Our city wasn't planned as such
|fig. 92) dirt, not college boys|
The stage is really cold, the door outside slaps shut again. There's a stage hand walking in a tight circles with a length of chain and some pliers. Carmen's forehead is really red like she's been shopping and the kids won't shut up. "The angels don't supplicate themselves and they do not bounce," the vastness of the theatre is only alluded to by the extent of its sounds bouncing around in the dark. "Lincoln was shot, no one bounced. Corn is served and no one bounces. So stop being such a dick limper and get on with it."
"Well I think I like the way you sing. Maybe if you put on your nice coat and pin up your hair," no one can see past the front row of chairs. All anyone can ever see is his feet like dangling dancers on the top of the knobby gold upholstering. The smell of tobacco is rancid and thick as old tar. "Others may drown in slow rivers or wade through slurries of rape towards an empty box that's been nailed to the floor. They might spend lifetimes avoiding traffic to listen for gardens growing. But I am not inside one of them, all alone with only a plate and a lever. No, I am not the fear tied to your last meal or the head you cannot keep warm. Your scarf, your belt and your shoes are your own, it's safe to say this now."
"Carmen isn't a very good teen is she?"
"All I'm going to say is, you're not very lucky either. She's small and easily dipped in chocolate. She can be broken in two and regrown from a single half. Carmen isn't very good because she doesn't need to be. She's 98 percent likely to be the genetic descendent of someone that understands how to sing. While you have a hard time knocking on wood. The seasons never end anymore. It'll be cold in here until I'm dead from it. Endless winter is like old sex and crying babies. You shouldn't have to read about either," Randy's wise. His belt is tight even if his sweater is foul, no one likes orange. The cancer makes the shaft of his penis itch and no ointment can touch it.
"There's a sight over a bucket," as the goldfish handler she hears him from her side of the towel. Carmen doesn't like fish, "I hate men more, the pervy sunuva-bobs." The small glass jar in her hand is both empty and clear.
Then Randy changes his mind, "Carmen's angel harpoon, a legendary device that resembles a banana with a deep coin slot that's been taped to a rusty shoe box. Carmen's a good girl, always. I'm very fond of her, really I am but she has to go."
"The old ways, the old ways, what's so good about them," Randy asks? "So the old ways built smaller and heavier outhouses with deeper lines that reached into the firma and they grappled with speed like fat rich balls to be tickled from above. The old ways built windows from nothing and carved doors for the escape of plasma generated by hot coiffed men sitting. The old ways invented the turdstile, the mumpicket, and the irascible chase sequence. All you have to say is, If I cared at all, you'd probably have pick up on that by now. I can see you haven't. Then say, goodbye to her."
It's been asked to get in the car nicely one too many times and it's been sold down the river more than once. It's like the wonderful sepsis dipped coat hanger behind the diner and as you'd expect there's even more inside. All of it is brave, beautiful, bold, and now dwindling. This is our city and it's been strangled in the hope that's gone to dressing it up. Planning is a contrivance of history, it's the pursuit of winners once the accidents have been cleared away. This is not our story. It's their story and we just live in it.
"There's still the torch in the bay."