Apr 27, 2017

"I cut a deal with Mephistopheles, I'll win" --- This is heaven --- teaser (25)

A few more weeks, and This Is Heaven is available on pre-order. Here, here, the teaser of teasers, John & Alex breaking up---or do they?

Alex would take me to the debate in his car, and I shouldn’t worry, he’ll give me a ride back, if necessary. We didn’t have much time to talk, and he’s sorry and apologizes as usual, and perhaps we could converse in the car. He had some time to think. He needs to share a thought, just a thought.

Ambulance paramedic that he is, or was, he knows the shortcuts of Georgia Beach, and in particular the spruced-up bike path that shares the bridge with the Davis Canal and leads from the parking lot through the ghetto up to Georgia Avenue. So we are supposed to talk, but he’s sitting behind the wheel and doesn’t say a word. People sometimes do this, especially in movies when they want the audience to focus on their effortless silhouette-—the low bridge of his nose with the mildest snub at the tip (not enough for a snub-nose but sufficient for the boy-component in a big brother), the eyelashes which are a bit too long for big brothers, the brows, wide and elongated (each and every single brow-hair perfectly aligned (like he’s employing an invisible, yet acrobatic cat that licks them twice per hour)), the jaw, which isn’t macho but large enough to support the seamless definition of his chin lines, the lips, closed at the moment but wide and misleadingly sensual, his smooth Latino skin, the fitting ears that seem to know everything, the black hair cut short on the side according to the latest fashion (a strange feature in an α-personality otherwise dismissive of trendiness)-—then there’s the prominent back of the head segueing into a muscular neck, the shoulders of course that do the big-brother thing all on their own, the biceps (ditto), triceps (ditto), all of this very much in evidence with him in a green tank top that would match the color of his eyes if anything on the planet could match the color of his eyes-—we arrive at the precipitous drop of his torso along the pecs and abs and down into the groin where the perfect bulge in his shorts is always in evidence due to his-—what he calls his anatomy-—and wrap up with his hirsute thighs and his dirty, sexy sneakers hidden in the pedal space underneath. And don’t forget the big hands on the steering wheel.

He's always served out of line

“You’re beautiful,” I say.

“Why did you break my A/C?” he replies.
“Your A/C?”
“Air conditioning.”
“A/C? What are you talking about, Alex?”
“So you did break it.”
“It’s one thing I like about you, John. You’re not a good liar. And you are lazy. So you shirk it, lying. Had you left my A/C alone, you’d have said, ‘I didn’t break your A/C.’”
“Why should I shirk it, lying?”
“Because it’s more complicated. One creates an alternative universe one has to remember.”
“I didn’t break you’re A/C,” I say.
“Too late, Dr. Watson, the deed is done. Why did you break it?”
“Because I figured you wouldn’t be able to stand the heat in your attic and come back.”
“Why would you want me to come back?”
“Because you’re beautiful.”

We’re crossing the ghetto and he has his eyes on a bunch of black kids playing soccer-—all of them little Bens and Romeos. “Ben is beautiful,” he says. “And Maurice. And you, you’re handsome too. Ask Elsa. Your pad, the only thing not missing there is male beauty.”
“You fit right in, Alex.”
We’ve entered the downtown rotary and have to turn onto Columbia Avenue, but he continues on Georgia Avenue. He slows down, searching for parking space. Nearer to the beach would be hopeless, he says and steers us onto the traffic island opposite to the Lupo di Mare. We disembark. “The festival,” I say, “how about the festival?”
“They don’t need you,” he replies. “Today is by acclamation. You’ve forgotten?” (Yes, I’ve forgotten) “Let’s go for a walk on the beach. We need to talk.”

We’re trudging through the evening crowd along Georgia Avenue. He grabs my arm, lets go. “Okay, John, for the sake of argument…my physical appearance, or my perceived physical appearance—-that’s the reason you want me back?”
“Of course not.”
“What is it then?”
“You soul, Alex, I love your soul.”
“Ha,” he snorts. “You nailed it.”
We’ve arrived at the Dream Creamery on the corner of Georgia Avenue and the board walk—-the ruling ice cream parlor, and very popular with the confessive rainbow crowd. “Let me buy you an ice cream,” he says. He fumbles in his pockets and issues various pieces of paper, including some greenbacks. The paperwork is resorted and repacked, a medication bottle appears in cameo, a twenty dollar bill is found.

This is how the place really look in Rehoboth Beach, DE, the model for Georgia Beach

“What do you want?”
A sheep led to the slaughterhouse, a squirrel in love with a cobra, John Lee ditched by Alexander Iglesias, what do they want?
“Banana, stracciatella, and lemon,” I say.
“Good,” he says, exhaling.
“Good, why?”
“I can’t read thoughts.”
“You were trying?”
“Yes, I was. You were telling me I could read thoughts, remember. Glad it isn’t true.”
“Well,” I say. “Actually I don’t want ice cream.”
“Oh, shit.”

A sheep led to the slaughterhouse, a squirrel in love with a cobra, John Lee ditched by Alexander Iglesias, what do they want?

He proceeds to order anyhow-—he’s always served first, he only has to show up with his cat-licked eyebrows and is served banana, stracciatella and lemon.

He slobbers on the banana flavor. We're all set.

“You don’t want to live with a person that can read thoughts, especially you…don’t,” he says and hands me an already dripping ice cream cone. Anthropology books come to mind where you read about overextended natives that want to get rid of you and serve you too much food-—and if they don’t have it they order it at the Dream Creamery out of line.
“Did you realize you were served out of line?” I say.
“It’s your beauty.”
“We’re moving in circles, John.”
“If you want to ditch me, Alex, just say so. Don’t prolong the agony.”
“I don’t want to ditch you, John. I want you to ditch me.”
(There we have it. Das hohe Wort ist heraus (Richard Wagner). Tears now, mixing with ice-milk.)
He puts his arm on my shoulder. Passerby are ogling us-—doesn’t happen all the time that a gay couple is breaking up in mid-crowd on a touristy summer evening.

Like overextended natives he didn’t order ice cream for himself. I hand him the soaky cone.
“Why?” he asks.
“I don’t want your ice cream,” I say.
“Man up,” he replies, “you need to ditch me.” He pads my shoulder and slobbers on the banana flavor. We’re all set.
“Alex,” I sob. “Yesterday, only yesterday you were saying guilty sex is good sex. You were happy about Taylor, you were saying.”
“I was loaded.”
“We had a great time, you said.”
“It’s not about sex.”
“We’re in heaven, you were saying.”
“It’s not about metaphysics.”
“You loved me, you said.”
“It’s not about emotions.”
“What is it then?” I ask.
“You’re done?”
“Yes. What is it then?”
“It’s about my soul.”
“Alex, I love your soul, even more than…”
“…my dick.”
“Yes,” (sniff).
“You can’t love my soul,” he says. “There is none. I lost it.”

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