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Pif Magazine
Pif Magazine |
Last Rights : Page 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6 We tidied up and went for a walk. It was a humid night. Everything felt dreamy and achey and the hot air seemed to go right through us. Gene and I talked and laughed and I felt better than I’d felt in a long time. He gave me hip-checks into the bushes and I took out my teeth and did my Zira impression from Planet of the Apes. We stopped for refreshment at The Fox Gap Lounge. "Two more Sad Slammers, Kevin," Gene told the bartender. "No, Gene, three’s my limit. Oh, what the heck. Two more Sad Slammers, Kev." The place was full for The Lounge. Usually the proprietors only made money off the alcoholic fathers of kids we grew up with, but that night there were a few office parties, clear fresh faces, and a lot of laughter. The jukebox, usually dark, played one Top 40 hit from the fifties, sixties and seventies after another and people were dancing. "What’s going on tonight?" I asked Kevin. "The heat," Kevin yelled over Moby Grape. "Make native yo-yo loco." He moved his index finger in circles around his ear. Then I noticed everyone in The Lounge was looking at us. Fear gripped me. They know, I thought. They know, they know. "Gene." I grabbed his arm. "They’re all staring. Look around." Gene laughed and patted my hand. "I noticed when we walked in. They’re not looking at us. They’re looking at you." "Why?" "Because you’re beautiful." I looked in the mirror over the bar. He was right. The heat of July had dried up the froth of spittle that perpetually bubbled through my dentures and somehow with Hammy gone, there was no one to compare me to. The only person our features flattered now was me. Then I knew what Hammy felt all his life, felt it myself in the gazes from the men at The Lounge. I knew how the head cheerleader felt, pursued by the quarterback and the science teacher. "May I have this dance?" Gene offered his hand. There was an orchestrated intro, then Shirley Owens Alston fronting The Shirelles. I wasn’t a good dancer. I kept stepping on Gene’s feet and saying, "Oops, sorry. Oops, sorry." But it felt great to dance with clothes on. That night Gene jolted up in bed and switched on the floor lamp with the blue bulb. I could see his white fleshy back tinted blue, the folds on his bald head and the elastic waist band of his Ward’s briefs. "What is it?" "Hammy’s book." Gene was short of breath. "It’s gone. Forever." Gene turned to face me. With his thick puffy fat and alopecia, he looked more like beluga than a forty-six-year-old man. Perhaps Hammy was right. I needed to cook with less animal fat. At least cut back on butter and oils. "Does it have to be?" He asked. "I mean, what if you and I were to..." "No." I leapt out of bed and stormed into the bathroom. Gene stood outside the door. "Trix, it could be good for us. It could be cathartic. Hear me out." "No," I screamed. "To hell with the family name, Trix. You think Tim’s a big secret? You think people don’t cross the street when they see us coming?" He was sounding like Hammy. "I won’t have this." I pounded the back of the bathroom door. "I will not besmirch the memory of our mother and father. I will not climb down into hell." I heard Gene move away from the door and the creaking of Mom and Dad’s sleigh bed as he got back in. |
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