Saturday, June 23, 2007

The Liquid Life (installment twenty-seven)

Stop your clamoring already! Elendele, Dominique and the other social maladroits of "The Liquid Life" are back after a brief hiatus brought on by the scribe's jaunt to Los Cabos, Mexico. You'll remember she was a little upset about having to bare her anatomy in "Elendele's Sex Scene Scene, "but now she's back.


By the next Tuesday she had rebounded. She was writing up anti-vivisection petitions and a nasty letter to the famed bullfighter Curro Romero, when I got to her place.

She told me then that she’d decided to continue auditions. She’d flash her haute haunches in fifty features if she must, would bend on this one issue, but was drawing the line at advertisements or anything else she perceived as doing the bidding of commerce. It was good to hear her ramble on in recovery from the ravages of the sex scene scene.

We jousted it out when I started, “What’s wrong with commercials? How do you expect them to make any money to put these shows on? What do you think, that they put these things on here for free Elendele?”

The fact was I really liked the one she’d been in and enjoyed pointing her out to my friends while we drank beer and watched basketball games. It beat everything about the place I had come from and I was sure, upon her screen presence. that I would never go back.

She’s holding a joint, waving my waiting hand off and extending the length of her speech just so she can have more Maria for herself. She holds in the smoke while she talks, “Oh Dominique, it cheapens life when you must constantly be sold things. Who wants to be sold and sold and sold everything when all you can love is something, one thing, maybe, if everything works out alright?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean mostly they’re selling love as if you could buy it, as if it were an Article of the Constitution and it’s not. It’s a thing that no government can guarantee.”

She passes the joint to me and says then, “It’s not just ‘things’ that they are selling Dominique. They are selling you these downy girls with rosewater in their veins.”

“You were once...”

“And everyone knows what a lie it was,” rings her heartstring.

“Not me.”

“Oh,” she ignores, “they’re selling me salty cologne men. Look! Now don’t you want that girl there? Wouldn’t you shelve me to wait for her, or any of the other pricey femmes you’ve never been able to afford?”

I didn’t see why she had to bring my financial situation into it and was glad the salon was empty.

“Oh! There!” she rages continuous, “Now she’s gone, with not a sliver of her silver deity left. Oh Dominique. Who wants to go stale waiting and anxious for that one time luv, luv, luv? Who wants t miss the moon’s collision with the morning each 5 a.m… who wants to… who… wants…”

“Who wants to what, Elendele?”

Gently, disturbed, she says quietly now, “I’m so stoned I forgot what I was talking about. What was I talking about?”

“I don’t know,” is my foggy retort.” I forgot, too.”


So then, we smoked more Maria on the roof at 6:48 p.m. Not because we needed, to, but because we wanted to. And we wondered upon close inspection of the sky, that perhaps a free Comanche had crushed yellow and orange desert rocks, painting with their dust above the hills at dusk…

…that perhaps shavings of rose quartz had fallen from his pouch and left trails of summer Christmas trim over the shaky ranges edging…

…that perhaps it was just the exhaust from a million buses taking people home again.
Modern life bleeding on the sky.

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