::::::::::::::
::::::::::::[actually
written in October in a one-hour sitting for a
fiction contest (1000 words, must feature 'hair')
for 'Bold Type'::::RandomHouse's website...
winner to receive a reading of a manuscript by an
editor at RandomHouse... but alas, seems the
story wasn't selected...]
Harry
doesn't wanna go see 'Hair,' but Rita had
harassed him. He is bald with the fever of
not knowing what to do, undressing without
knowing what he is going to wear::::other
than his camel hair coat.
Rita shaves her
underarms::::the sting of deoderant::::does
it really blow holes in the atmosphere? In a
moment she's in the shower. Absurd. In a
moment water up past her toes::::hair in the
drain.
No one is asking to
forgive the rat who gnawed the rope which,
gnawed, dropped the cellar door right down on
uncle Earnest's head. She thinks of him
because he had waged this endless battle with
losing hair. He's there in the shower with
her. His hair. The hair of his ghost.
They somehow manage
to get dressed in the same room without
noticing each other. Thank god for ready-made
hair, she thinks, raking her fingers through
once.
Turn out the lights.
Lock the door. The elevator ride is boring.
But it's a stunning night, and a cab is right
out front.
The driver doesn't
even thank Harry as he pays and tips. Thinks
how Harry is the luckiest man alive::::beautiful
wife, beautiful coat, going to a show. That's
entertainment.
Everyone's a human
being. That once lively little girl right
this instant hunching down in a covered dirt
hole under her house::::wiping the tear-stained
black strands from her face::::as
fearlessness::::she, my cousin's child::::I
forget her name. And here I am driving slop
while my countrymen are being slaughtered.
Wait::::This is my land. I had lost
everything. I now have lost everything. I
lose everything::::even my religion::::isn't
that a pop song here?::::all I care about,
think about and desire, is that last fare's
camel hair coat. What if America were to stop
beating her, say sorry::::we were angry::::lost
control::::don't know what got in to us::::it
was wrong::::please forgive::::if you want
we'll go to therapy::::anything::::we'll do
anything::::but please let us remain part of
the human race::::we can't live without you::::begging
you::::we'll change::::we swear::::we'll make
everything better...
Tomorrow::::after my
day-light sleep, deal with the black eye::::then
must go down over to 'Ali Barber's' and
discuss this with Bajram.
::::::::::::::
©2002 wfairbrother
|