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erupture #tres music reviews media reviews mel's rant the archives he's big! he's huge! write me, baby |
--Sidney Mindfield, 1983
I was repulsed, yet nonplussed. Nonetheless, I, as best I could without vomiting, lifted the man from the floor and deposited him into the still vacant seat next to the woman I assumed was his wife. Gazing upon her sleeping form I pondered her hideousness. Still, I thought, she deserved to be told. Imagine if I were to leave the bus before she awoke? The stop would come up, sheÕd shake the sleep out of her grotesquely misformed head, ring the bell, and then... and then... the thoughts were too horrible for even me to think of. I quickly woke her up.
"Excuse me, but is this your husband?" I pointed to the neighboring cadaver.
"I don't see that that is any of your affair," she snapped back. I would dread waking up with this creature every morning. I surmised from her answer that this was, indeed, her husband.
"well, I don't know how to tell you this, ma'am, but your husband's..."
Beep beep went the languid horn of the bus.
"HUH? Could you speak up?"
"I think your husband is..."
Ding ding went the insistent bell. This was not a new bus,, but one of the older models, with a lightweight back door and an archaic bell system that can be rung as many times as one's little heart desires.
"Can't you speak any louder?"
"YOUR HUSBAND'S DEAD!!!" If all eyes weren't on me before, they were now.
"Well, you don't have to shout!"
I helped her off the bus with her husband. She, having all her wits about her, recommend that we go to the police station nearby. We did. While waiting at the station with the body, I learned that her name was Mrs. Samothrace, she was born in Greece, that she had many children and many more grandchildren. She didn't look like any of the Greek women I had seen; she was not seductive like Melina Mercuri, she was not earthy like Irene Pappas, and she didn't resemble Jean Simmons in the slightest. After we answered some questions, we exchanged phone numbers, as she said that she knew just the girl for me. I hoped never to hear from her again.
But this was not to be. Two months later I received a phone call from the police. they wished to question me further about the incident. It seems that during the autopsy they found something suspicious. I was not in the least bit worried, but that was before I remembered that Mrs. Samothrace had my phone number.
Needless to say, I, that very same day, received a call from Mrs. Samothrace. She too was to be questioned, and she wanted to speak to e as to what I should say. I became just the slightest bit anxious at this time. She invited me to dinner. I foolishly accepted.
I arrived at her home at the appointed time, and as I approached the apartment I heard the anguished screams of lobsters being boiled. I should have guessed that she would serve sea food.
I rang the bell, and she answered, a plate of appetizers in hand. Here, you eat these as you wait," she stated, thrusting squid and clams and mussels into my arms. She unexpectantly slid an oyster into my mouth. It was luscious, and reminded me of all the girls I had ever dated. I reached for more, wishing to preserve that pleasant memory. Soon, the salad came. She beckoned me to the table with feat cheese and olives. I felt myself slipping back into my fondest childhood remembrances, slithering through the vinegar and oil dressing. Even the pits of the olives were marvelous, their rough texture playing around on my tongue. I was in ecstasy. When Mrs. Samothrace had a meal on her table, she was like a siren calling to the starved sailors.
"Come and get it." Those were the only words she had to say to make my senses reel.
We gorged ourselves on Bouillabaisse. She steamed open my mussels and slid them into my mouth. Together, we cracked the lobster, the tender pink meat staring back at us, obscenely. It was like a dream.
Dessert was banana cream pie. She was the first to speak. "The police told me they found poison in my husband's blood."
I looked surprised. She continued.
"They say it was iodine."
As I got up from the table, I felt myself falling.
--Sidney Mindfield, 1983
It is not a dangerous neighborhood that I live in--the junkies are too stoned to be of any threat, and the Ukrainians are nice and harmless. Nonetheless, I try to avoid going out at night around here. I donÕt want to be associated with the real vermin that live around here--the artistes. Looking at me, you might think that IÕm one of them, what with my poor-boy glasses, my blue-black hair, which is always messy, my baggy pants, etc. Actually, I despise them. Their presence offends me to a high degree. ItÕs one thing to be an artist, but quite another thing to be an artiste.
Unfortunately, I often get out of work late. I walk home in the dark, trying hard not to be noticed, and trying hard not to notice. I did notice something once, tho. It was in the beginning of the summer, on a day when the sun was still hanging around until night, keeping the poor little moon at bay. On a corner of the avenue stood a black man with a number of boxes. One was filled with Campbells soup. He wanted a dollar for four of these. In another box were cans of Reddy-wip. these were fifty cents.
I like whipped cream. It is an all-purpose food. In the winter, it can be sprayed generously into hot chocolate, where it can be left to melt and mingle with the milk and Nestles. In the summer, Jello cannot be eaten without it. What a nice feeling to get a spoonful of both an squish them around in your mouth until they dissolve into one another! Often, in the fall, when I was young, after my brother and I would come home from school, we would just squirt the whipped cream onto spoons and eat it plain. But how can anyone ever call whipped cream plain??? Often, we wouldnÕt even wait for spoons, just eat it off our fingers, or inject it directly into our waiting mouths. Ah, youth!
It seemed like a wonderful idea to me to sell whipped cream on the streets, but the I realized something--whipped cream in a can is a true miracle of modern science. ThereÕs one thing that is essential to the product--refrigeration. This is not a problem in the winter, or even during certain autumns, but this was a hot summer evening. I declined the offer.
In days subsequent, I witnessed the purchase of many cans of reddy-wip by lots of these so-called artistes. I also suddenly noticed a new movement within the arts. Actually, everyone suddenly noticed it. Suddenly, it was there! The critics had no name for it, it was so sudden. And no name could be given to it! Literature, dance, music, painting, sculpture (yes, even painting and sculpture) were new! Fresh! Innovative! All the things that they had not been for so long. We waved goodbye to the new wave, bid adieu to po-mo and many other things. Things seems brighter. Even movies were better. It was incredible. I was suspicious.
I was wandering around the Gumby Gallery when I discovered exactly what was going on. I was perusing the joint, and I stumbled upon a room that contained a shelf full of cans of reddy-wip. They were not refrigerated. I was aghast. Maybe there was to be an exhibit of food art. I began to feel dizzy and I started to run. I got home and ate cheese cake.
On my next trip out, I found a man selling reddy-wip on the corner. I screwed my courage to the sticking place and purchased s can. I brought it home, trembling. I feared the worst.
I shook the can with all my might, removed the cap, and, closing my eyes, pointed and squirted. I opened my eyes. All over the floor was whipped cream. I was crushed, I went to bed without cleaning up. I let the roaches have a feast.
But they didnÕt. When I awoke the next morning, there was a manuscript in the place where the whipped cream had been. It was about 500 pages. I read it and I couldnÕt put it down. The title page read Madagascar, by Sidney Mindfield.
I made a million.
These two people were the kind who cannot live without excess. It was only nine o'clock, the large-screen flat high definition tv was blaring in competition with the 200 watt stereo, and between Joe and Ophelia, seventeen lines of coke had been ingested nasally. I was sitting in a ridiculous leather swivel rocker with a pair of headphones resting gingerly upon my tender ears. Not that I was listening to anything, I was using them to block some of the sound. Joe was trying to tell me a story.
"So, little Jamoca over here, " he said, wiping the spittle of his chin while he talked and simultaneously motioned to the nearby black cat who was sitting balanced precariously on her butt while she groomed an outstretched back leg, "was walking across the street, of course she wasn't called Jamoca then, because she wasn't mine, but anyway, she's sauntering along and she spots something shimmery in the gutter...: He makes some kind of strange movement, jutting forward his head, cocking it to the side and bugging his eyes out. I was amazed he could do all this at once. "And you know what it was?" he screeches at me. I shake my head no. "It was a can of Campbell's Cream of Mushroom soup!" At this point, Joe explodes into hysterics. I failed to see the humor, but was saved from having to laugh by a commercial that had suddenly appeared on the six-foot screen. There was an absolutely hideous man sputtering words form his poorly formed mouth, lips to thick for the words to be genuinely intelligible. "So, you gotta ugly nose, huh? Ya tits too small?" This was public access, so he was allowed to say tits. He went on. "Gotta mole? Saggy butt? Warts?..." "Warts" was the operative word here. My uncle, who had just ejected me oh-so-rudely from his humble abode, had the most obnoxious wart right on the tip of his nose. Well, maybe it wasn't a wart, I've never actually seen a wart, it may have been a carbuncle, but it looked like I always imagined a wart to look like. Thinking about it now, I guess it wasn't actually a wart, as it had been there for as long as I could remember, and warts don't usually hang around for 20+ years. I started at the screen, anxiously awaiting the good doctor's name and phone number. He continued. "I can get rid of all these for you, and cheap too! I'll improve your sex life, get you a raise, a new spouse or a mink coat from a secret admirer, just be removing or reshaping whatever is making you ugly. Really! Just call Dr. Sol's Body repaid Shop, 976-NOZE. You won't be sorry!" I was sure that I wouldn't be. I jumped up, the headphone wires flying majestically behind me, Joe gesticulating wildly, "Wait! I wasn't finished! Wait!" I lunged towards the princess phone and excited dialed Uncle Junior's number.
Four rings, five rings, then an answer. "Yeah, hello." I immediately recognized the gruff voice to be that of my cousin Amelia. "Hoodafukisdis" Huh?"
Amelia, it's Carmine, your cousin. Is your father there?"
"Well, if you're calling to ask him if you can come back, I would forget about it. He already rented the room to your aunt Milly. Joe got coke?"
"Amelia, I wanted to offer him something. I want to pay for him to get that wart removed."
"Yeah? I don't think he'd go for that, but Mom would love it. Maybe you and her could scheme up somethin' and like trick him into it. So, Joe got coke?"
I scratched my curly black hair in exasperation. "Yes, he does, Now please put your mother on the phone. A small OK while she threw the phone onto the kitchen table, then a big "MOM!!!" as she yelled for aunt Cookie. It was incredible. Already I missed that family aunt Cookie's pasta, Amelia's moustache, et al. I could hear Cookie waddling to the telephone.
"Carmine! The love of my life! How are you? Are you eating OK? I bet you lost weight already, you poor thing, my little little Carmine." If I was there, she'd would have pinched my cheek.
"Auntie, I've only been away for two days." I was coming down form the television induced high at this point, so I sat down on the gold toned carpeting, which stretched form wall to shining wall. "Did Amy tell you about my idea?"
"Yes, yessssss. I think it's wonderful. You make alla the arrangements, just make sure the appointment isn't on Tuesday, that's Bingo night, you know." I knew. After another two hours of hearing about other relatives' health, I hung up with Cookie. Ophelia and Joe were fist fighting, her nail polish had been spilled all over the sofa. Unfortunately, they were two different shades of red, the red of the couch being closer to the red dripping form Joe's eye. I thought of Ophelia and decided to go to bed, leaving them to finish their lovers' quarrel alone.
Ophelia woke me up at six the next morning. She thought that she may have broken Joe's jaw, so I had to drive the guy to the hospital. Bellevue was the most convenient, not because it was closer but because the parking was better. So, I drove him down there, deposited him in the emergency room, gave the desk nurse the necessary information and called the good doctor Sol. It was only 8 by now, but I guess you can never be to early for a money-hungry plastic surgeon, right? A sleepy voice answered the phone.
"Yallooo, Body repair, Doc speaking. " I told the sleepy man my sad sad story.
"So, you see why we have to forgo the free consultation. He simply can't know it's happening."
"Yep, I see. Sounds like fun! How 'bout the 26, that's a Tuesday--oops, no good, that's Bingo night. How about the 29, at 2 o'clock?"
The deal was made. I was ecstatic. I called aunt Cookie immediately, knowing that she would already be up preparing her spaghetti sauce. We made arrangements. The plan was that she was going to tell him that they were going to meet me for lunch in "the city." Luckily, my office was near the Body Shop. We were going to get him drunk, then proceed to the office, where the doctor would pretend to be one of my best friends. Somehow, he would give Junior some kind of anesthetic and then swiftly remove the offending protrudence. Easy, huh?
I had to leave Joe in the emergency room while I went to work. I returned at 5:15 and found Joe in the same spot, munching on a Razzer (Bellevue must have the only vending machine that dispenses Razzers) and trying to "catch a rap" with some girl (to use the vernacular, as Joe was apt to do). He was waiting for his x-rays to come back, but the doctors were almost certain that there was nothing broken. Boy was I surprised when they decided to admit him. "Got this chip, you see, dangerous, gotta take him in," the doctor on duty informed me. Fine. I went home.
Since I was all alone with Ophelia for the evening, I thought we could have some fun. I ripped off the cheap nightie she was wearing and hijinx ensued. After, I read her some quotations form Mao.
"Our fundamental task is to adjust the use of labor in an organzied way and to encourgae women to do farm work..."
"Ooohh," she dripped from her ruby red lips while pushing the beige hair out of her eyes and rubbing my chest, "I just live it when you talk irty to me..."
I took the week off while Joe was in the hospital. Ophelia needed company.
That Friday, we took Uncle Junior to the shop for repairs.
All was going well, basically. We went to an Italian restaurant in midtown, some basic nondescript place where the tablecloths were red -checked and the candles white. Junior shoveled eggplant parmigiana heartily into his gaping maw, while Aunt Cookie and I just looked on politely. She was too nervous to eat. I was to tired to eat. Junior drank two bottles of red wine, alone. Three hours later (it was an early lunch) we made our way over to the doctor's office.
After all the introductions were made, Ol' Dr. Sol told Junior that he used to wrestle professional before he went into plastic surgery. They began to go through some wrestling motions, and Sol got Junior into a nelson. He motioned to the nurse who jabbed the filled and waiting syringe into my uncle's rear end. In a few seconds he fell into a heap on the marble pattern tile floor like one of those nature special bears. The doctor asked us to wait in the obvious place, the waiting room.
An hour passed by, the two. In the meantime, we heard an incredible explosion cocming from the operating room. The nurse waddled out and assured is that its was nothing. "We were just draining the thing," he said in his professionally reassuring voice. It was six o'clock when the doctor came out and took my aunt into his office. On the drive home, she explained to me what happened.
"I think they call it spontaneous combustion or something like that. I read about it once in the Weekly World News. Too much wine, too much anesthetic--he just exploded. He said he could have possibly put him back together, but I told him to forget it. He said he'd give me $65,000 to forget it too. We have a date tomorrow night."
The strange thing is, the same thing happened to Joe that very night.