Yard Bargains

Long hair went out with bell-bottoms, and I happen to have both.  He looks down at his nudist wrist, never wearing a watch in the shower, I don't know what time it is.  (Apparently I don't know what rhythm is anymore either, so I'll just stop trying and get on with it).  You've got to keep the mind open at all times.  "She's a fucking sponge," I say.  "I don't care," he says, "I'm in love".  I fear he'll never understand my concept of can-openers and the vampires who own them. "My lover's eyes," I announce, "are ergonomically correct machines of torture. Her voice melts my wax museum".  My friend clambers up-top a future's wind announcing the loss of proportion, "It needn't be said I've been caught a-swagger within, for my brain's succumbed to the vicious hipsters".  The cats all snap as he curtsies and sits while I'm busy hiding his cue cards.  "Thanks worm," I hear his eyes speak, a term of endearment I take for a future's midnight snacking. "Stop staring," I say.  "I can't!  She's just so-" pausing.  "Jejune?" I suggest. "Yes, jejune!" he concurs while closing his eyes in a state of euphoric delight as I smirk in the light of blatant victory. "So, where is she anyway?" he asks. "Who?" I say.  He responds, "the lover you were talking about".  "Oh," I say "let's just concede that I'm still waiting for her". "Whaddaya mean?" he asks.  "Well, let's just say she's not the one you're staring at," I conclude.  (The metaphor leaves no impact on his thought process.  He continues staring over my shoulder). "Think I've got a chance?" he asks. "What," I respond, "a point-five on the Richter scale?"  (Again my symbolism fails to sink bellow his level of consciousness). "Drop it," I continue.  "No," he states, "I'm gonna go talk to her".  He checks his fly, combs his eyebrows and walks over. Rejection. "What a bitch," he says sitting back down. "What," I inquire, "she has enough class not to exchange phone numbers.  What'd you do, talk about the weather?"  "Well eventually," he says, "I said 'it's a nice day isn't it, now that I've seen you'".  I lean over groaning pretending to throw-up as I stand and walk toward the girl and eloquently state, "Excuse me, I'm gonna go vomit," and I proceed to the bathroom.  She's standing outside the door when I come out and asks, "Can I melt your wax museum?"  I say in surprise, "not with plagiarism," and a smile. "I'm sorry," she says, and I say "so am I. You don't want me," I continue, but I don't think she understands.  The two of us finally go back to our own tables. There is a point beyond Hollywood and Shakespeare obviously. I can't say I live there, or that anyone can or would even what to.  But I do know that as I leave tonight, I am just as happy as I was when I chose to enter the market place today. Written April 17th, 2002 © on Apr 19 2002 08:16 AM PST   17 • 0 • 9