Entry 7
By Steven Paul Lansky
"Lacey #3"
I was afraid to read Lolita because I wanted her to be mine. Sure, she was over twenty-one, but her features, her presence, were young, curvy, thin, silky, girl waif that she was. She taught me the lingo of AOL instant messenger and razzed me endlessly. I tracked her with an angular heart. Humorous inspiration. I left Cincinnati for New York on the train to escape her. How to research the energy needs of a young girl who might date an old fart. We improvised theater in the closing coffeehouse. Sat side by side in the only wooden chairs that weren’t upside down, put away on tabletops, our forearms brushing. A titillation, tickle, tease and she read her dialogue from yellow lined tablet. My role was all-extemporaneous; I felt that I impressed her in the drunkenness of affection and lack of haldol sedation. She eased into a moment of squealing laughter, “Aliens?”
"Artist on the Road " by Steven Lansky
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"Yes, aliens with blue eyeliner, pink and black hair and a desire for peanut butter shakes.”
“Beer.”
“Beer for a bear in the bar?”
I pulled out a worn Hohner C and puffed my cheeks, pursed my lips and wailed out a vibe, then a run, a blues tremolo, great vibrato, pause.
“More Lansky, more.”
“Lace, what does the light girl say to the dark man?”
“Up and down the scale, dark man. Blow blues that hurt to hear.”
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She had improvised a line. I blew blue dark and seething, drew lust over the twisted reeds, splitting two holes, and tweaking.
“Yeah, baby,” she sung. Her pink lips parted, clean lush white teeth close to my ear.
The harp cradled in both hands wavered, waxed explicit, waned personal, her eyes were on my hands as she reached into her purse, yanked out the ubiquitous red packet, tapped out a single filtered cigarette. I paused from harping, found the pink lighter on the table, flicked a flame to the end, as the cigarette wiggled between lips, a warbling note hung as I returned to music and she drew as the ember grew.
“Ya know the thing is, ya, ya,” she rambled.
“I know, ya know, like I say, it’s like the thing, ya know, like I said, man, well, like I feel the pain and let it into like, my, like, expression, like, ya know, man?”
“That’s when the alien picked up the hammer and found a rhythm,” she tapped her fingers on the arm of the chair. “It’s a rhythm of the saints, my love.”
I melted inside, warm and fuzzy.
“And they came with the night, left their branding irons on the spaceship.”
“Did you come alone?” I asked with innuendo.
“Ahh,” she said, a grin around the filter, smoke curling around squinting eyes. “But, beware the dreaded anal probe!”
We laughed together.
“You have heard the rumors of the dreaded anal probe?” I played along. Did she know of hemorrhoids? Was this a synchronicity? Ahh sweet pain, lounging pangs of humor and deep dark anguish. Could this nymphet be a sexy destiny?
“The real fear is the dark probe,” her voice a whisper, trying to contain a smile. She has a musky smell tonight.
The material published in Queen City Forum Magazine’s “The InkTank” retains the copyright and all rights are reserved to the author of the story, poem, serial, or otherwise. None of the afore mentioned may be copied, reprinted or reproduced without the expressed written consent of the author.
Links
· The Citizen Archives
· About Steven Lansky--QCF Magazine March 2005
· QCF Magazine homepage
· The InkTank Archives
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