the Last Buffoon by Levinson Len

Author:Levinson, Len [Levinson, Len]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

At the door of my apartment I’m assailed by the odor of soap, ammonia, and perfume. My wife, in a mauve bathrobe, sits on the sofa, knees in the air, heels against her ass, doing her fingernails. When she sees me she jumps up and lets out a cry.

“What happened?”

“I got mugged.” I slam the door and snap all the latches.

She runs toward me and looks in my purple eyes. “How did it happen?”

“It’s a long story.”

She heads for the phone. “I’ll call Sidney.”

“Whatever you do, please don’t call Sidney.”

Her pretty brown eyes dart around excitedly. “But we have to do something!”

“We will do something. I’ll take a shower and go to bed, and you’ll be quiet like a little Argentine mouse.” I stagger toward the bedroom-office.

“Can I make you some coffee?”

“If I drink coffee I won’t be able to sleep.”

“Is there anything I can do to help you?”

I stop, turn around, and grab her shoulder. “Kiss me.”

She squirms away. “Don’t touch me.”

I continue to the bedroom and can’t help noticing that my apartment is spic and span. Maybe the cleanliness and order will help me think more clearly and improve my work. When I turn on the light over my desk, I notice that she’s dusted its top and rearranged my papers and materials. “Mabra!”

“What?”

“Get in here!”

She runs in on furry pink slippers. “What is it?”

“I thought I told you to leave my desk alone!”

“I just cleaned it up for you a little.”

“I’ll never be able to find anything!”

“Everything is right where you put it. I just made it neat.”

I want to murder her in cold blood, but my head is banging fiercely. “I’ll talk to you about this tomorrow. Please leave so I can get undressed.”

“I am sorry to make you upset.”

I point to the door. She spins and runs away. Everything is going against me all of a sudden — my ascending star has lost its momentum and is falling into hell. Undressing, I drop my clothes in a corner, take a fresh towel from a drawer and make my way past my fretting wife to the bathroom, where I turn on the shower and notice that the window hasn’t been fixed. That fucking no-good Shapiro. God, there goes my head again — I’d better think nice thoughts. I stand under the pouring water and watch my blood sacrifice drip down the drain. What have I done to deserve this?

When finished I climb out of the tub and glance in the mirror. Now I resemble my old man on the night he set fire to his girlfriend’s porch, and her younger brother beat the piss out of him. Undaunted, he went on to incinerate her car, just as I shall continue to write despite this unfortunate episode. A Frapkin may be laid low, but he never surrenders.

Normal toweling produces sharp pain, so I daub myself carefully, trying not to curse, trying to think of flowers and babies. I wrap myself in the towel and proceed to the bedroom.

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