By the Light of the Jukebox by Dean Paschal

Author:Dean Paschal
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Danzac Books
ISBN: 9781936873913
Publisher: Dzanc Books
Published: 2002-12-15T00:00:00+00:00

Where would she be now?

At the moment it is very late, or early…as you like it. m., of course, would not be alone. Quite likely, she is wearing a silk kimono but is otherwise nude, standing in her bedroom. Quite likely, she has lit a small candle. Quite likely, she has said, “I am yours for as long as this candle burns. Do anything you have ever wanted to do to a woman.”

(The candles are not all that small, actually. They burn a good while.)

Has she actually said that to me?

Let us not dwell on the obvious.

Have I heard her say it to other men, or to other people, or to fair-sized groups of other people?

Let us simply not talk about it.

“Why?” she said to me once, crying, her pale skin half-covered with the very bruises that she herself had asked for.

“Because,” I answered.

“Because why?”

“Because if you light a firecracker in a concert hall, the grand piano will hum.”

“What!?” she said, suddenly laughing, smiling, trying to focus on my face. “Kiss me.”

So we kissed and quit talking.

But truly there has not always been such a distinction between skin and nerve.

Pain and vision.

I did not add that, though. What I did was scratch her head.

What I said was, “Go to sleep.”

What I pretended was that I didn’t understand.

Not long ago, I visited a huge city where m. had once lived. I was passing through a district of seedy strip-joints on the way to a subway and found myself walking beside a group of slick promotional pictures—the type that are on glass or plastic and are lit from behind. (Which of course are never up-to-date and bear little relation to the women inside the clubs.) Suddenly I stopped. What I saw was totally unexpected. That’s m! I thought, looking up. The eyes were absolutely unmistakable, also a slight lump, like a perpetual bruise on her lower lip. She looked demure, shy, excited. Was she flirting with the photographer? She seemed delighted with this dress with the white fur. I stood for a moment under the rolling lights, m. had looked much younger then; there was even an aspect of borrowed sexuality: a little girl all dressed up in her mother’s tits. The bright lights seemed to add to a sense of silence and mystery. I have slept with this woman a thousand times and know nothing about her. This glass picture has been addressing every male that has stood on this sidewalk for a decade or more; nevertheless, there is something almost virginal about it: m’s portrait could be in a cathedral and not look out of place.

I felt conspicuous and after a minute went on. Indeed, there was no need to stop any longer, m.’s picture was somewhat faded and I couldn’t help but wonder why it had not been changed in all this time. There was no need to dwell on such things. Perhaps the purely masculine and purely feminine are but zones of life that the individual passes through. The truth is, if m.

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