“Is getting a man easy for you?” I asked, “Considering your dead condition?”
“It’s never been a problem,” Jackie declared.
I gasped. The sexual possibilities of being dead had never before occurred to me, and I felt great relief, as when a burden is lifted. It was beginning to look like death was just another socially constructed reality.
“Men,” Jackie continued, extending her arm to indicate the world. “They’re all mine for the taking.”
“You know, I’ve never done this,” I said, meaning escort a dead celebrity on a tour through Mexico.
“What!” Jackie was incredulous. “That’s like claiming a virtuoso guitarist has never picked up a guitar!”
I took this to signify approval. We walked on. Up ahead I saw a red carpet leading to an auditorium. A crowd lined both sides of the street. People waved brightly coloured paper flowers in Jackie’s honour. There was Latin music playing and I wanted to fling off my hiking boots and walking shorts and dance. This is a far howl from life in the trailer park, I was thinking as we entered the auditorium.
Once inside we took our seats on stage. A short fat man advanced towards the podium.
“The President,” Jackie whispered, leaning over.
The President made an enthusiastic speech, gesticulating, shouting. I don’t remember what he said because I was too busy being dazzled by the cheering audience, the military guard posted at the door, the glare from the spotlights, my accidental place of honour seated on stage beside Jackie Onassis. While the president held the stage, Jackie cooled herself with a lovely embroidered fan and scrutinized the men in the audience, all of them looking like Southern gentlemen in their white suits and Panama hats.
When the speech was over we were escorted to a waiting limo, then left the city, driving for a time through barren countryside—dust and scrub trees, everything beige in colour, hot, dry. Eventually a battered blue van pulled alongside the limo. At first I worried about assassins and kidnappers and wondered how you could assassinate or kidnap a dead person. Was such a thing possible? And was this what I was doing myself? Then I saw it was my husband. He’d tracked me down.
“Stop the limo!” I shouted through the partition. Jackie and I got out.
My husband climbed from the van clutching a handful of papers. He was excited.
“The results of the Municipal election!” he cried. “I won! I won! I’m an Alderman!”
“I know how you feel,” Jackie remarked wearily. “It was the same for me when Jack … ” Then she sighed and pivoting on her heel returned to the limo. The driver climbed in the back seat behind her.
“Who was that?” My husband asked.
“Jackie Onassis!” I said. “Didn’t you recognize her?” When the limo started shaking I explained: “The insatiable dead are at it again!”
But my husband wanted to talk about his win. “I got fifteen hundred votes. Not bad for a twelve percent turnout.”
I was riveted. “Does this mean a new trailer?”
“Baby,” he said, “this means a double-wide with all the bells and whistles. A cement pad with a view.”
We stood there grinning, our double-wide finally coming in, hauling itself across the desert to meet us.
ATTILA THE BOOKSELLER
I ANSWERED THE AD: SWM likes to dance. Called him up (said his name was Jay), suggested we meet at the local cafe Tuesday night, something different, a performance poet performing. Free coffee and cookies, the place rocking with middle-aged angst.
He shows up, dark haired, pink-cheeked, somewhere in his forties, wearing a yellow plastic rape alarm attached to his waist. “I’ll be wearing a black turtleneck,” I’d said. Watch him approaching several other women first, also in black turtlenecks, fresh lipstick, clean nails. Finally catch his eye, wave him over; we shake damp hands. Tell him my name is Serena.
The emcee stands before the audience, says, “Thank you for coming.” Says, “Tonight we have from England, fresh from a cross-Canada tour, Attila the Bookseller!”
Attila comes forward, a small man, chubby, late thirties, wearing a black turtleneck sweater, black pants, black watch cap. Says, “Thank you very much it’s great to be here.” Says, “I’ve got books and tapes for sale after the show.”
Begins performing. Screams the word “vomit.” Shouts, “Libyan Students From Hell.” Shouts, “Love is like two maggots colliding at the bottom of a dirty pail.”
Jay whispers, “Excuse me,” and departs for the back of the cafe.
Attila grabs his mandolin, sings a song called “GRRRR.” Sings, “I’m a Rapping Mole from a Leaky Hole.” Sings, “Every time I eat vegetables it makes me think of you.”
The audience giggles, claps. A man with a grey beard yells, “Awright!”
Jay returns with coffee for himself and two chocolate chip cookies, also for himself.
Attila gets serious, wipes his brow, says he’s got something heavy to read, says he wrote it last week and hopes he can get through it, a poem about a young mother dying from cancer. He gets through it, voice trembling.
Beside me Jay is crying silently—wet cheeks, quivering jaw.
Attila picks up his mandolin again, asks, “Do you want to hear more?” Someone yells, “Go for it!!” And Attila reads: “Here’s to you the septic few, here’s to ’84 and ’5 when all our dreams took another dive … ”
It goes on for fifteen minutes.
When he’s done he delivers his pitch, shows us where his books are stacked on a table by the wall, thirty copies of a single title and tapes by the same name. Tells us he’s one of the few poets he knows making a living off his work. Says he’s been all over—Australia, the States, Germany—and he’s been doing this for fifteen years. Says he’s a dedicated man.
He’s selling books by the fist load; there’s a line-up at the book table. He’s charging twenty dollars for a sixty-two-page book that has a clearly marked price of five pounds on the cover. “One at a time,” he’s telling the crowd. “Easy does it.”
A woman in a wheelchair who’s been parked behind me leans forward and taps me on the shoulder. “You know,” she says proudly, “I’m also a writer … I wonder if you’d move these chairs out of the way so I can get to the book table.” She’s anxious Attila will sell all his books before she gets there. “Save one for me!” she shouts above the din.
I personally wheel her to the table. “Excuse me, please, make way…”
When I return to my table, Jay has gone.
I pack up to leave the café. By now Attila has sold all his books and tapes and is arguing with the emcee. Saying, “Can you give me another two hundred for the reading? Saying, “I know we agreed on the price, but go ask your Arts Council, okay?”
Dancing through the doorway by myself.
THE WHITE SATIRE
THE BRIDE’S DRESS WAS BEAUTIFUL. It was made of white satire and flowed about her in an elegant trample.
The wedding ceremony took place on a revolving stair and was conducted by the lead guitarist of a local rock group. Afterwards, the groom bowed and the bride did a ballerina curtsy. The audience was huge and everyone applauded. But the groom had had enough by