My City

 

My City
Mark Coleman
 

  Liquor bloat takes you over. Some toothpick of a space boffin comes and steals all your women. Throws them out the bedroom window to the curb where the getaway car sits idling. You watch as they go down. They're swallowed as they once swallowed you. The seats and steering wheel are surely ripped. Tire marks on the grass.
  You'll miss them, sure, but a part of you is glad to see them gone. They all brought trouble. They never stick around when it starts to get tough or you start to need them as much as they need you on some level. Whether they'd ever admit it or not. The Gutenberg Bible bleats and bleeds in an anorak whose pockets are full of fieldstones. The best thing about the book of poetry in your lap is the typeface. The author is a hack of the highest order.
  Hard eyes birth a mercurial smile as he retreats to the stall with a paper towel fifi. The drawn out hand washing to ascertain exactly what this strange dark-colored creature is up to. After he tears six pieces from the dispenser, moistens them under the sink, and adds a few squirts of soap, you're pretty sure you know.
  There's no suggestion of guilt. It's not entirely natural to come into something so rough. You think, "Hell, it's only a matter of weeks before he goes Vaseline and Brilo pad." You search your memory for your own strange masturbational aids and come up short. All you can recall is rubber molds of porn stars' pussies and lips connected to tubular sperm receptacles that the packages claim are dishwasher safe.
  You go back to the bathroom and blow your nose into a paper towel. Someone's shitting next to the  Indian now. He's sitting in the wheelchair bound, crutch hobbling cubicle. It is indeed rough. You can't imagine pounding your cock into something like this, no matter how well lubricated. It feels like your cheeks and chin when you haven't shaved in a few days. It's the sort of improvisation that ends up bloodied. I know. I've used cheap motel wash clothes. The small scabs tend linger under the glans.
  As usual, you forget to zip your fly between the urinal and the door. Today, you're going bare back, and almost wish the cougar sharing the space with you would have looked up before you noticed your faux pas. She's a bit weathered with liver spots, sure, but she's also that elusive breed: The Redhead. I saw five of them on the way here today. One had the added benefit of being some sort of Cuban-heeled Asian. Hair down to the middle of their backs. Gorgeous.
  You've wanted to bed one down since middle school when you used to stare at the fiery ponytail of the girl in the desk in front of you. Outside, you turn the post to find the key-shaped hole you're supposed to deposit your cigarette in. Wishing that it resembled that floraled pout that greets you when you nudge aside a pair of lace panties. The derriere lifted from the cold kitchen floor. The back arched. The desire for the spelunking tongue to explore that burning bush.
  Sitting at the bus stop, you watch the cars run over the wreckage in the street. The sparkplug is directly in front of you. They keep hitting the right headlight. It splitters over and over. You wonder if a shard will come your way. You stare at the revolting sculptures in your city that some fucking idiot should loose his job for okaying. Created no doubt by men with large, unwieldy hands.
  You imagine that they have small heads with multi-colored butterflies fluttering in them. They must write platitudes on their dollar bills and stick them in vending machines hoping that something magical will come out. The public is outraged when their art is vandalized. They say it's part of the city. It's nothing but shit made by shit for shit.
  Here are some tips for the aspiring artist: work in black and white, if you must work in color use yellow sparingly, avoid clichéd images, the same with text, if the images don't speak for themselves they may not be images at all, if you imitate your professors or peers or take their criticism seriously you will never amount to anything. If you have to go to art school to do anything but use the toilet and kill time, you are done. If you like Ansel Adams, you are done. If you approach art with the heart and eyes of a dilettante, you are done.
  Never go to a  PTA meeting unless moms are your thing, and then you're better off meeting them elsewhere. On the bus, they sometimes dress like their daughters. Or they have muffin tops offset by wide-brimmed straw hats. The thin ones in tight fitting jeans, white shirts with thick blue stripes, and librarian glasses are the most beautiful. They have slightly shriveled necks, and hands with large veins. They speak in complete sentences and read mystery novels.
  Learn to love cute girls in wheelchairs. The one I always see coming down the ramp has a piercing and hazel eyes. I think she's keen on a bearded, beanied boy who can spend half an hour rat
gnawing on an apple core then another half an hour working on a granola bar. He carries a slim volume called Don't Sweat the Small Stuff in his backpack. The lid on his water bottle snaps loudly back into place.
  The blonde next to you has buck teeth, and holds her bag closely to her chest. She is plagued by self-loathing by way of comparison. At the end of the light rail is a brunette with her hair tied up. She has pre-ripped holes running down her pre-faded jeans, and is clutching a scarf. She stands askance with her hand on the rail. When she finally sits down, three stops along, she reveals her ass crack to you.
  Deep in thought staring at a Mexican girl's hair in front of you. You can almost smell it. You're tempted to reach out, and run your fingers through it. A few strands stand loose from the otherwise immaculate flow. When they get on it's their tasseled boots and legs. Some have cherubic faces. You know they're too young for you but you'd still cover those faces in kisses.
  You hear someone in the food bank line talking about a whore, and how he's going to gag her and brick down her throat. You think of the tears that will run down her face as he does so. Her swallowing all those angry, blue ball ejaculations. Perhaps, accompanied by the nickel taste of blood. Bubbles at the bottom of her nostrils.
  You wonder if anyone's ever held an umbrella over her head when it was raining. Or held a door open for her. How long has she sold herself? The joiners don't join the union but they do join the circus. John Barleycorn runs around doling out pittances of relief. Old men with crackly, pitted faces sigh as this Saint Nick warms them with his embrace.
  Kasperl (not the Hohnsteiner variety) and his old buddy Punch hold blackjacks to beat down the dreams of the poor and the downtrodden. They round up the street sleepers on Christmas day, and depending on their state of mind and/or level of intoxication throw them in the drunk tank, general population, or a holding cell. Sometimes, they just see how far they can throw themselves. It's usually into a lake that's not too deep. Occasionally, it's just in front of a bus, they may or may not have taken before.
  I chug a bottle of Nyquil to kill the inspiration because all I want to do is read a book. My vision will start to blur and I'll end up spending the night watching wretched television shows instead. I'll think about what I've read recently on the way to an interview. I have no idea where the office building is. But I'd like to sleep in a room, eat, drink, smoke. It's simple for some. Hard for others. For you and me the jukebox is never playing.