Entry 5
By Steven Paul Lansky
"Lacey #2"
“My monologue,” she sighed.
“I’d love to hear it,” I said.
“The teacher didn’t like it.”
I wanted to ask her why, but thought better. Lacey was starting to climb down the inside of the long-necked brown beer bottle. I was hoping her experimentation would lead to insight. I don’t remember how we got to it, but when we were talking about cars, driving, her ‘86, blue, Toyota pick-up truck, and insurance, she let slip she’d had a bit of trouble with the local constabulary out in New Richmond, where she lived with her parents. I wondered right away if there was a D.U.I. We had had the conversation about romance, and she’d insisted she didn’t see me as a romantic partner, yet, whenever we met (often), she’d hug me lightly. And she blew kisses once or twice. But, I remember her reason for rejection.
“You’re too slow, too sedate. I’m looking for excitement.”
I understood that. I am large, and move with a deliberate sense. I had little impulse to scare her. My take on Lacey was that she had a dancer’s lithe body; her kinetic sense drew me into her with motion. Nabokov’s Humbert called Lolita Lolly, Lo, or Dolores depending on time of day. Lacey hugged me, looped long arms about my shoulders lacelike, but when she moved she was an Ace. Her cleverness became a game of Acey Deucy, gambling with my affections. Her other friends were young dancers. I had not seen her dance with others, but in the coffeehouse after closing time, while she guzzled beer, her feet spun while her long arms and hands waved up and down, held almost perfectly out to her sides. Her head moved cobra on her long thin neck, chin level, never high in pride, nor bowed in modesty, she danced like an old old memory to me. An electric gaze kept me in focus and a toothy white smile edged from behind tempting pink lips. I wanted to reverse the polarity. I had danced with an older girl when I was a young man, now I wanted to dance with this young girl. Watching her move, I felt a sober stirring down below, and wanted more. I stepped outside to the bench on the night street.
She played her part proudly, but sloppily, swinging the longneck, brown, beer bottle in her hand. Performed her monologue about a suicidal moment, her voice rising in moonlight, stepping off the curb and shouting at the flashing night street. Her voice modulated as she tried to use a southern accent, then retreated into her own voice, then spun out into acted anger. I felt with her that she was inexperienced. Lacey looked to me for answers that could only be found within. Her self-search was yet unstudied. I wanted to coach her, then help her stay with her voice, and not feel a need to pretend. Yet acting was for her still pretence, and she finished with a flourish and wanted to ask me if I liked her piece, but shyly stood, thin legs apart, shared a feeling of completion and I could see a retained flicker of anger in her eyes.
“My teacher gave me a D for this monologue.”
Lacey finished her beer, tossed the bottle into the can on the sidewalk as the establishment closed and a man came out. Caleb was drunk. At two a.m. in front of Sitwell’s Coffeehouse on Ludlow Avenue in Clifton I asked Caleb, the thin, drunk, curly-haired redheaded, folk guitarist if I could borrow his standard one-speed bicycle for a few minutes. He said, “sure.” Lacey looked up at me with her elfin face shining in the streetlights. On this cool spring night, the moon rose high over the streetscape.
“Sit on the handlebar,” I said.
She propped her thin behind up onto the chrome bar, let her arms dangle, then as I told her, “Place your insteps on the axlenuts on either side of the front wheel.”
I stood on the pedals, and off we went, moving gently, rocking and swaying down the sidewalk under the marquee of the Esquire Theater, which had a light out so it read, “SQUIRE THEATER.” Lacey laughed a bit, not at all nervous, and then squeaked with pleasure as we bounced past the Mediterranean Store and Biago’s Bistro. As we approached the flowershop I warned her I was going out into the street. She leaned into my arms. Our heads were side by side, and her long brown hair blew across my eyes. We canted a bit as we edged off the curve on the handicap ramp at the corner. The traffic lights clicked and buzzed, but there were no cars coming from any direction and I spun us out into Ludlow Avenue past the Firehouse on the corner facing the flowershop. We swung in a half circle and I pumped my legs easily picking up speed coming back toward Sitwell’s. Our ride was short and spirited, just one block each way, but it was enough to give me a glow. When I steered us onto Telford Avenue in front of the ice cream shop Lacey turned her head and grinned, her face full and happy. I wanted to kiss her as we stopped, but I wasn’t that forward. Her hair lay on my hands while I stepped down from the pedals. She dismounted, laughing. My heart was thumping and my breath came quickly. What a thrill. It was my best moment in years.
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Links
· The Citizen Archives
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