderation. “A wannabe H.S. Thomspon, and a second-rate one at that,” – Dapper Literary Critic, New York Times Book Review. (Note: Dapper Literary Critic is a widely recognized dapper and literary sort of fellow who dislikes Susan Sonntag but who admires, if not the message, the style of On the Road.)
What a question: the drug question – the drug question that has itself become rhetorical and isn’t even asked anymore. And so it has become a question punctuated with a period rather than a question mark. It is a question in the same sense as the abortion question. Abortion question period. Rather than ask the question, we have decided just to ask the opposing parties to separate into distinct groups. (Note: While I dislike the idea of aborting a potential life, I feel that it is the woman’s right to choose. It is her body, after all.)
And so cohesion falls by the wayside. Less than a page by my count, but judging by the general word-to-page ratio for books by “the author of his generation”, these words will probably fall on the second or third page of actual text. What the true page numbers of those pages will be depends on whether this is the hardcover, pocket edition soft-cover, or the special edition featuring photographs from the new motion picture now being produced by Columbia Pictures. We also would have to factor in any special “Anniversary” editions, which invariably include all sorts of forewords and “looks back” by various literary and social luminaries.
And so we come to the question of our generation; we do not come to that question directly mind you, but we come to it nonetheless. To have an enemy, that would be something. We erect figureheads of enemies, sure, but a figurehead is not the thing. Our enemy is in fact faceless, or, more correctly, infinitely faced. Masks of our enemy are not popular Halloween costumes.
And so we come to the question of how one goes about describing a faceless enemy. Finally, a question with an answer! The answer of course is no… or rather, do not. Those that recognize the enemy do well not to reveal its identity. I’ve probably said too much already.
“A work of pretentious, self-important, obtuse and inefficient metaphors for nothing.” – DLC. (Note: Dapper Literary Critic has gone to using only his initials instead of his full name, so chic.) god damn it, he is good, that Fucker. You’ll all have to let me know if they capitalized that “god” there. Those bastards, I bet they did. By “those bastards”, I mean my editor. She’s a very smart, imaginary, young girl. She was brought on by the publishing company, also imaginary, and renowned for publishing very smart work, to help bring some focus and discipline to my writing. (Note: My torrid affair with my imaginary editor will be the subject of a period film, illustrating how deeply a work of art can touch a person.)
(Note: the ashtray next to my keyboard is now full to the brim as I smoke incessantly while writing.) (Note also: I write in the very late-night/early-morning hours as the friscillating light from the city streets leaks through a haze of cigarette smoke into my ironically-appointed downtown loft.) I met a homeless man once, and he told me a funny story that made me laugh. The story didn’t really have any meaning, but it’s a beautiful image isn’t it? Me listening to this homeless man’s crazy story? (Note: It’s far too late for me to still be awake, but it’s more important that I capture these ideas that are bouncing around like electrons in my head than to be well rested tomorrow.)
“Told in a series of disconnected vignettes…” – Dapper Literary Critic. I see he dropped the initials thing. Good for him, it came off as pretentious. I heard he was doing too much blow during the “initials” phase of his critical career. He’s been through rehab now though; I heard that going back to the full name was part of his leaving his past behind him. You always have to return to the beginning to leave the past behind. (Note: your shirt looks wrinkled, you should change it before you go out. No, no, I don’t mean like artist/rugged wrinkled, it looks like it’s really been in the hamper for too long.)
Great pornography lets you jack-off without thinking about jacking-off.
2004
A picture of an actress.
While watching The Duchess last night, I thought, “I could write a better screenplay than this.” For the record, I probably couldn’t. When I was nineteen years-old, I wrote a screenplay. It was about a group of privileged students from a private Christian university getting into trouble in Tijuana. It was called, “TJ”. Yikes. A year later, I wrote a screenplay about a student from a private Christian university who falls in love with another student at a private Christian university. It featured two other intertwining stories: one about a pastor and his wife (who turn out to be the first student’s parents), and an Iraqi woman whose husband dies in the war (she cripples the pastor when she tries to commit suicide by ramming her car into his church). Double yikes.
I eventually produced and directed (a truncated version of) the second screenplay, Hearts of Glass and Stone, for credit at the private Christian university I attended (surprise!). Before I could start production, I had to clear the script with my adviser, Dr. Hueth. I never got along with Dr. Hueth. I argued with him every chance I got. I thought he was a hack who didn’t know what he was talking about. I might have been right. But he did give me the best criticism I’ve ever received. He read my script, all 180 pages of it, and returned it to me with detailed notes and comments. Most of it was admonitions to tone down the more “shocking” content or smiley faces on the classroom scenes, but towards the end, at the end of a big monologue by the main character, was this note: “This hits the nail too much on the head.”
It was true. The monologue was a girl telling a boy she couldn’t love him because she was damaged goods. I think that might have been a line in the monologue actually, “I can’t love you because I’m damaged goods.” Yikes. But it’s not quite as bad as most of The Duchess. The scenarios surrounding the title character’s fall from grace are the stuff of Greek tragedy. What’s happening is clearly awful, no need for explication, but that doesn’t stop the characters from reciting plot points as dialog.
It’s as if the screenwriter is saying, “Look, see what’s happening here, it’s because of that other thing that happened before! I wrote that! Are you not getting it? Ok, I’ll just have the characters say exactly why they’re doing what they’re doing. Yes, I know most people in the sort of emotionally charged situations you’re seeing here don’t know why they act the way they do, let alone have the ability to explain their motivations, and although these motivations are easily apparent to an outside observer, I don’t think you’re a competent enough observer to put this five-piece jigsaw puzzle together without me holding your hand.”
I imagine a dialog meeting between the literary pillars behind this movie:
“Ok, this is the big scene where the Duke confronts the Duchess about cheating on him with Charles Gray.”
“So she comes out of the hotel room, and she’s all flush, you know, from having sex with Charles Gray…”
“And the Duke is sitting in the lobby.”
“With her mom!”
“Oh, that’s good. Did that really happen?”
“Sure, why not?”
“Great. So what’s the mom trying to say, what does she want? She wants her daughter to get back with this raping creep, right?”
“Right, and be a good wife. Duty and everything.”
“Right, right. And she’s a real prim, proper lady, right?”
“Right.”
“Ok. What if she says, ‘Go home and do your duty and be a good wife.’?”
“Oh, that’s good.”
“Ok, so then the Duchess sulks…”
“Then the raping husband starts yelling at her, ‘I’m mad at you!’”
”That definitely really happened, right? The part where he rapes the Duchess?”
“Yeah, totally.”
“Ok, I don’t wanna get sued or anything.”
“No, no. So the husband starts in…”
“Yeah, and Keira, I mean the Duchess, is all afraid… because of him tearing off her clothes and raping her before.”
“Right. So what if she says something, like, ‘Are you going to tear off my clothes and rape me again?’”
“Perfect! It totally says exactly what should already be obvious from the actress’ performance and the audience’s understanding of narrative convention.”
“Word. Call it a day?”
“You bet your ass, let’s get out of here. I hate this writing bullshit.”
January 27, 2009
You say tomato...
Inside its plastic sheath writhes fifty pounds of shit. The plastic warps as my fingers burrow for grip, threatening to tear and spill its contents prematurely. I grunt and strain and heave the bag of manure on top of two more just like it.
“Stuff smells like shit!” I look at Andrea and smile as I wipe my hands on the legs of my jeans.
“So do you!” She smiles back from on her knees in the loose soil.
I run to her and grab her by the hips and rub my face into the crook of her neck. She laughs and pushes me away, and I laugh and tousle her hair.
“Eeew!”
“Shush! You better get used to bein’ dirty, sweetheart!” I shoot her a grin.
“You’re dirty enough for the both of us!”
“That may be, that may be, but we both gotta spread this shit around.” I pick up the top bag again, set it on end, and tear a hole in the plastic along the bag’s top seam. ”Look out!” With the bag under my right arm, I start sifting forth its contents onto the churned soil. ”You did good baby,” I say, “this looks well broken up.”
“It should, I clawed the crap out of it!” She holds up her hand rake, tines towards me, “Rawwrr,” she says, clawing the air like a jungle cat.
“Rawwr.” I grin, dumping a fine layer of manure over her handiwork.
“Should I start spreading it out?”
“Sure, just don’t spread it too thin.”
“Make sure you dump enough out for me then.”
I empty the first bag, and open the second. Andrea grabs the larger rake and follows behind me, sweeping my scattered leavings into a consistent layer.
“Seeds?”
“Seeds!” Andrea runs into the house and emerges with the seed packets. She fans them out in front of me. ”What you want boo? I got tomato, I got corn, I got lettuce, I got eggplants, what you want?”
I grab the pack of heirloom tomato seeds. ”Tomatoes first.” I tear the top off the paper packet. I empty half the contents into my left hand, and the other half into Andrea’s. I kneel in the ripe top soil. With my index finger, in the corner of the yard closest to the house, where the shade of the eaves will fall near midday, I make a small divot in the layer of manure, in the firmer tilled soil underneath. I wiggle my finger in a small circle, widening my hole slightly. I drop the first tomato seed in the divot.
“How big do you think they’ll get?” Andrea asks.
“How big?”
“Yeah, how big?”
“I dunno, softball size? If we’re lucky…”
“That seems a little big.”
“Maybe baseball size?”
“I’d be happy with that.”
“I’m happy now.”
“You know what I meant.”
“I know.” I put my arm around her waist, and pull her close. She lays her head against my chest and I kiss the crown of her head. ”Let’s plant these seeds baby, it’s gonna get dark soon.”
She lifts her head from my chest and looks at me. ”I love you,” she says.
“I love you too.”
January 27, 2009
I stand up bleeding and angry: “What the heck, Lewis!?”
“Touch. You’re down.” Lewis says coolly.
“Touch? You freaking drilled me!”
“Sorry, don’t know my own strength.”
“Bull crap.” I turn to my team. ”Huddle up!” They gather around me, arms on shoulders. ”Okay, Rudy, go deep to the right, I’m gonna throw it over your shoulder. Jillian, just run around like crazy to fake ‘em out. TJ, stay back and block. Samantha, run the opposite way of Cody, I’m gonna fake throw it to you. Ok?’ They all nod. ”Ok.”
We break the huddle and line up opposite Lewis team. Bucky is sitting on the retaining wall, on the edge of the parking lot, nursing his scraped knee. I take the ball and touch it to the ground at the line of scrimmage. I take a couple steps back from the line.
“Shotgun!” I look left at Samantha. ”Ready!” I look left at Jillian. ”Set!” I look right at Rudy. ”Hike!” My team sprints off the line. Rudy sprints past Cody on my right, Samantha runs neck and neck with Cassy on my left. Jillian chats with Lacy at the line of scrimmage. TJ is standing just in front of me, to my right, grappling with Ted. Lewis is in the middle of the field, lurking. I fake the throw to Samantha. Lewis doesn’t flinch. I look towards Rudy, and Lewis looks towards Rudy. I rear back to throw, and Lewis is sprinting towards the basketball pole that marks the edge of the end zone. His legs are so long. The ball is in the air, shrinking shrinking shrinking. Lewis is closer to Rudy than the ball is. The ball starts to fall, and Lewis takes a giant step and plants his right foot and leaps for the little yellow oblong, as Cody jumps for it, as Rudy falls over Cody.
Lewis’ sinewy fingers splay in silhouette against the bright blue sky. The yellow ball takes Lewis’ prints and slides by, through Cody’s arms, to find the falling Rudy, right in the gut. He catches it on his back on the asphalt. I run to him, jumping and whooping and punching the air as I go. I take Rudy by the forearms and pull him up from the ground and embrace him and rub his hair. ”Atta boy,” I say, “atta boy!” The rest of the kids gather. I turn to Lewis and point to the far end zone and smirk, ”Losers walk.”
Lewis and his team jog to the far side of the parking lot, closest to the street, opposite the basketball hoop. I take the little yellow ball from Rudy. I point the nose of the ball at Lewis and his teammates. I step back towards the basketball pole, reach out with my right arm, and touch the nose of the ball to the pole. I raise my left arm. My team forms a rough line. ”Ready?!” I call out.
“Yeah, punk, we’re ready.” growls Lewis back.
I drop my left arm and my team takes off. I huck the ball like a javelin thrower, as high and hard as I can. I don’t watch it. I sprint towards the opposite side. Cody catches the ball. I’m running, and Lewis is running towards me. I’m running towards Lewis. Cody cuts towards the right sideline. I angle to cut him off before he turns the corner. I feel pebbles and sand grit crunch and slip underfoot, in the tread of my sneakers. I loosen my angle. Lewis beats me to the sideline. He’s in front of Cody. His feet are squared, his knees bent, his jaw set. I run straight at him. He drops into a crouch, folds his arms in front of him. Three more steps. I drop my head and shoulders. Lewis explodes from his crouch.
His arms are an iron bar, leveled against my chest, lifting me up, and then backwards. My feet come off the ground, go perpendicular to it. I come down on my tailbone with a thud and a pulsing sickness through my bones and teeth. My stomach drops. Fireworks behind my eyelids, then a bright white light, and then swimming black spots, like flies on a television screen. I look up through the flies at Lewis’ smiling face, his shiny black skin, his beautiful big white teeth. He reaches his open right hand down to me.
January 25, 2009
As a kid, I never lost.
At recess, we play touch football in the church parking lot. I am one of two team captains, because I am strong and fast and my hands are big enough to throw the football. Lewis Pettway is the other team captain, because he is strong and fast, and his hands are big enough to throw the football. We gather in a clump in the middle of the parking lot, in our blue slacks and plaid skirts and white polo shirts. The rest of the kids circle around as Lewis and me roshambo for first pick.
I pound my right fist into my left palm. ”One.”
Again. ”Two”
As I swing my fist towards my left palm a third time, I extend my index and middle fingers, into a “V”, into a pair of scissors. ”Three.” The gesture lands in my left hand. I look across at Lewis’ hands. They’re both flat, his left palm parallel to the ground, his right perpendicular to his left, like an axe blade in a tree stump. Paper.
He chooses Cody, who is strong, but not very fast. I choose Rudy, who is fast and can catch, but is not very strong. Lewis chooses Cassy, because every other pick has to be a girl. Those are Pastor Edwards’ rules. I choose Samantha. Lewis chooses Bucky, who is a little slow, and who doesn’t like football, and who is my brother. I choose TJ, because he is my friend. Lewis chooses Lacy, because he likes her. I choose Jillian for the same reason. Ted is the only one left, and he is fat and slow. I start running towards one end of the parking lot, and my team follows. Lewis gives Ted a quick pat on the back, and runs the other way, followed by the rest of his team, and eventually Ted.
“You guys throw off!” I yell across the parking lot at Lewis.
“No way, my team threw off last time!”
“Yeah, but you got first pick!”
“So?” Lewis yells back.
“So that means you throw off!”
“No it doesn’t.”
“Lewis! Yes it does!”
“Fine. Gimme the ball.” I toss the football across the parking lot towards him. It lands a couple feet in front of him, on its nose, and bounces up with a hard backspin and hits him in his right nostril. He jerks his head back as it happens. The rough plastic coating of the football skins his nose like sandpaper and he starts to bleed a little bit. The ball bounces away and Ted trots to pick it up.
Ted hands Lewis the ball and Lewis points the nose of the ball at me and my team. He takes a few steps back and, with his outstretched right arm, touches the nose of the ball to the pole that marks the edge of the end zone. He holds his left arm straight up, and his team forms a rough line. He drops his left arm and they sprint towards us. Lewis jogs a few steps and plants his right foot, his left leg lifts across his right and his back arches and his right hand reaches down towards the ground behind him. He drives his body forward. His long skinny black right arm slices the air in a violent arc.
The ball rises fast against the clear blue sky, shrinking shrinking shrinking. My team fans out in front of me across the cracked asphalt field. The ball is a canary a mile of blue above me. Cody crashes into Rudy, and they both go tumbling to the gritted pavement. My brother slows too late and reaches out to TJ for help as he trips past. The climbing canary seems to freeze in its ascent. Samantha and Jillian and Lacy and Cassy are standing on the sideline at midfield, talking. The little yellow football is growing growing growing. Lewis is coming. The ball comes down at me like a meteorite and the sky disappears in a yellow eclipse. I reach my arms out, and the ball collides with my chest with a cold sting and the air goes out of my lungs. I close my arms around the ball and start running.
Ted is ten yards ahead of me and five ahead of Lewis, but the gaps are closing quickly. I shorten my steps into a stutter. I feint left with my head, and Ted lunges to his right. I pull up and stop, and he tries to stop, but his inertia is too great, and he falls. I jump over him. In the air, Lewis reaches me. His left foot planted in front of him, he extends both his lanky arms and plants the heels of his palms in my chest. The right hand lands first at the angle we collide, and I’m spun around. My right elbow and forearm find the pavement first. It burns hot and wet. My bone thuds against the hard ground through skin and flesh and my stomach turns. I come to a stop and lay on the ground with my eyes closed.
January 21, 2009
I dream I am in Washington. I’m in the Capitol, in the statuary hall. I hear deep voices, but they echo so thickly I can’t make out the words. The echoes multiply and the voices deepen to become a churning cacophony, gnawing at itself and spawning simultaneously. The noise is insufferable: a tangible presence replacing the oxygen, a black adenoid swallowing elegant marble busts and intricate plaster moldings and, finally, my thoughts. Endless dark. And then bright white fluorescent light. I am in the Capitol, in my office, in my black leather swivel chair, behind my oak desk.
My wife appears in front of me. Her hair radiates a crimson halo. It is brighter than the day we swam in that azure cavern off Capri. She is naked and her breasts are pert and firm and her pubic hair is that same candied red. She comes towards me in silence, and I back the chair on its casters away from the desk. She kneels between my feet, unzips my pants, pulls out my flaccid penis and puts her hands behind her back. I take her by the hair and she opens her mouth. Her lips are full and smooth and red and glossy. I guide her mouth towards the tip of my penis, resting on the black wool of my suit pants. As her tongue touches the glans, she looks up and smiles and her teeth are razor sharp and her face is old and spotted and warted. Purple and crimson bruises ring her eyes, visible through her wax-paper skin. She lunges forward, and I tug her hair against it. She breaks free, swallowing my member. Her hair comes out in my hands in dull matted clumps. I wake up.
I am cold. My shirt is wet with cold sweat and sticks to my back. I sit up and put my elbows on my desk and rest my face in them, by my chin, on the heels of my palms. I rub my temples with my fore and middle fingers. I look between my hands at the agenda on my desk. The black ink swims on the white page, my head pulses. I pick up the beige telephone receiver from my desk and dial “714″. I hear a ring in the receiver speaker a second before I hear Laurie’s phone ring next door.
“Lorena Garcia.”
“Laurie, it’s me, I’m ready to go over today’s itinerary.”
”You sure?”
“Yeah, come on over.” I take off my coat and drape it behind me, over the back of my vinyl chair. I fold the right cuff of my shirt over, then fold it over again. I fold the thickened cuff one more length up my arm. The creases start to slip, the fold becomes a tangled roll of cotton-polyester blend, I push the roll just above my elbow. I repeat the process with the left sleeve. The door opens and Laurie walks in.
“Feeling better?”
“A little, yeah.”
“Ok. I went ahead and cleared your morning anyways. Armistise is gonna be your first appointment, so you’ve got a couple hours to relax. You should take it if you’re not feeling well, because you have a ribbon cutting at three, and then a police awards ceremony at 5.”
”Do I need a tux or anything for the awards?”
“No, you’re gonna be overdressed like that. We’ll lose the tie on the way over there.”
“Anything else?”
“The Union called, they want a quote on HR-765, and the woman with the hangnail on Medicare, Mrs. Delano, she wants a personal response from you, or she says she’s filing a malpractice suit.”
“Can she do that?”
“I doubt she’ll win, but she can file the claim.”
“Ok, send her a letter saying I’m sorry for her discomfort and that we uh, take very seriously all claims of malpractice by Medicare doctors and that we’re ‘looking into the matter’.” Laurie scribbles it all down on a note pad. When she goes back to her office, she’ll transcribe the note to her computer, and then send it to her BlackBerry and then e-mail it to the intern, who will write the letter to Mrs. Delano. “Is that it for the day?”
“Except for the private fundraiser tonight.”
“Shit. Do I need a tux for that?”
“No, it’s a luau theme.”
“What?”
“It was your wife’s idea. The caterers are doing a roast pig on a spit. ’Bringing home the pork’. Get it?”
“Very funny.”
“But that’s it. And you have two hours until Armistise is expecting you at the barbeque place. Anything else, or would you like me to leave you alone?
“That’s it.”
”Alright,” she says, neatening her manilla folder, “you’re sure you’re alright?”
“I’ll be ok.”
“Ok, let me know if you change your mind, if you need someone to talk to.”
“I will. Thank you. I’m alright.”
She leaves and closes the door behind her. My eyes fall on a photograph of myself and Sylvester Stallone. I lay my forehead on the cool wood of my desk and close my eyes again. My head pounds. I stand up and walk out of my office, down the hall to the men’s bathroom. I lock the door. I stand over the sink and splash water in my face, rubbing my face with the palms of my hand, slapping my face back and forth between my two hands. The faucet squeaks as I turn it off. I set my hands on the edges of the sink and lean in to the mirror for a closer look at the bags under my eyes. I feel the sink start to give as I put my weight on it, and I quickly stand up straight. I jiggle the sink. It feels like it’s attached by the pipe alone. I look in the mirror and make sure my hair is neatly parted, and I leave the bathroom. I walk through the maze of aides’ cubicles, to the elevator doors. I press the “down” button. It lights up. I press it again, jamming it into its socket, again, again.
“In a hurry, sir?” the intern asks.
“You have no idea.”
”Where are you headed?”
“The Grotta Azzurra.”
”Is that a new restaurant?”
The elevator doors open, and I get on the elevator. The elevator descends, stops, and the doors open again. I exit the elevator into the lobby. I see plastic ficus and shrubs, polyester flower petals and a fish tank. I see waiting room chairs upholstered in mauve and taupe. I walk through the lobby. I push its glass double doors open. I leave the home office.
At midnight, we stood in a room on the second floor and I emptied a bag of balloons onto the revelers in the courtyard. Then I kissed Andrea. I lifted her off the ground, with my arms around her waist, by her ass. She wrapped her legs around me and put her tongue in my mouth, and I put my tongue in her mouth. Everyone else in the room on the second floor was alone, and I felt bad kissing Andrea so long in front of them. But I kept kissing her anyways. We stopped kissing and I took her by her shoulders and looked in her eyes and told her I loved her. She said she loved me too. I was angry at everyone else in the room, in her room. I wanted to be with her alone.
We left her room and walked through the house. In the living room, a group of Brazilians sang karaoke to a ten year-old pop song. The line for the bathroom split the living room from the kitchen, so we pressed through it. In the kitchen people were talking and mixing drinks. I didn’t know any of them. We walked through the kitchen and out the door. In the narrow side yard were friends from college, leaned along the rickety bare-wood picket fence, smoking cigarettes, making jokes. I said hello to some of them as Andrea and I passed and they said hello in return. A couple I didn’t know passed us going the other way and said, “Happy new year.” I said, “You too,” and took Andrea by the hand.
In the courtyard were more people, milling about, drinking and smoking, talking and laughing. The balloons I had thrown from the window littered the floor, forgotten. Here and there were young men and women too drunk for polite company: the curly-haired boy talking too close to a strange girl, the French girl asleep on a couch next to the dance floor, dreaming a Rubens painting. The music was loud and the constant vibration of bass osmosed easily through the crush of sweating dancing bodies. Smoke and steam rose from the scrum. Through thin layers of fabric, sexes rubbed against one another, against thighs and asses. Andrea and I drifted into the flotsam and danced the jostle. She was beautiful, and we danced without touching, as we always do when the music is fast.
