Fresco

1.

Cheryl’s psoriasis gives her face the texture of a medieval Italian fresco that needs restoration. I can’t go out looking like this, she tells herself, peering into her bathroom mirror. The flickering fluorescent tube exaggerates her skin’s distress. I can’t begin my homeless career looking like a leper, even though I’ve already given away all my shoes, and most of my clothing, books and dishes.

But the end of the month has come. The landlord is already prepping the ceiling for painting. The only way she can face the world is to buy a Mexican wrestling mask, bright pink and green, and pull it over her head. Thus disguised and, in a halter top and tight jeans, she climbs onto the onramp and sticks out her thumb.

2.

I could not get my book published, could not defeat my alcoholism or overcome the sexual fetishes that keep me on edge and deprive me of companionship. I could not regain my spirituality, could not reconnect with my family, could not escape the subway system, could not begin to repay my debts or afford a lawyer to file for bankruptcy. 

I could not get a job nor an interview, could not fill out an application correctly, could not hold a pen, could not get Social Security Disability Insurance, could not find a church that has free food, could not find anyone to ask.

I could not escape the warlords who cast me into slavery, could not avoid the masters who beat me unmercifully, could not combat the illnesses that were the consequence of eating bad food and drinking bad water, could not escape the four noble truths, the continuous cycles of rebirth, nor my insect nature, could not escape my reptile brain, could not shed my skin.

I could not avoid the need for constant camouflage, could not escape PTSD, could not heal a chronic cough, persistent ulcers, chronic fatigue, diphtheria. The only thing I had left was my saxophone and my father’s Rambler, that I promised I would never give up. I found a credit card on the sidewalk and used it to fill the car with gas.

On the onramp was a sexy chick in a pink and green mask. I pulled over.

3.

That night I bought her a plush bathrobe, black with a pattern of skulls inside red hearts, because I had already fallen in love with her. I’ll love her ‘til Mr. Death slicks his hair down with this hair gunk that’s been sitting in this bottle since the 1950’s, which I found among my grandfather’s possessions. 

My grandfather is dead. He was irritable and mean. My grandmother is deceased. She was the angel who saved my life

4.

I used the credit card to buy a good camera. I was the school photographer in high school. I hadn’t shot a pic for decades, but it came back to me, like fucking or riding a bicycle. I pulled to the side of the road.

I photographed a bull begging for mercy. I photographed his unconditional acceptance of mercy or cruelty. 

I photographed my girl picking up a butcher knife. She was still in her mask and wearing the bathrobe I’d given her. The black-clad rabbis held her in awe. I photographed everyone in the world becoming enlightened, except us. The contrast was stark.

I photographed my girl’s soul leaving her body and coming back. The rabbis fed me pixels so I would never run out. I put my camera on the ground and stomped on it, like a Jewish bridegroom with his wineglass.

5. 

I photographed dark women, grounded as centaurs, faces copper masks, breasts sharp cones. I shot pale sunlight falling upon cobblestones. The stones became men again and rose to their feet to make a procession into the countryside. There they sunk trowels into the earth, and the soil exploded with peas. They touched dead leaves and tomatoes burst into being.

6.

We run out of gas. My girl never takes off her mask and never chastises me for my stupidity. We walk to the closest farmhouse. Her bathrobe drags in the dirt. The name on the mailbox says: Edgar Hotchkiss. We arrive at sort of a bad time.

The fact was: Edgar Hotchkiss was sick of his wife. Slender at first, she’d blown up to gigantic proportions and now resembled the hogs he put in his scalder, to scrape their hair off. His wife’s hair was bristly as a hog’s and her nose had grown to resemble a snout. Perhaps he’d heat up the water, he told me, and push her in, but he didn’t know if he was that strong. She might resist and he might be the one who ended up in the boil. 

I told him I knew what he meant. 

So while she napped in her chair by the stove, Edgar slipped a leash around his wife’s neck and led her to market, she protesting all the way, telling him how much she loved him and resisting with her great weight. His hard heart would not be softened. Edgar put all his muscle in it and dragged her along the ground until her neck was stretched and painful and she was forced to get to her feet.

They made the cattle market around two in the afternoon and Edgar presented her to the auctioneer, who found her flushed face and mountainous flesh to his fancy, and paid Edgar off without the benefit of auction. Edgar realized it was more than an auction would have brought, so everyone was happy, especially Edgar’s wife, who had been repressing her hatred and resentment of Edgar for decades. 

You’ll never be that cruel to me, said my common-law wife. 

Nor you, I, I said. 

Edgar siphoned some gas out of his tractor for us and we set off again.