Monday, August 23, 2004

My stomach seized up as I rounded the corner. I couldn’t shake the nervous feeling. All I could think about was how badly I needed a joint. I need a joint I need a joint I need a joint. I told myself to shut up so many times that I had to tell the voice that was telling the other voices to shut up to shut up. Once you’ve gotten into steady fiending it’s all about one parenthetical phrase inside of another, one ragged, weak thought wrangling in the jaws of another ragged, weak thought. Everything’s torn; everything’s faded.

The only thing that was going to help was if I got fucked up. Then I could tackle all this political Bush rebellion shit.

The front door to David’s building was propped open with a broomstick. I had a moment in the elevator: as soon as the door closed I remembered that the ancientness of its wood paneling frightened me which is why I usually took the stairs. I slammed down on the door open button but it was too late. I stood pressed against the wall, breathing heavily and imagining that the whole delicate contraption was made of wood, through and through, even the outside and the cabling. I imagined that the creaky vibrations moving through the floor to my brand new sneakers was the electricity that was about to burn up the box and turn it into a coffin. I was certain that I was trapped and done for but then, miraculously, the doors opened on the fifth floor and I made it out in one piece. I stuck a cigarette in my mouth and looked both ways. I’d been here a thousand times but everything looked different and strange, having come up this way. I saw a door with a photograph taped to it of president bush and first lady laura posing on what appeared to be the crawford, texas ranch. A large red x had been drawn across the entire picture, with crayon. That had to be the place.

There were voices and a beat I nearly recognized.

Oh, yeah--It was that old house song: Impeach the President! Impeach the President!

My glasses were fogging up and sliding off my face, my clothes didn’t fit too well.

I’ll be the first to admit it’s an odd mix. Things always seem to happenwhen I walk into a room—either as a direct result of my social retardation or else from efforts to get over it.

The door was open. Upon entry, I immediately lurched into the side of the large wooden bookshelf, causing a mini earthquake to send several things tumbling to the floor—a plastic something, a clanging can something and a delicate something that sounded like it smashed into a million pieces.

“Fuck,” I muttered, as I lit my cigarette and slumped back against the door. I really didn’t feel well. I’m the kind of sickly person who needs a lot of rest. I thought wistfully of my little room with the little window overlooking the BQE. It was just about the time in the afternoon when the glare shifts and the cars get halos as they stream past like toys.

“Darling, you made it,” I heard a familiar voice call out. I squinted and saw the blurry apparition of Fitzcarraldo. He was dressed all in white. Dolce and Gabanna. His hair was a silvery white, something I’d done for him two nights ago at my place, while we watched CNN and cut out pictures from high end, international fashion and design zines. We did his eyebrows and pubes as well, and I ended up sucking him off for a little while, but he didn’t let himself come.

He pulled back and rubbed himself gently against my face, before he pulled close his violet velvet smoking jacket and tied it shut.

“No,” I said, as the cold wet tiles pressed into my knees.

“I don’t want to,” he said, a stricken look on his face.

“We’re getting too old for this,” he said, and then added, “at least I am.”

Which made it so much worse, of course, than if he had just left it at that.

[Editor's Note: TRUEBOY, Sterling Fassbinder, Fitzcarraldo and Alfred Pennyworth all write for mrtt, a pro-thought, quasi-political, mostly anti-bush blog that has the real life aim of staging a party in the middle of manhattan, in the middle of the RNC craptacular.]