Sticking It to the Man

I met you once.
I’m sure if you think back you’ll remember.
It was a white elephant party,
filled with the kind of women who
get manicures weekly,
their nails in perfect, unfertile crescents.
I didn’t even know you were an authoress,
but I liked you right away.
Your hair was truly insane.
As if a baby gorilla had run away from the pack
and hidden inside, refusing to talk to any of the other gorillas.

I stuck my hang-nailed hand into the fray
just long enough to grab a t-shirt
that said "hot stuff" across the chest
in swirly sparkly letters.
I’m sure it was yours. Remember?
I wore that t-shirt like a laurel
to my office Christmas party
where I proceeded to jab my dim-witted boss
in the thigh with a satay skewer.
I danced with the bookkeeper
to the Toto smash hit "Rosanna".
I think it’s mostly true what they say,
that white folks don’t have soul.
But on this night, I had it.
My arms were flying like hummingbirds,
my hips went round and round
like an industrial strength washing machine,
the kind that washes three loads at once,
my legs were buoyant as pogo sticks.
I was on fire!
Everyone was jealous, but I didn’t even notice.

The poor bookkeeper couldn’t compete.
As he started to walk away
I pinched his little button ass
and then pretended to be tying my shoe.
When he spun himself around,
I looked up at him with one eye
and said in a British accent,
"Are you flirting with me?"

The next day I was fired.
Now the days stretch out in front of me
like the Great Plains.
Each 24-hour period feels like Kansas or South Dakota
or, God forbid, Nebraska --
endless, flat, no one I know lives there.
I only shower every third day.
On other days, I haunt the library.
I can spend hours searching for books
Whose titles I make up.
That’s where I was, sitting on the floor,
scratching my eardrum with a well-sharpened pencil
when I saw your hair.
Your insane baby gorilla hair
on a book jacket.
I wept ecstatic tears when I read,
"It takes a strong spirit to liberate itself
from the empty promises of the American dream."
That’s when I realized the inevitable, invisible truth.
I was just like Joan of Arc.
A warrior armed with an oversized toothpick
and an unbelievable sense of rhythm,
lighting up the night like a UFO.

Looking for a Parking Space at 2 a.m.

I gasp awake at 2 a.m.
remembering that the street cleaning
machines, hulking
lumbering anteaters,
one of the new natural predators
in this city that once teemed
with wildlife,
would be snorting by
in a few hours and my bank account
can’t support another ticket.

So I throw on my sweats
and tear through my purse
looking for the keys.
I feel like my mother,
always digging in her bag, concluding
that what she’s looking for is gone
just before she drags it up from the depths
and sighs like the winner
of a breath-holding contest.

Having a car is good
even if you have to move it
in the middle of the night.
You never know when you’ll need
to be gone before the sun rises
end tables strapped to the roof of the car
and just enough room in the backseat
for the dog.

Unfortunate Demise

CHANTELLE CAPRICE was tragically thrust in front of an oncoming A train last week during rush hour. She was 23.

"Chanterelle Chantelle" is survived by her mother and father, a Jazzercise instructor and the Smoothie King of La Jolla, respectively; and her little brother, Maurice, a mall rat. She had no family in the tri-state area.

Known as "that wench," "devil spawn" and "homewrecker" by a select few, Chantelle nonetheless was a good friend to her co-workers, who regarded her as "cute" and "perky," a "mean guacamole maker" with "a lot of spunk." Although, some couldn’t help but note her little eyes. "Sometimes when I laugh, I can’t see."

A sampling of the songs found on the MP3 player that flew out of her hands upon impact and skittered across the subway platform before coming to rest at the toes of a man playing the Chinese violin, mournfully:

"If Loving You Is Wrong, I Don’t Wanna Be Right"
"Love Hangover"
"Magic Man"
"Celebrate"
"Girls Just Wanna Have Fun"
and Mariah Carey’s "Hero"

"He left his wife the week after they moved to a new house."

"What in the world does she see in him?"
"She thinks he’s a Robofox."

TO: Chantelle Clarice Caprice

FROM: Your Mom
VIA: Fax

Hi Honey-
Here’s your favorite sausage and apples recipe. Serve with toothpicks and some cute little napkins. No one will know it only takes five minutes. Good luck on your first party. I’m sure the gang (and your boss) will be impressed.

2 lbs. Hickory Farms Kielbasa, sliced
2 yellow apples, peeled and diced
A sprinkle of brown sugar
That’s it!

Throw everything in a pan on the stove and scramble it up till it gets a bit goopy. Yummers!

 

KATE HANLEY is a writer, editor, yoga teacher, and performer of odd jobs who lives in Chelsea. Kate was recently liberated from the confines of the 9-to-5 world, and is damn happy about it (although she would really like it if George W. would extend the unemployment benefits period again). She can be reached at katewhanley@hotmail.com.