Saturday, April 16, 2016

The Numbers of the bEast...An Appreciation of XPULVER!

A spontaneous post inspired by the flood of mad words being tossed in the direction of the one and only Joe Pulver today, Saturday, April 16, 2016. 

I'll post my tribute (or whatever it is), then post a link so you can check out more of the tributes by some wonderful writers for one of our Masters.


***

(for Joe Pulver)




It’s 2:30 A.M.
It’s always 2:30 A.M. at the Bohren & der Club of Gore.  It’ a place, not a band.  A distortion in reality.  A yellow dream, soundtrack of slow jazz.  
Doom jazz. 
This is how you spend your Saturday nights. 
Waiting for her.
You’ve just stumbled home from the club.  You’re not even sure how you made it home.  The door to your rathole apartment is ajar.  You push it open, slumping against the wall as you enter.  Lights flicker, could be the TV.  Perhaps you left it on, but what of the door?  Were you so stupid as to have left the door open?  So anxious to leave and blot out your existence in the bottom of a shot glass? 
Then you see her, the girl of your dreams.  The flickering light caresses her as you wish you were doing.  Just as suddenly, she’s gone.  Was she really there?  Perhaps it’s just a hallucination because you’re drunk.  Again.  But she laughs, you hear that much.  In a sustained, slow-motion flash of light, you see her lips, only her lips, and want to kiss them. 
But all she does is laugh. 
All you do is want. 
Head-nod wrecking ball drop and awaken at your regular table at the club.
Cassie dances on the stage, slipping out of something barely there in the first place. 
That something is your dream. 
The tattoos on her flesh move as she does: a winding hallway, a door ajar, flickering lights… 
At the center of her torso, you see the woman’s face just beneath the ample swoop of bosom and desire.  A place where the sweat tastes like nectar.  Not even that could distract you as you stare into the woman’s eyes at the center of Cassie’s torso.
The woman stares back.
You make the swift decision to rise from your seat and approach Cassie.  She undulates, rolls her body like the unfolding, incoming tide, and the woman speaks. 
Whispers.
You cannot make out her words as the slow, doomy jazz ricochets like lazy shrapnel all around you.
You move closer and Cassie twitches. The woman on her torso winks. 
Whispers again.
You lean in closer, so close…
Two goons grab you by the arms.
“Watch it, Mustache Boy.  Don’t touch the merchandise.,” Goon # 1 says.
“Pervert,” Goon # 2 says, then turns to Goon # 1 and says, “Mustache Boy.  Priceless.”
“But she was whispering.  Whispering to me.”
“Yeah, yeah, she whispers to everybody.  You’re nothing special,” Goon #1 says.
“Nothing special,” Goon #2 reiterates. 
“But…”
And the woman’s face on Cassie’s torso starts to laugh.  In a sustained, slow-motion flash of light, you see her lips, only her lips, and want to kiss them. 
But all she does is laugh. 
All you do is want. 
Head-nod wrecking ball drop and awaken at your regular table at the club.
Again.
This is how you spend your Saturday nights.  Your Sunday nights.  Your Monday, Tuesday, WednesdayThursdayFriday nights. 
Waiting for her.
You pick up the cigarette that’s never eaten by the ash at the end not in your mouth and take a deep drag.  Smoke fills you but does not warm you. 
Just like her.
The woman.
The woman you’re waiting for.
The woman you will never, ever kiss…

…but that’s not where this tale will end. 
You reach into the thick caterpillar resting above your lip and it hands you a red pencil.
“No, that’s not how it ends at all,” you say, and get to work.
 
***
Here's the link to Mike Griffin's blog, where he's collecting the posts. 
Enjoy!