[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
the people I know that don’t have herpes,” I said, lighting a
cigarette.
“I’M DISEASED AND DIRTY!” he shouted.
“Yeah, well,” I rubbed my face, took a drag, and
continued, “and that’s not counting all the people I know with
chlamydia, scabies, gonorrhea, and various forms of hepatitis.”
“What’s your point? You’re making me feel ill,” he said
biliously.
“My point is, so what?”
“So what?! So, it’ll never go away! And I’ll have to tell
everyone I fuck from now until I die that I have herpes! And
I’m going to get sores! Sores on my dick! Oh God, I can’t bear
it ” his voice trailed off.
“Come on, man. You’ve seen the ads on TV. You know,
for that new herpes medication? Where young, hip people enjoy
dating, and hiking, and smiling, because this medication stops
breakouts? And they’re dancing and stuff because their genitals
are lesion free! They’re having fun, Sean, and so can you!” I
said, laughing.
“Kill me now,” he said, his tone lightening a little.
The only thing to do was to laugh.
“Sorry, man, it’s not terminal.”
56
“No, it’s just NASTY!” he said, yelling the word ‘nasty.’
"I’m a big, nasty, diseased whore,” he added.
“Being a whore is not what got you into this,” I replied.
Sean had been a whore. An actual prostitute, but not a
very high price one, though. Now he worked retail. Retail made
you feel like a used up old whore, and it paid even less. But
most of the time you got to keep your pants on. So, he had
escaped prostitution unscathed, had gotten a regular job and a
steady boyfriend, and then he contracted a lifelong STD. Nice,
huh?
I was almost at the end of my first shift at work. My friend
James had hired me; he was managing this bar. I didn’t know
who had given him the job, but they must have been blind.
James drank all the time. I’m not just saying that, I really mean
he drank all the time. We had gone on a road trip to Mexico
once and I cannot think of a single moment of that trip in
which he was not downing some form of alcohol. And now,
somebody had put him in charge of a whole bar’s worth of
booze. They must have wanted to kill him. James was half
Mexican and half German. He was first generation American
and 100th generation alcoholic. He was the eldest of three sons
and, at seventeen, had been the first person in his entire
extended family to drop out of high school. Now he was my
age, running a bar, playing guitar in a swing band, and cheating
on his wife. In another life, James was my hero.
Last call came and went. We closed up.
“Hey, what you doing right now?” James asked me,
narrowing his eyes conspiratorially.
“Nothing. What’s up?” I replied, hopeful.
“I don’t really wanna go home yet. Let’s play cards.”
He went to the backroom and I followed. I watched
from the door as he cut lines of meth on the table. He did a
couple, then motioned to me.
“You want some, dude? I don’t want you fading too
early!” he said, grinning.
“Fuck it,” I said and walked over to the table.
57
AND THE CLOWN SAID, “DIE, BITCH!”
On my way to meet Anthony in Chinatown the next afternoon,
I parked my car near the Embarcadero and got out. As usual, I
was relieved to have stopped driving. I walked over to Bix
restaurant. I went to Bix every time I came this way; I didn’t go
there to eat, but to walk in, stare at a painting for a while, then
leave.
They had this painting in there, based on the opera I
Pagliacci. This was the only opera that I had in my record
collection. My uncle Joe had given me a copy right after my
mom had tried to kill herself, back when I was twelve. I didn’t
like opera, but this one I loved. The painting in Bix was based
on it. It’s of a dressing room in a theatre. In one corner of the
room, a beautiful ballerina stretches herself into a perfect
arabesque. In the other corner, a fat, ugly clown pauses in
removing his garish clown makeup, watching his beautiful wife
in the mirror. That fat, ugly clown is crying. In the opera, he’s
crying because he knows that she’s cheating on him. In the
opera, he stabs her during a performance of the comedy they
are enacting. He kills her lover too, as the lover rushes forward
to try and save her. Then, the knife falls from his hand and he
says to the audience, La commedia e finite, “the comedy is
over;” sobbing and laughing like a maniac. “Ridi, Pagliaccio!”
the opera goes, “Laugh, clown! Laugh at the pain!”
I could hear this famous line in my head as I stared at the
painting. My hands balled into fists at my side, waves of sadness
and anger washing over me. I connected both to the opera and
this painting—not for literal reasons. I had never been in love
with a beautiful woman who cheated on me. No, my fascination
was metaphysical. I felt like life was this beautiful ballerina I was
desperately in love with, at first so enamoured with her constant
dancing. But the dancing never stopped, restlessness led her to
cheat on me. She broke my heart into a million murderous
pieces. All I could do was look at her reflection in the mirror,
those delicate features reversed, unaware with self-absorption.
58
All I could do was look at this reflection in the mirror and cry. I
wondered how long it would be before I, too, cracked, like the [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
zanotowane.pl doc.pisz.pl pdf.pisz.pl chiara76.opx.pl
the people I know that don’t have herpes,” I said, lighting a
cigarette.
“I’M DISEASED AND DIRTY!” he shouted.
“Yeah, well,” I rubbed my face, took a drag, and
continued, “and that’s not counting all the people I know with
chlamydia, scabies, gonorrhea, and various forms of hepatitis.”
“What’s your point? You’re making me feel ill,” he said
biliously.
“My point is, so what?”
“So what?! So, it’ll never go away! And I’ll have to tell
everyone I fuck from now until I die that I have herpes! And
I’m going to get sores! Sores on my dick! Oh God, I can’t bear
it ” his voice trailed off.
“Come on, man. You’ve seen the ads on TV. You know,
for that new herpes medication? Where young, hip people enjoy
dating, and hiking, and smiling, because this medication stops
breakouts? And they’re dancing and stuff because their genitals
are lesion free! They’re having fun, Sean, and so can you!” I
said, laughing.
“Kill me now,” he said, his tone lightening a little.
The only thing to do was to laugh.
“Sorry, man, it’s not terminal.”
56
“No, it’s just NASTY!” he said, yelling the word ‘nasty.’
"I’m a big, nasty, diseased whore,” he added.
“Being a whore is not what got you into this,” I replied.
Sean had been a whore. An actual prostitute, but not a
very high price one, though. Now he worked retail. Retail made
you feel like a used up old whore, and it paid even less. But
most of the time you got to keep your pants on. So, he had
escaped prostitution unscathed, had gotten a regular job and a
steady boyfriend, and then he contracted a lifelong STD. Nice,
huh?
I was almost at the end of my first shift at work. My friend
James had hired me; he was managing this bar. I didn’t know
who had given him the job, but they must have been blind.
James drank all the time. I’m not just saying that, I really mean
he drank all the time. We had gone on a road trip to Mexico
once and I cannot think of a single moment of that trip in
which he was not downing some form of alcohol. And now,
somebody had put him in charge of a whole bar’s worth of
booze. They must have wanted to kill him. James was half
Mexican and half German. He was first generation American
and 100th generation alcoholic. He was the eldest of three sons
and, at seventeen, had been the first person in his entire
extended family to drop out of high school. Now he was my
age, running a bar, playing guitar in a swing band, and cheating
on his wife. In another life, James was my hero.
Last call came and went. We closed up.
“Hey, what you doing right now?” James asked me,
narrowing his eyes conspiratorially.
“Nothing. What’s up?” I replied, hopeful.
“I don’t really wanna go home yet. Let’s play cards.”
He went to the backroom and I followed. I watched
from the door as he cut lines of meth on the table. He did a
couple, then motioned to me.
“You want some, dude? I don’t want you fading too
early!” he said, grinning.
“Fuck it,” I said and walked over to the table.
57
AND THE CLOWN SAID, “DIE, BITCH!”
On my way to meet Anthony in Chinatown the next afternoon,
I parked my car near the Embarcadero and got out. As usual, I
was relieved to have stopped driving. I walked over to Bix
restaurant. I went to Bix every time I came this way; I didn’t go
there to eat, but to walk in, stare at a painting for a while, then
leave.
They had this painting in there, based on the opera I
Pagliacci. This was the only opera that I had in my record
collection. My uncle Joe had given me a copy right after my
mom had tried to kill herself, back when I was twelve. I didn’t
like opera, but this one I loved. The painting in Bix was based
on it. It’s of a dressing room in a theatre. In one corner of the
room, a beautiful ballerina stretches herself into a perfect
arabesque. In the other corner, a fat, ugly clown pauses in
removing his garish clown makeup, watching his beautiful wife
in the mirror. That fat, ugly clown is crying. In the opera, he’s
crying because he knows that she’s cheating on him. In the
opera, he stabs her during a performance of the comedy they
are enacting. He kills her lover too, as the lover rushes forward
to try and save her. Then, the knife falls from his hand and he
says to the audience, La commedia e finite, “the comedy is
over;” sobbing and laughing like a maniac. “Ridi, Pagliaccio!”
the opera goes, “Laugh, clown! Laugh at the pain!”
I could hear this famous line in my head as I stared at the
painting. My hands balled into fists at my side, waves of sadness
and anger washing over me. I connected both to the opera and
this painting—not for literal reasons. I had never been in love
with a beautiful woman who cheated on me. No, my fascination
was metaphysical. I felt like life was this beautiful ballerina I was
desperately in love with, at first so enamoured with her constant
dancing. But the dancing never stopped, restlessness led her to
cheat on me. She broke my heart into a million murderous
pieces. All I could do was look at her reflection in the mirror,
those delicate features reversed, unaware with self-absorption.
58
All I could do was look at this reflection in the mirror and cry. I
wondered how long it would be before I, too, cracked, like the [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]