He pops the sugar cube into his mouth and it melts
against his tongue. Running a hand through his hair, he walks to the bed and
collapses on his back, waiting for the effects of the tainted block to take
effect. His vision blurs, tilts, turns pink and then reverts back.
Moments pass.
Hours pass.
Days pass.
The bedside table decided it wanted to go for a walk, but said it’d be back
soon. The stars flicker outside his window. He looks to the side and catches
the hallway stretching its floor boards to their breaking point. The window
pulls on its frame, tired of being a square.
“Don’t do that,” someone whispers. “It’ll hurt.”
Someone broke the cologne bottle in the closet – the smell glides along the
carpet till it reaches the bed and envelopes him, caressing him with its sticky
hands. The table hasn’t come back yet. He groans and rolls away from the smell.
The stars ask where the moon has gone.
The lights are bleeding. Their red is being stolen, stolen by the greedy
shadows. He curls his body on the brink. If he’s small, the shadows won’t see
his red.
The edge of the bed is so close now, so close. He’ll die if he falls over.
He’ll die!
“But wouldn’t the trip be fun?”
*****
Men and women dance on the tables, cocktails or beers clutched in their hands.
Laughter drowns out the music while the liquor flows freely. The host is no
where to be found, which is strange considering he was the one wearing devil horns.
They were sparkly, which is even stranger considering the host.
The cops were paid off, he had heard, so that the party wouldn’t have a rude
departure but he thinks that releasing a hundred drunken people into the wilds
of the
Someone throws their arms around his waist and he jumps, turning to find the
host too-affectionately nuzzling his shoulder, his sparkly devil horns still
firmly in place. “Smile,” he says, which he does.
Standing, the host tugs on his hand. “Come dance with me.” And he does.
*****
He asks for another. After looking at his pile, the barkeep says no, that he’s
had enough.
He tosses more money on the counter and asks again.
The barkeep relents, stashing the bills, and pours him another drink.
*****
Don’t bring them home. That’s the only rule. If you bring them home, you won’t
be able to get rid of them, like strays. So take them somewhere else. A hotel, maybe. It makes it clear to everyone what this is.
And that’s all this is.
Two for the night. Be gone in the morning. Be a dream,
be a hallucination, be the after effects of the drugs and alcohol, that
wonderfully destructive combination.
Their job is to please – their not good for much else. But don’t be upstaged.
Give them the ride of their life. No man will ever be enough, not anymore.
So in a sense, destroy them. Destroy their thoughts and fantasies and use
yours.
Yours are better, after all.
*****
The stage goes up and they jump around on it to make sure it’s secure enough
for forty-five grown men. The lights go up and the programs are set for
syncopation with the music. The guitars are tuned by lackies
in the back, hoping to one day be the ones with the adoring fans.
In another part of the house, people are yelling, people are rehearsing, people
are vomiting the contents of their stomach, whether due to nerves or a habit,
it’s not asked.
A woman toys with his hair while a shorter man attaches a mic
to his hip. He tries desperately to get his damned eyeliner to look the same on
each side.
The man beside him in the chair reassures, “No one will notice.”
“I’ll notice,” he snaps back, cursing when the black lines are uneven, and
starts over again.
Across the room, another man fusses over his heat damaged locks, pouting at
himself in the mirror and gingerly caressing the frizzy strands.
They change without privacy, taking care not to destroy the art on their faces
or shaped into their hair. He brushes his face and smudges his eyeliner.
Fuming, he curses a blue streak that would make a sailor cringe and snatches
the pencil and mirror out of an aide’s hands.
Once backstage, all lights are out save for the blue glow of the crew’s
flashlights. They circle round and press close to hear whatever he has to say.
He feels his stomach tighten. What to say. What to think. What to do. He tells
them of spotlights and coordination, of trust and excitement. The muscles in
his shoulders ache already from the rehearsal last night. His eyes are tired
and he wonders how the fuck he’s going to make it through a three hour show.
They press closer and he smiles because he knows that if he can’t make it, they
can. And because they can, he will.
On the count of three, they cheer once and disperse like buck shot from the
barrel, scattering to their places.
He waits beside his second-in-command and feels the tightness reach a fever
pitch.
He closes his eyes, breathes, and steps out to the stage.