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"$#&*%¢" I never quite
understood my frequent patronage of Ripples. Nothing about it fit
into my philosophy on bars. Bars were supposed to be something.
Bars were supposed to be noisy and have sawdust on the floor. The
stools were supposed to support the rumps of bikers and
cowboys and sailors, who would get drunk and quarrelsome and shout, "Barkeep! Barkeep! Another
whiskey!" Wednesday would be bingo night, and a brawl would always
break out because the pirate named Argh, who only had one eye, would
misread his card and shout out, "BINGO!" before he had actually
achieved it. Sturm would jump up and wave his wooden arm and shout,
"You lubber, siddown and quit ruining the game!" and the two
would give each other such a flailing. Ripples
wasn't
like that. No sailors, no bikers - just senior citizens using
pocket knives to whittle battleships from blocks of wood and college
students who rode there on mopeds. The floor was swept every morning
and well-placed supermarket mushroom air fresheners did away with
any stale beer smell that one could hope for. At Ripples, one only
drinks American beer and the air smells of potpourri. The only thing
that halfway amused me about the place itself was the neon Ripples
sign above the bar. The )
was out of the R, making
it look more like an N than
anything. I could find nipples anywhere, though, so that soon grew
tiresome. I spent many nights staring at that sign, thinking
about my girl, knowing she - not cheap laughs - was the real
reason I was there. I had met her at Ripples, and I'd die with my
ass on their cheap vinyl waiting for her. I
was sitting at a table in the very back of the room, a large
and foamy mug of Dirt
Farmer Beer before me, just passing my time till the fires that
stoked my heart decided to show up. At the table in front of me was
an old guy with a nose hair problem and a math student of the
sophmoronic age, and they were playing cards. They didn't say a
word to each other in the whole time I watched them, just kept
picking up the cards and laying them down, picking them up and
laying them down. Mr. Math silently recorded points, Mr. Nose
noiselessly shuffled. As usual, they were one of only about three
couples in the place, and the rest of the patrons were drinking
alone, drowning their chosen neuroses with brew. None of them, not a
single one, ever spoke. Even when they wanted refills, they'd just
wave to Beaux the Bartender, and he'd go to their table and fill
'em up. There wasn't even a jukebox to play some Merle Haggard
on. Hell, if someone sipped too
loudly, even if on accident, he'd be looked upon with shameful
scorn. My Lord, didn't these people know of The Coming, of the
sweet angel that would be walking through the doors that very night?
Where were their minds? Where were their hearts? Where was the
anticipation, tickling the bud's of one's tastes with the faint
flicker of rotten peaches? Where was the noise, the drunken revelry,
the pixies sprinkling rose petals upon which her toes would tip?
No, even the clock took off its shoes, afraid its ticks and tocks would
disturb the stupor. There
is something oppressive about silence. Something that agitates,
prodding one to move against the grain and drop something heavy on
the floor. It is especially so when someone knows something is
Coming, and when those around him silently swill their sips, make
no
gulps in their swallows, that someone wants to scream just to make
sure he has not gone insane. So, I threw out my arms, opened my
mouth wide, and screamed, "BANG ZOOM!" "Shut
the hell up!" Someone else
shouts. Someone else is alive! Who? Was it you, the disheveled crone
with the hairy wart on her lip? Or you, the lizard in the pink
leisure suit, staring at the floor with your lazy eye and at the
ceiling with your hyperactive one? Who replied to my headbutt
against conformity? It
was impossible to tell, for beyond the movement of those creaking
jaws, breaking the cobwebs to bellow their beratement, not another
inch of flesh moved, not another lost soul was surprised or annoyed
by my tiny gesture. It was as if the crowd of lethargic morons had
expected it all along. (But
how could they have known?!) I hunched into my
seat, chewing on my straw, rolling my eyes back and forth, looking
from one side to the other, one to the other, faster faster
faster till they began to lose form and blur and shake. I was
vibrating all the narcoleptic nabobs into nothingness. You
dull bastards won't spoilt my milk! I'm waiting for my goil! Unfortunately,
before the dingus squad was completely erased from existence, my
eyes began to hurt, and I had to stop. Yes, they had
faded slightly, but only slightly, and that wouldn't do at all.
So, instad, I closed my eyes so that I might
disappear, retreat into my movie theater, where I always sit dead
center in order to best view the screen. It was the moment in
the movie-going experience where one begins to eat his popcorn a
little more apprehensively. The lights have gone out, and the
feature could begin at any moment. Behind me, in the back, the
camera rolls. The inside of my eyelids light up with pictures.
That's me at the bar, eating a sausage so peppery that it makes my
nose wrinkle with itching, and when I chew it, my mouth fills up
with spit, and some fool technician holds the boom mic' too close
because you can hear me chomp on it, my mouth smacking. Enter
the dame. She's a new dame, you haven't seen her before. She sidles
through the door, hips swaying seductively. She's got short brown
hair, elegantly styled, and she is engulfed in luxuriant white fur.
She's carries herself with poise, one palm facing up, the hand
held at the level of her chin. The other palm is down, lowered to
her hip, stretched out and pointing away from her dainty body. She
has only a little make-up on, for not much is needed on that face, a
face so beautiful it would be a felony to cover it with the paint of
normal dames, and I was already sayin' to myself, This
doll's guilty of enough crimes. The femme sits
next to me at the bar, so close I can smell her. I throw the sausage
aside so as not to obstruct her odors, and I let that smell of
lilacs in an open field hit me full in the sinuses. It is the smell
of some kind of dame, and she was some kind of dame. Dame enough to
make a guy sweat down to his ankles. Dame enough to make a priest
eat his own collar and swear off young boys forever. She asks the bartender for a bourbon, and before she can pay, I slap down the green to cover it. "Thank you," she says. "Wanna see my
tattoo?" I ask her through gritted teeth. "No, that's
all right." "I like you," I
says, emphasizing the two characters we cut by sticking my thumb
in my chest on the I, and
then flipping it over in a slick, fluid motion, bringing my index
finger to a position where it's pointing at her on the you - a gun from a holster, a bullet of love to her heart.
"You're gonna be my girl." "Oh, please." I
rise. "A
tough one, huh? That's okay. I've known 'em plenty tough.
There ain't a nut I can't crack." "Okay.
You bought me a drink. Very nice of you. Thank you very much.
Now, go
away." I
spin her on her stool, so she's facing me. I grab the back of her head, pull her
to me. Our lips lock tight together. I feel her squirm in ecstasy at
the magnificent meeting of our mouths. I let her go and look at her.
"Well?" I say. She
slaps me, does it hard. "You creep." I rub the cheek
her hand has sweetly stung, feel the pangs of love she has
delivered. I give her the Richard-Widmark-Kiss-Of-Death laugh. "You shouldn'ta outghta done that," I
hiss. "You shouldn'ta oughta done that." In
my seat, I'm
distracted from the film by the squeak of rusty hinges. Someone has
Come! I toss aside my popcorn, dash madly up the aisle. It's okay.
I've seen this flick before. I know how it ends. He gets her. He
always does. But some things are just more important than
well-crafted entertainment! I re-enter the
light of day. The customers of
Ripples were in the same position as when I left them, but they had
unfortunately regained their faded portions. (If
only I could have kept it up longer! Must practice!) I quickly
fixed my gaze on the door, looked for the fulfillment of my
prophecy. There, I saw a skinny man in a Neiman-Markedup suit,
carrying a derby he had picked out because it fit just so snug
around his oval skull. His hair was slicked back with enough lard to
fry twenty pork chops, and he had a pair of wire-framed glasses
delicately positioned at the tip of his pointy nose. I imagined one
bump into him would knock them off and shatter his world. Poo on him
for disturbing my movie and being such a blatant false prophet. Then She
came in behind him. Oh, dear, sweet Seraphim, my smiling girl, my
beautiful goddess. She was wearing a black sweater and black jeans,
and their snug fit made my heart pound with the hoofbeats of the
Cavalry of Love. As she looked around the dank squalor of our
rendezvous point, her eyelashes fluttered at me, the wings of
glorious doves, carrying to me the heavenly messages of amorous
Aphrodite. I
began to rise, to run to her, to leap at her and catch her in
my arms, but
something stopped me. Seraphim crooked her arm around the elbow of
the slick-haired man's, put her face against his shoulder, and
allowed the little mole-like man to lead her toward a table. Seraphim was
playing a game. She had brought him to Ripples to make me jealous.
How could she even think a man who resembled a mole more than
anything else, a guy who came out of his hole to find out if he
could still see, would make me jealous? What
was needed was a sign that I was still in charge, so I slammed
my glass on the
table and bellowed, "Fill 'er up, barkeep!" "What? Are you
a cripple? Come up here and get it yourself, loudmouth!" Beaux
answered. I growled and bit the table. He should know I don't take
crap like that. Seraphim
and her pet pretended not to see me - yet, she suggested a spot in the
middle of the room, right in front of me. The tease. She was
deliberately trying to aggravate me. Mole Man even pulled out her
chair for her and sat down himself only after she was comfortably in
position. He was making a good attempt, but I could see right
through him. A guy like him hadn't a chance of stealing away
Seraphim from a guy like me. Mole Man signaled
for Beaux to come over. Beaux was obviously part of the charade,
because he put down his wiping towel and went right to their table.
They ordered drinks, and I waited for them to arrive before making
my move. The familiar flap of an Ace of Hearts coming from a good
hand rang in my ear as I stepped into the fray. I walked a zigzag
pattern to her, the taunt of the played card egging me on. " . . . good investments always get my adrenaline
flowing," Mole Man was telling her as I sashayed into earshot.
"They just make me giddy." I put my head between them, looked to her, to him, and back at her. "Hey, Seraph," I said, moving over to the other side of her. I leaned my elbow on the table, my chin resting in the palm of my hand, and with the other hand, cocked a thumb in Mole Man's direction. "Who's the square?" She
looked at me through squinted eyes. I could swear I saw a smile
in them. Hers or
my own, I don't know, but there was a smile. "If you must
know, that's Scott," Seraphim said. "Now, crawl away, slug, I
have no use for you." I
smiled. "Dear
Seraph," I laughed. "Am I to be threatened by a meatball named ‘Scott'?" "Now, look
here," Mole Man said, standing. "The lady asked you to leave." "On
top of spaghetti, all covered in cheese, hark! what do I hear?
The meatball
sneezed!" I pulled myself
to full height and clapped my hands. My wit was pleasing to me. "I told you
we shouldn't have come here, Scott," Seraphim said, covering
her face with her hands, no doubt in some vain hope that she could
suppress the laughter caused by my quick trouncing of her
chopped-liver champion. "Don't
worry," he said, "I'll take care of this." He looked at me
squarely, his eyes moving up above his glasses. "Mister, I don't
think you should be hanging around here. Sera has told me about you.
You're sick. You have no concept of reality. What you have done to
her could put you away on harassment charges for a long, long
time." I
opened my mouth, pointed at him, and let out this silent, breathless
laugh
that I'm sure was totally annoying. What a spiel! "Don't you
laugh at me," Mole Man said, his bristly hairs rising on his back.
"Don't you dare laugh at me." His face was getting all
scrunched up, and he began turning red. "You are in no position .
. . One ring of the telephone . . ." I
lay down on the table. The wood felt good against my shirt (rayon!).
I let my arms
fall to either side, let them drape toward the floor, and I stared
at the yellowy light bulbs that dotted the ceiling. "I can't
understand a word you're saying," I said. "You are the Tower
of Babble. You make no sense to me." He
looked really furious now. He started wagging a finger at me
and was shouting so
loud that little, fetid flecks of phlegm were flying from his gob. "Listen, I have no doubt the po;#@ &%HK9] ¢&(*8h%$FD ¼:¼#@
h877¢#!" I looked up to
Seraphim, looked into her nostrils, and felt the joy of true love.
Certainly, she would see my true powers. Her face showed mock anger,
but it would take only moments for her to realize what I had done
and take me up as her lover, her hero, and smother me in laughing
kisses. "*$*&$$
$@!)(&¢# H(#@f §¼¶13: ./=$* +FW&_)#_&#$ @G@F@!" I
rolled over onto my side, propped myself on an elbow, and looked
into that
wondrous face. Grinning, I said, "I can see why you go out with
him. He makes me laugh." Mole Man was
sweating and frustrated, jumping around and tearing at his shirt,
gibbering. "I don't know
what he's on about, but he makes me laugh all the same." Then,
suddenly, without warning - which really was not fair - Mole Man grabbed
me by my shirt (rayon, mind you!) and pulled me from the table.
Holding me up (I wasn't going to help!), he got right in my face.
"@*¢%[]h &6!*& F&¢¶!" Well, once her
started manhandling me, I knew that this guy, this Scott,
was a lunatic. He had taken it too far, so I pushed him away. "You
better watch it, buddy," I said, "or I'm likely to pulverize
you." I rolled up my left sleeve so he could see my tattoo - a
picture of a smiling cat - to let him know he wasn't messing
with some schmoe. I knew
Seraphim had enough as well, by the way she bowed her head
shamefully and rubbed her temples like she had a headache or
something. I knew then that I had let the poor girl go too far from
my influence. There's only so much rope a guy can give a chick
before she runs wild with it and it gets wrapped around her neck
and she stands there choking for breath and screaming and stamping
her
fabulously dainty feet and looking all nasty like some damn MGM
cartoon and then finally falls over and kicks off. No more petty
proclamations of power. The stupid situation had escalated to a
point where all the muscle had to be exerted. Thus, an ultimatum! "Seraphim,
you've got to put an end to this. Choose now. Who do you love? Me
or the greasehead?" Seraphim
threw up her hands. "Love? Love?! I don't love
either of you. I could be very serious about Scott given time. Love
him, yes, maybe. But you?
NEVER!" Mole
Man smiled. "%@@, ¢%E H$UJ¢#@ 9g*j -+." The little vermin seemed proud of himself,
standing straight and sticking his chest out. He did a lot of
pointing - at me, at himself. It was a ridiculous display. So, I shoved him
in the face. My
eyes began to smolder with the far too familiar flame of tears.
I fell to my knees
before my oracle and moved up to her imploringly. The smell of
something roasting was in the air. I think it was my heart. "Don't even
say that," I pleaded. "You know you love me." I touched the
fat tip of my nose, wiping off a tear that had rolled there, and
reached to the tip of her nose - her beautiful button nose -
giving her my precious fluid. "See," I said. "We are meant to
be together. Our noses are so much alike." "Oh, God!" She
turned away. I got back on my
feet. Mole Man was standing there, his cheeks cinnamon-hot red, his
shirt stained with sweat. He was breathing heavy, and he looked like
he was trying to calm down or was scared to death of me. It was hard
to tell. Probably both. "(%&KJ $¢$
jd68¢$," he said, reasonably. "½[$&§DT) +!%R:LR*, k%@0¼(
F$#( &¢N(* §&$#)." Beaux was washing
his mugs behind the counter. They squeaked as the rag took out the
mildew and the suds. Mr. Nose threw his cards at Mr. Math, accused
the young man of palming aces and bringing them out when most
convenient to the game. Someone was muttering in my direction,
calling someone else a damn fool. "($N&@?" Mole
Man asked with a concerned face. I
held my hands open at my side. "Why?" I questioned her. "Why what?" Seraphim
demanded. "Y*#h, ($8
($#&?" "Why are you
doing this to me?" My voice cracked with the effort it was taking
to keep from weeping. "What did I ever do to you?" "Why
am I
doing this to you? What
did you ever do to me? Boy, for an idiot, you sure ask some loaded questions. Let's
start with always buying me drinks. I'm a grown lady. I can buy my
own, and really, I don't need ten at a time. And just because you
put out some money, it does not give you the right to call me at
all hours, follow me around, make me listen to stupid stories about
your
criminal prowess, lick lollipops in front of me, torture me with
your karaoke, or force
me to accept pictures of the kitten you had when you were five. Should
I go on or did that cover it adequately?" "You forgot
that I sent you bratwurst for Christmas," I said, feeling like the
last boy in line for an ever-depleting supply of goldfish. "I didn't
forget. I just didn't want to get into the more disgusting areas
of your delusory love affair with your own imagination." I
took the collar of my shirt (rayon!) into my mouth. It was a
bit to bridle my tears.
I had cried enough, I thought, and with that realization, I
instantly started laughing. My own stupidity was suddenly crystal
clear to me! "You're still playing the game, aren't you,
babe?" I said. "Still playing your cruel joke on your man, is
that it?" I laughed out loud and swung my fist in an arc motion. "Boy!" She
groaned. "This isn't a joke. This is my final statement that I don't
want you coming around me anymore. I - oh, what's the use?
You're obviously nuts." She shoved past me and slapped Mole Man
on the shoulder. "Come on," she said, and they headed toward the
door. "(#@&
FJ9(#@ §9h@(&@?" Mole Man asked her. "Oh,
shut up, will you?" The hinges
squeaked in the same way they did when sweet Seraphim glided in, and
like that, she just as easily floated out. I
looked around Ripples. Mr. Nose and Mr. Math had made up and
were playing again.
The rest were drinking, and, as always, were completely silent. I
made little cricket noises in my head, hoping they'd cover up the
sound of the giggling and snide comments everyone was making in their
heads. Or were they? I looked at all the old folks in the light of
the neon signs, looked for a twinkle of life in any of them. Seeing
them sitting there like that, in their plaids and floral designs, I
thought, Oh, how the polyester
ripples at Nipples. Well, that was it. I busted out laughing
and fell back onto the table. Some coot shouted, "Will someone shut
him up!" but I didn't really hear it. The screens were
lowering, the movie beginning. I am at the bar, my ten-gallon hat
tilted back on my head, my rawhide leggings dusty, mole pelts
hanging from my belt. I am drinking a bottle of Red Eye. Beaux is
wearing his Indian feathers, and he wipes the counter while keeping
one eye on me, scared that if he makes the wrong move, he'll set
me off and I'll gut 'im. Behind me, on the stage, a revue is
ending and a curly haired chorus girl skips over and hugs me. "Oh,
baby," she says, "I thought you'd never get back. I thought
you may have died." "Oh, come now,
Miss Seraphim," I says. "No animal's ever gonna get the best
of me." I
look her in her egg-shaped eyes, hold her fragile face in my
hands, and giver her a
big, chapped-lip kiss. That damn sound guy gets too close again and
records the sound of our lips meeting, and it's damn embarrassing,
for Pete's sake! Someone's going to have to fire him. # # #
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