For the Hell of It
Mark Coleman
Legs kicking in survival instinct against what was imposed upon him. Though, it took his own hand to bring it to fruition, his body nevertheless rebelled. Screaming for finality. Everlasting darkness. Heaven is a disgusting thought to him. Otherwise, why bother to hang here on the end of a rope. He had hoped that his neck would break instantaneously but, of course, it didn't.
So he writhed. Tongue lolling like a dog’s. Eyes bulging like Bette Davis's. Shards of glass in every pore. An overpowering stench of rotting vegetable matter.
She goes loquacious. Spitting out the words as though they were sunflower seed shells. Never having learned how to remove the seed without halving the shell.
The words come out strangely truncated. You wouldn't think this would be the case. She has the look of a woman who could tie a cherry stem with her tongue.
Some sort of torch singer from a bygone era with assistants to put on her high heels and dress. Ladies in waiting. Always waiting.
The bloat that accompanies a fatty liver. Carried about the stomach and jowls. Hunched there over a glass the bartender is slow to refill. The PVC curtains that begin to take on the smog colors of the polluted city dusk.
She reminds you of Rita Hayworth in Gilda. Perpetually out of place. Wedded to the stage. It would be extramarital if she gave her heart to you.
Gripping the edge of the bar. The heat of termite ridden mahogany. Tremors in the stool. The legs of both about to give out.
Labored breathing. The light going from the eyes. The sloppily written note. Cryptic in confused cursive. A little pained nightmare of confession and accusation.
The cigarette almost down to the filter when she finally pours him another shot. Done grudgingly and with a mocking sneer. Her eyes take him in in disgust.
There's no pity there. Not that he was looking for any. He learned not to expect anything of the sort long ago.
(But, perhaps, just once something beyond this repugnance bordering on hate. She must store away smiles for someone. Some patron sharply dressed with better teeth and no lines drawn along the forehead.)
Summer gradually turns to fall. The leaves turn with it. The doorbells will soon be ringing to be opened upon faux ghouls and goblins.
Pumpkins in the street. The hastily looking but carefully carved childish grins and triangular eyes gone with the flame. Tendrils sprouting from fontanel. Slowly creeping down the pavement. Disregarding right of way.
Pileups on the interstate. Bodies ejected and run over countless times. She puts the move on you. A grip and a kiss that must be hiding something. This is done out of self preservation, surely. Surely? Well…
He goes down when they cut the rope. Sagging at the knees. A scarecrow that was a man not long ago. Nothing but a puppet now. Nothing to it at all. Just throw some ants into the mix. Let them crawl around in the straw man.
She starts to argue with you. It’s so trifling but she thinks she has the upper hand. The kiss is now nothing but an (un)pleasant memory. Something you could tie a hope of reconciliation to. But no reconciliation comes.
Home. A barrage of demands and bickering. The army marched in and the army marched out. Leaving in their wake nothing but broken dishes and broken hearts. At least, a broken heart on your part.
He’s steadying. It is an arduous process. The shakes begin to attenuate ever so slightly. The terror belongs to the future for now. He sips his beer. The foam clings to his upper lip. He licks his chops.
They endeavor to read the note. The gibberish of a public school mind. Filled with the poetic sensibilities of the half-literate. There are tears on that college lined paper. Ripped from a notebook which contains other nonsensical attempts at expression.
He was never any good at articulating his thoughts. Never really good at anything at all. A failure from start to finish. Finality always hung over him. His life always bound to end in a self imposed period.
The clouds are beginning to gather. It’s easiest to see the worst in an ugly person. The unsightly know this. Years upon years of stereotypes perpetuated by Grimm fairytales contributed.
The night darkens. The night drinkers begin to trickle in. Their faces all festivity and gayety. Women cling to them as though they were the latest Hollywood upstarts. They seem to glide when they deign to move. They seldom do but take up more space than they deserve in the corner booths where the light is suitable for necking.
He didn’t put the gun against the roof of his mouth but instead against the side of his head. This is how he managed to blow his face off. It reeks of a parlor trick but still there it is. Hovering above a sign and a cup with a few nickels in it.
He’s passed by. The partygoers would rather not look at this abortion of a man. Some wear tiaras. Others crowns. They are assured of their position in the world. (Assured of deferments from any war the higher ups might throw as though they were throwing a banquet.) They want all to know. They wear designer brands you couldn’t even begin to imagine. The garlands hang from their necks where only a block down a noose would have been thrown. They are the petite Fitzgeralds of the world. They are Republican in lifestyle but try their damnedest to hide it.
Democracy belongs to the weak. The retched fools who bought into the American Dream. Hook line and sinker. They fuck each other senseless in art gallery hovels. But make no mistake they are only slumming while awaiting the construction of palatial settings in which to hang the hippest of art. They collect to make up for their own shortcomings as human beings and artists. Their minds are toxic and must be avoided at all costs.
They go inside where the temperature’s just right. Where the waitress knows them and flirts not so much for a tip. More just for the Hell of it. She knows these kids. Knows what their wallets contain. The cars they drive she could not name but sees their worth through the prism of a multi-faceted diamond. A one night stand to her is just a way to brush up against a vintage Cadillac.
She goes around and around like a Jewish kid’s toy at Hanukah. Her hair flung from their braids in reckless abandon. Just floating there like glistening scum upon the water. She sinks down on her break. The boy leans back and smiles so the whole room can see his approval. Her head moves up and down. A duck continually submerging and plunging. The contortions of his face show that he’s about to give her a piece of his mind. Straight down her throat.
You look at the bartender. She doesn’t look back. You are invisible here. Your favorite dive has become infested by prosperity. You don’t bother to wave her down. No gesture could be so futile. You just sit there and stare at the mirror behind the bar and try to understand how you could have been left so far behind. There’s a cockroach in your glass but you don’t bother to mention it when she passes by.
