This is an unfinished work, as is everything!! Vonnegut says you should write for one person, so here I am writing for Eric, and I really think he needs to write the next part. Maybe we could do a serial type thing. But if you forsee what happens next let me know! Who says you can't be everything to everyone! Talk about sociopathic.....
Poker
Twenty six people are lined up out side the door of the Purple
Mystery
Tarot Shop. You can bet they all want the same thing...a yes
or no
answer. They don't want to hear about the patterns of their lives
or
the evolution of their consciousness as a human. They want to
know if
Mr.Current will ever commit or if they'll ever win Megabucks.
And then the
next question will be when when when??? Of course it is ridiculous
to
expect such precision, and you dear friend know it, so you can
smirk at
the masses of people who are lined up out side my door waiting,
but
secretly you are curious. As you glance across the street at
the violet
neon sign in the darkened window, I know you are itching to cross
the
street. But you never really intend to, momentum is taking you
out of
eyeshot, but you continue to glance over your shoulder. One instant
too
long and you have walked smack into an aluminum street sign.
Pain
shoots down through you cranium as the sign tolls a discordant
note.
One foot off the sidewalk, one hand to your head, your momentum
has been
diverted and for one dazed moment you have no where to go at
all, and so
naturally it begins to rain.
Twenty six people, one for each letter of the alphabet, begin
to
disperse. There is no longer a line, and you watch as the door
opens
and my last customer exits, squinting even into the gray shadow
of the
sudden cloudburst.
And here you come dear friend, across the street, tibetan bells
hanging
from a red silk rope jingle as the door opens. Jasmine incense
and a
darkened room greet you. The smell is familiar, it's in every
head
shop, import store, and new age bookshop you've ever been to.
It
lingers on the items you purchase, its sensuousness reminds you
of
summer and fantasy worlds of magic and sex. You won't get a yes
or no
from me dear one, you won't get to know when when when but you
will get
to see the magic of you own nature, the myths that you are creating,
the
wake that you are leaving as you swim through the atmosphere
of your
life.
"I've been expecting you" (but I say that to everyone,
whether it's true
or not)
You hear these words coming fom behind a beaded glass curtain
that
separates the front and back of the room.
You look around, think about leaving, not wanting to waste your
money.
I have read somewhere that homes reflect only upon the misress
of them,
they are female creations, men are strangers even in their own
homes,
but notice that the curtain, bells and the incence are about
as far as
I've gone to create atmosphere. Everything else seems to have
come out
of your college dorm room. A weight set to the left of the door,
a
small disordered bookshelf with authors such as Vonnegut, Bukowski,
Ballard and Burroughs, and a stack of magazines lying back cover
up
(which can only mean one thing). Various toys are displayed here
and
there, and action figure, a squirt gun, a hand held tetris game.
A
brown sofa with split seams bursting forth foam stuffing sits
to the
right of the door, in front of it, perfectly placed for maximum
foot
resting comfort is a chipped and stained coffee table, repleat
with
empty soda cans, a pizza box, newspaper remnants, a couple of
roaches
and a sticky substance to which some fibers have adhered. Posters
on
the wall, beer maidens, a Goo poster from a Sonic Youth concert
way back
then and others all creepingly familiar. It feels too familiar
to be
completely comfortable, but then that is my job after all.
"Sit down Jack" (I know that's not your name, it's
just the name of
every cool hip character you've ever written about)
I need to prepare myself for a moment, and so I pause before
shifting
back the curtain, I wait till I hear you settling down, till
the
inevitable thud of your feet coming to rest on the table. With
cards in
one hand and a red candle in the other I swish through the curtain.
"Don't look so confused lover" I have always enjoyed
that initial
bemused look when I come through the curtain looking like a beautiful
amalgam of all your ex girlfriends except with the blond pigtails
of
young girl fantasy, and hips and bust proportioned exactly to
your
specifications. You are wondering if this is for real. It isn't,
none
of it is. This is my magic place, your mind, you have created
what is
around you, what I look like, but dear one, you are not in control
of
it, it is MY playground and now I will create for you. I take
a seat in
a simple wooden desk chair, tipping my feet up to rest my heels
against
the two front legs of it. My t-shirt has the words PSYCHO-DERELICT
printed across the front stretching advantagously across my bust
line. I
sweep my forearm across the table clearing with careless precision,
place the candle to my left and begin to shuffle the cards. "Now
we
play Poker Jack. Whoever wins gets to decide your fate."