Godfather With A Tail

The Godfather With A Tail     I'm pacing. Pacing back and forth. If I could focus on the     clock I'd know just how many hours I've devoted to pacing.     Too many, I'd say, but not nearly enough for him.     They cleaned the carpet a few days ago. My pacing is creating     a lovely path that resembles a trail on a nature walk that     is too fucking perfect to be natural in the first place.     The rest of the carpet is all nice and fluffy, two inches     thick.  It's all fine and good, except for the corner behind     my favorite chair. That's where he kept his gun collection.     The carpet guy always cleans around them. I envision him,     with his steamer, muttering "Gun rack, gun rack." under his     breath.     But not too far under his breath, just enough so I'll hear.     He'll turn to see my reaction, then turn back and wonder how     much gun racks actually cost in this day and age. He then     attempts to imagine how the cold metal would feel against his     skin, then my skin, caressing every curve. I could be of some     help. I could tell him how he would feel if he picked up one     of those guns and ran it all over my body, leaving a trace     of forbidden pleasure.... dead. Really fucking dead.     The imprints of the guns are in the carpet. It looks like my     old clarinet case, except it's not that pretty shade of Cookie     Monster blue. The fact that the guns are gone frightens me     more than the entire National Rifle Association on acid.     NRA on LSD. When they were here, I knew that he could snap     at any time, pick one up, and blow me next door. I've always     had a false sense of security, though. I figured I could grab     one just as easily and blow him into next week.     The carpet in the empty spaces looks pretty damn sad. It     amazes me that those spaces could terrify me so much. It's     not just the fact that they are gone, but he is, too. For all     I know, he could be out on the balcony, at the car wash, or     maybe even the book depository. The one and only thing I'm     sure of is that he really, really wants me.... dead.     I've stopped pacing. I'm in the kitchen tearing apart his     last ditch effort/cheap tactic for forgiveness. Actually, it's     not nearly as interesting as all that. I'm tearing the petals     off of dead roses. Six roses, mind you, not even an entire     dozen. Ah, what some people will do for love.     They weren't dead when I got them. They died sometime between     3:30 and 5:30 a.m. It happened just as he was leaving. Their     timing, I must say, was impeccable. A few are dried, but most     of them are still soft and that velvet red you can only tear     apart dead roses to find. I'm placing them in a nice pile.     I should put them in an urn and tell everyone they are my     beloved's ashes. I should put his real ashes in there as well.     At least I won't have to buy any flowers for his funeral! I     don't have an urn, but I found a paper bag. It was a popcorn     bag. Greasy butter spots. Rose petals and popcorn. I'm setting     a trend and a half.     Symbolically, I should throw the dead roses out. The vase,     however, is full again. Fresh roses, although not for me, are     focusing a bit of optimism into my otherwise cynical mind.     A knock at the door. A beautiful distraction, perhaps?     Definitely. As he enters my concentration is shattered. I     don't really know him, but I find myself wishing we could     escape the formality of becoming acquainted. I guess you could     say I'm a bit mesmerized by him. Almost enough to forget     about the psycho perched on my balcony whose guns fit so     well into my carpet and decor.     I can't focus on the clock, but focusing on the clock gives     me entirely too much pleasure. I need more information.     Barriers are going up and down like a power window with the     master controls on the driver's side. I keep trying to put     it down, but he reaches and puts it back up again.     I'm pacing again. Refreshingly enough, not in fear, in     anticipation. I need more distractions. Actually, I only     need one in particular. I go for a moment without taking a     breath and I forget how to take another. Now I'm waiting for     something really hard to fall from the sky, on top of me,     knock me unconscious, nearly kill me, and teach me how to     breathe again. I'm waiting....     No knock. The phone is in working order. Ring, motherfucker,     ring. Ah, such pleasant language. Will this part be censored?     Tipper? Anyone?     I heard noises, I was sure he was out there, but it isn't him.     There is a woman with a flashlight wandering out in the back.     She thinks Fluffy has been nabbed by raccoon terrorists and     taken into the protected wetlands behind our building. I'm     beginning to wonder if Fluffy really is one of her cats.     There used to be this Gabe Kaplan/Kotter type of guy that     used to take out the garbage for her. He seemed nice enough,     a bit crispy, but relatively cool. He did seem, however, to     spend a little too much time chatting with the raccoons that     hang out in the dumpster.     Light bulb! Those dumpster coons couldn't possibly be connected     to the raccoon terrorists who abducted Fluffy? Could they,     heaven forbid, be one and the same? Oh no, what have I stumbled     on to? Too much information, too much information. It's like     Three Days of The Raccoon.     Hey, that woman, her flashlight just went out. She's been     captured, I'm sure of it. I'm going out on the balcony,     brave soul that I am. If I don't write any more after this,     you'll know I'm dead or something. If that really does, in     fact, happen, for God's sake, sell this to the highest bidder.     Writers are always worth more when they're dead.     I'm back! I'm not dead, and I have the combination! The     neighbor, her flashlight, and her man, Fluffy, are never to     return. I, however, cut a deal with the head coon, Emilio.     He smelled of pasta and was wearing a killer Armani suit.     For the good of the family, that's all I've got to say about     that.     I've spotted him, but it's too late. He's seen me for sure.     How can someone so insignificant weigh on my mind so heavily?     I'll tell you how, he following me. Stalker fucker. He     concerns me. I am preoccupied, though. I am looking for     something. I saw it in a store less than two days ago.     At the time I wasn't prepared to obtain it. The morning led     me to the store, and it was gone. Almost as if it had never     existed. There was even a clerk changing the window dressing.     He looked insane, and plastic, in an Andrew McCarthy/Mannequin     sort of way.     So now I'm walking up and down the street, waiting for the     shops to open. It's 4:53 a.m. I guess I'll be waiting for     quite some time. They should open up based solely on my     neurotic insomnia. The way things are going; I will probably     end up on the other side of the world. For two or three weeks,     anyway. I figure that's about how long it will take me to     figure out that my time zone calculations and solutions are     completely ludicrous. I need to become a vampire for any of     this to seem logical.     I'm searching in apathetic desperation. That's a peachy     contradiction. I've seen something I want. For some reason,     I'm almost afraid to find it. Not that I've found it,     I certainly haven't. The more I think, the more I'm     determined to have it, maybe.     I could say that the Holy Grail was in that window. Or what     about a coffee cup with a three-legged cow, Erik Estrada's     autograph, an empty bottle of his hairspray (non-aerosol),     a copy of Dianetics, a chair designed by Frank Lloyd Wright     (too uncomfortable, but I'll take beauty over comfort any     day), it could have been anything. Anything but the truth.     Being esoteric is my trademark, my outlet. It's an excuse     for being perpetually confused. I'm revealing the method to     my madness. I can't bring myself to reveal what was really     in that window. It was there, was being the operative word.     It's funny, I'm saying more now than ever before. It was a     yo-yo. Written February 10th, 1999 © on May 20 2001 05:37 AM PST   0 • 10