we're in this sleepy Wale-wind village, all Tudor and tiny, and
I see why he had to leave here as we pull up in the dead of night.
I can't get my suitcase through the so-called "door" and
that "ice-box" thing in the kitchen is so ridiculous that
even the Christmas turkey refuses to be seen with it, and goes it
alone, preferring to take its chances out on the countertop and
staying rather cold anyway, thank-you-very-much, due to the lack
of central heating as it gears up for the salmonella charge.
mom studies me quizzically, the big hairy Jewess towering over her
ostioparosal form. And his dad's all bad teeth and beer; he's keen
to enjoy the Christmas festivities (beer) and doesn't have time
for all these trivial introductions. Not when there's beer to be
in the orangine living room, the roots of his existence, trolling
deep into Mum's eyes for some spark of recognition other than motherly
pride. But I find no trace of the genes that could've multiplied
and divided from her into him.
but I did see that
the living room carpet is breathing
steadily up and down
living its own nightmare.
has come home, the boy triumphant! All record deals and telly spots
and now everyone is taking credit for being the only one who really
knew that his silly haircut was genius. The village gathers at his
feet like the minions he always knew they were, as he shows off
the spoils he's plundered from America -- his record album and me,
big and exotic like everything over there, while I try not to stare
at that damn carpet and yell "IT'S ALIVE!!! IT'S ALIVE!!!"
for him to gather me up in his vision and drag me back down to safety,
to our "secret place" where only we get it. Deep down
in there, in his secret heart. Please don't let him leave me out
here to chitchat with the locals, they are looking for my horns,
and sniffing the soap on me suspiciously, whispering "Oooh,
we should've invested in the soap factory, the way she bathes! Every
day, she bathes!" They're watching me closely, and flinch
whenever I make any sudden moves wondering what kind of stunt I'm
going to pull next. I mean after you kill Jesus, what do you do
for an encore?
I drink one more cup of tea, I'll be able to float back to New York
on my own, and I have run out of praises to sing for him, and they
are waiting for more. But he is caught up in the glory of it all.
He is doing what he loves best -- getting a good ass-kissing --
and is floating so high up above us all, like a Macy's Thanksgiving
Day balloon, that all we can do is look up at him and marvel at
his magnificence. So when his carpet takes another breath, I sigh
along with it.
is clapping along on the off beat to this hit of his, that she used
to think sounded like cats fighting, and dad knocks back another
beer (he's already at the pub in spirit.) And then it hits me so
hard, so hard it almost knocks the wind out of me. He's just a poor
Welsh boy, whose dad owns the local knickers store. And I'm a spoiled
J.A.P. from Long Island, but how did we connect like fireflies in
LA? I'm beginning to fear it was all just chemical. But no, I'm
still hoping he's been left on the doorstep by gypsies who rescued
him from a shipwrecked spacecraft as I've always suspected I have
been, and that he belongs no more here in this tired old village,
than I do in the suburban hair spray nebula of Long Island, because
where did he get those poet's eyes?
that carpet, I swear, is still breathing. Then it just bursts forth
from me, like the pea soup in The Exorcist-- "YOUR CARPET
IS BREATHING!!!" I vomit it out.
Mum looks at me, from centuries before, like she's still a serf
working those feudal fields, and I'm the spoilsport land baron,
and says "Yes dear, it's always done that. No need to scream.
What's your point?"
to him for help. SOS !!!! I am drowning in a sea of hateful stares;
I need a life preserver here, big time. I am goin' under fast. But
he doesn't appreciate this appalling interruption. It cut right
into his best guitar solo, and he shoots me a look so black, it
instantly burns off a piece of my heart. Turns it straight to soot
just as I'm about to be done in by a big wave of nausea, sucked
down into the black hole of embarrassment, it's just then that I
notice that I am breathing along with the carpet like some synchronized
swimming partner, perfectly timed. I jump into this epiphanal life
raft, clinging desperately onto the realization that it's we who
are actually soul mates, his carpet and I, joined in our boredom
and despair. He's been treading upon us both for far too long and
has worn us down, threadbare and flat and fed up.
I feel really bad for the carpet because it is tethered and I am
not. I can go.............. So I do.
version for easy reading
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