Xenophobia

Xenophobia
Mark Coleman

She raises and lowers the plunger. Unclogs the syringe over the laundry cluttered back seat of my car. The light goes out of her eyes, and the lids descend. A smile of content just lifting the extreme corners of her lips. I take a swig from my bottle, put it in reverse and then drive. Out across the desert. Lauded by tumble weeds and side winders. Sit out by the drive-in that is just a screen, and a few old stands sauntering up to within fifty feet of it.
Roll down the window, and motion a coyote closer. Hoping that he will except the invitation so I can wring his fucking neck. Wanted nothing more than to not be watched. Besides, there’s a show on. Not some humbug monster movie; it’s more Delmore Schwartz than Ray Harryhausen. I’m a wallflower at a party, just wanting to chain smoke in peace. Found in the back alone, but lost in the hustle and bustle of the crowd.
Someone always wants to drag me into their self indulgent shit. I figure that if I clench my eyes tight enough, maybe I can be left on the waterfront, just once. Let them eddy and tide beyond me. Me spinning soul-ward in a washer that you don’t have to check every other minute. Welcome to crash, but never forced to remain standing, or, worse yet, converse.
I fall down, and my head makes quite a dint in the wall. But I’m up, immediately, protesting against the assaults of the worrisome. Bee-lining for the bathroom. Creating a bandanna out of hard-to-tie toilet paper. Find some hair dye in the cabinet, and try to make it look like some horse shit, artistic, fashion statement. Then with blood running from under my makeshift bandage, try to relocate the bar.
She finds me with a margarita, and the promise of more liquor in her Volvo. I follow her out after downing the drink in T minus. Sit there being nursed on a pint of whiskey, and gagged on the smell of stale perfume. She’s not the crowd type either, so we head back to her place. I walk in expecting nothing. Imagine my surprise than when I’m greeted by a fully stocked bar. It’s like a homecoming party: Jager, Jim, Marie, and Night are the first to greet me. My three beloved brothers, and nurturing, but never smothering, sister. Mother coming over and giving me a suck on her tit.
I can see in her eyes that she needs love. But never having been shown it myself, I’m at a loss. I try to focus on the orgasm on her face, but it’s the best that I can do. Afterwards, I return to the bar, where we drink her offerings sweaty and naked, but unconnected. An unspoken sadness between us. Holding hands, knowing that the other’s as foreign as aboriginal customs.
She makes me feel her heart, but all I know is that her beat is a bit sex exhilarated, otherwise completely normal. She kisses me, but I turn my head so that it’s only on the cheek. Tell her that I have to leave. Makes me promise that I’ll call the number that she’s written on my palm. Dismisses me with a bottle of her best whiskey, and her need to see me again.
I locate my car, run into an old flame that’s wasting away beneath the needle. We hit her connection, and I wait anxiously for her return. I guess maybe the dealer wanted more than a sweaty fistful of short change. When, she comes out with a black and a mean fuck smell to her; I’m sure of it. I peak at her legs, and have to look away.
As we pull out, I find myself wishing there were still dressed to the fives drive-in shows worth necking to. And ratty ones worth hollering at, when you’re all coked out and drunk, with like minded cronies. There’s always that partition between yesterday and today. Grass and all that jazz. Automobiles that could kill you, but lookouts that could make you...believe. It or not, there are a few miracles up life’s sleeves. Even if they’re way, way up there.