Barbarism


The Story of a Harassment that Turns into a Dance that turns into a Murder that Turns into a Royal Secret Swedish Courtship That Compensatorily Creates a New Generation Featuring Less than Immediately Debilitating Detriments
May 17, 2010, 4:55 pm
Filed under: REBECCA

5 AM I’m coming home, under bright gauzy morning light with a pastel cheese cloth consistency, an atmosphere that stupid people associate with ‘innocence’ as if people with experience are worthless.

Two squat men by the deli croak “Hey baby, you want something?” I’m tired and moved by the beautiful coloring of the sky and the soft warmth of the moisture in the atmosphere to try to Change Men by my Magical Femininity. I turn and say, with what I think is a sweet, maternal expression of understanding and strength in my eyes “You know, women really don’t like to be talked to like that.”

The two men pivot towards me in squashed-down concomitance like the Jules Feiffer Phantom Tollbooth illustration of Officer Shrift on p.61. With dead eyes and unspoken promises of what would undoubtedly be painful, woman-hating sex, they rhetorically question “You want something?”

Then, in a musical burst of righteous comeuppance inspired by my years of injustice, “Girls Night Out” by The Knife pumps out of the clouds and we assemble into synchronized dance moves with perfectly earnest harmony–the squat and bullying men, the young Yemeni deli men, me, a stray cat, the old Russian woman sitting in a huddle by the train. We are a perfectly assembled medley of simultaneous waist bends and knee raises, hip swivels and fist pumps, all athletic and asexual, or if they are sexual, deadpan and comfortable.

Through some alchemy that turns pain into raw murderous fuel, like mush into steel, the final crescendo or musical segment climaxes with a bloodbath at my hands, in which death is delivered to the Yemeni deli men, death to the undersized sleazebags, death to the crossfire-caught old Russian woman and the poor, undeserving cat; to all hindrances to the pastel early-morning cheese cloth light.

Walking home, on the Ocean Parkway malls, I see an unassuming blonde kid, watchful and lonely, loneliness-acceptant, with good manners and a sense of himself in the world. He comments on my blood-stained chemise and we chatter as only two young people can. Time passes. Communication. On our trip to Niagara Falls, he reveals his true origins as heir to the powerless but storied Swedish crown. We voyage. The House of Bernadotte welcomes me with open arms; my mom, too. Lingonberries. Diamond-encrusted ball gowns. Fir-dotted forests and thin, empty, snowy expanses.

Years later, when I’m Queen and my half-Aryan children have grown into big-hearted, street smart, noble-minded, honest, sensual creatures I spend my days draped in luscious white fur picking mini cranberries off dark green lanceolate leaves, sharp cold on my cheeks, warm, pleasant tightness in my chest. I click upon the glassy, opalescent floors of my palace in clear 90s platform heels, drinking thick, syrupy wine from gold rusted goblets and think to myself how lucky I am that I danced the dance born of a harassment that turned into a murder into a Royal secret Swedish courtship that compensatorily created a new generation featuring less than immediately debilitating detriments.

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