Wednesday, July 2, 2008

maybe scabies

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All over my body, but not in between my fingers and toes to make it scabies, I have spots of itchy mosquito type bites which resemble chicken pocks; but I have already had chicken pox between 1 and 2, I remember the calamine, so it couldn't be chicken pox.

No, I think what has manifested as a head-to-toe pain in the ass is something I recently (last night) heard of as a pandemic of sorts on this particular Brooklyn street, according to my hustler, sculptor, half-Mexican friend, Gabriel. He says I've probably been bitten by bed bugs; to wash all the sheets in hot water, to check the source of the couch that's been my bed; "Poor baby," he said.

I could tell he wanted to kiss me outside the Bushwick bar with its golf course in the back, with its $6 Pabst and shot of Jim special, and all you can eat cheese puffs (which are exceptional when they're fresh). He was clean cold sober too, on soda and bitters.

"You should've caught me yesterday," he said,

"on the last day of June, I'm not drinking in July."

"Like lent," I said.

"Yeah, I guess so."

I told him, "I didn't drink for a February once, after I'd been an alcoholic for six years straight," while fumbling for a match, while digesting cheap beer and whiskey, as his face came so close he could probably smell my hair, his eyes dipping almost too intensely to take a sip of some sad recognition in mine; then a friend of his walked by, and they had to say hello, of course.

Sarah was her name, tall, pretty face, friendly personality. When she asked my name I told her it was like hers with a 'b' in the middle, without the 'h' if hers had an 'h'. She didn't say either way, then asked my name again one minute later after an attempt of pronouncing it kind of retarded. We both smoked a Parliament Light, mine borrowed from the bartender.

Standing there, I wanted Gabriel's full-fledged attention again. I started to get distracted into noises of voices and people with dogs shuffling by between standing there smoking, almost drunk watching them talk, small talk, thinking about Adam who I'd left inside at the bar alone with stale cheese puffs and an almost gone beer.

It felt like forever, even though it probably wasn't because I'm not that patient.

When Sara(h) finally off'd to resume her sidewalk adventure, Gabriel started briefly into her looks: not being as sharp as they used to be, criticizing her hunched shoulders, her receded bottom lip.

"She looked better when she was thinner a few years ago when I first met her...she's a good connection in the city...I needed to say hello instead of ignoring her when she walked by."

When he apologized for seeming too critical, I told him it was okay, that I'd be the same way once I got to know him better.

He asked me if I had plans for independence day, and I told him I didn't. He said he would probably call me, and I told him that was reasonable, then unlocked his bike he said, "Don't get too drunk!"

I said I would try my best not to, and ran inside, while saying that, halfway waving.

Inside Adam was waiting to chastise me a little for not waiting to smoke, in inadvertantly attempting to leave those two alone at the bar in being selfish and trying to go outside alone, without inviting Gabriel, to give him at least a choice in the matter of standing with me or going home.

I told him that romance was too complicated, and the best thing I could probably do to keep Gabriel around was to treat him like I would any other friend that I wasn't interested in, "Like Aaron," I said.

Aaron was our very unsexy friend who always wore terrible colors, like bright orange. When I met him he was fat, until he started swimming and eating better, and lost 40 pounds.

I try to keep in mind that Aaron's still getting adjusted when he imposes on my personal space on the sidewalk and pushes me into walls by accident, or into the street, has trouble squeezing through crowds, or steps on me.

"Phantom fat," I've said, to justify his awkward mobility in spatial trajectories, "he thinks it's still there."

I wish I could tell him to his face, but people who used to be fat have a tendency to get defensive, just like how whores and pseudo-intellectuals get defensive.

Aaron also used to be a goth cutter. This is probably why he likes it when I'm mean to him more than most people like it, and the more he takes it, the meaner I get because I hate weakness.

It'd be nice if he told me to shut my hell hole up one of these days. Then I could tell him to not take up so much space on the sidewalk.

Then he could crawl into my lap and I could tell him stories about farting pigeons with explosive bed bug infested diarrhea flying over Brooklyn covering all the commuters coming out of the L and M bird shit making them itchy, and he would laugh and get sleepy, and take up most of the bed even though he only needed half.

I'd say, "Never wear that bright orange shirt with the yaks on it again, please, it's such an unflattering hue on you, and looks terrible in pictures.

He'd whisper, "Kiss me," and touch my hand," and I'd say, "Gross!"

I'd try to use the word 'phantasmagoric' in the pigeon story with him being too sleepy to notice, it being new and raw in my vocabulary, but kind of pretty, even though mostly useless in my life.

Like 'circumnavigate' or 'romance'--though attention's nice from a pretty face one in a while.

Especially when it looks like it's about to kiss you when you've got a buzz outside of a bar by a bicycle being unlocked, when it's hard to take anything seriously anymore, and pleasant distractions are a luxury in eyes, and flavors garnered in the path to obliviousness.

I really hope I don't have chicken pocks again.
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2 comments:

Glacial Spain said...
This comment has been removed by the author.
Sabra Embury said...

Thanks Glacial. I guess I probably could be considered evil by SOME people.

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