The Minotaur: Takes a Cigarette Break by Steven Sherrill

Author:Steven Sherrill
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction
Publisher: John F. Blair Publisher
Published: 2000-09-21T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 15

The Minotaur dreams himself a zygote—dreams

the weight of the yoke across his back—

the whittled ribs and lungs thick with sawdust

The Minotaur dreams himself a zygote, formed half—

half formed—no—malformed out of aberrant desire

hammered into life by Daedelus—shortsighted bastard

In the dry trough of his birth canal the Minotaur dreams already

of retribution—dreams the sluice gate and the hot wash of shame—

dreams the broadax splinter and pulp

CHAPTER 16

But the Minotaur does not turn the television off. Nor does he move from his hunched and uncomfortable position, necessary for a clear picture. Rather, he sits bent forward on the frayed couch, his heavy head cocked and drooping, the thin muscles of his lower back taut and aching. Two other commercials follow Hermaphroditus, but neither registers in the Minotaur’s mind. When he finally musters the wherewithal to change the channel, once again, hapless fate or poor timing rules the choice.

The Minotaur clicks the dial once, twice. On the third click a blurred image emerges from the static. It is important to note that the bull is a color-blind animal. The Minotaur, however, is blessed with color. Only when tired or weary are his coal-black ocular disks unable to perceive at least the primary colors. But the bull, strictly defined, lives in a monochromatic world, seeing only degrees of gray. When the image of the matador appears on the tiny black-and-white television screen the Minotaur knows that the cape sweeping through the air and over the arena’s dirt floor in graceful arcs is red. He knows, too, because he has a man’s heart, that the red of the cape has much more to do with the psychology of the audience than with anything inherent in the bull—the bull jet-black but for one ragged patch of white like a cluster of grapes on its haunch, the bull enraged and pawing at the arena floor.

At each pass of the bull the audience roars in approval. “Olé! Olé! Olé!” drowns out the Mexican announcer and the brass horns and the drum. “Olé! Olé! Olé!” drowns out the huffing, wheezing and snorting bull, which cannot possibly understand that the picadors, high on their padded horses, drive the barbed lances again and again into the thick muscle between its shoulder blades to weaken its neck so it cannot raise its head without excruciating pain. The bull was bred for this: kill or be killed. With each pass of the sweeping cape the bull’s dark head brushes the brave unmoving matador, its horns seeking despite the pain, eager for any soft target. “Olé! Olé! Olé!” Each pass, each turn and each move are named. Even in the confines of the small television screen, even rendered colorless, the matador’s suit of lights—the beaded bolero, the skin-tight pants that define the contours of his muscled thighs and buttocks, that unabashedly pronounce everything male about him—is captivating, seductive. Even in the confines of the small television screen, even rendered colorless, the blood streaming from the pulpy wound on the bull’s back glistens horribly.

The matador prances. He stamps his feet and shouts to provoke the bull, which stands laboring for breath before him.

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