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rush away, angel
after six years in the French Foreign Legion, I’d had it. one night I put on
the civvies I had stashed, & I started walking. I wore thru two pairs of
boots before I’d walked far enough, & I would have run across the ocean
if possible. Jesus walked on water, but I didn’t have the pedigree for it, so
I wrangled an executive position on a tramp steamer. the pay wouldn’t
support a girl scout on a saliva diet, but it got me out of the Port of Bayonne.
six months later I was living in a dive in L.A. I hung out at a pink neon strip
joint, getting free drinks for helping Tommy the bartender toss out unruly
johns. & I would watch Rayne, as she twirled around the pole, her fiery hair
trailing behind like the exhaust from a girl-shaped flame-thrower. she was
attracted to the unfading desert tan I’d acquired during my Legion service.
turns out, we were good together. it wasn’t just a quickie when we did the
horizontal tango. it was much deeper, a place there’s no name for, because
most people never get there.
real soon, we were introduced to a stranger called love, although he changed
his name when he moved to our neighborhood. we didn’t question it, we just
selfishly snared it in our stone-washed libidos. when you feel that good
without liquor or dope, you don’t let go.
the world was suddenly a candy-apple circus, & I was the ringmaster. & I
prayed. prayed that it would last a little while, like maybe a hundred years.
needless to say, the prayers of a bum like me hold no weight whatsoever.
one night I came home & found her packing. she told me her story. She
met an agent who was taking a few girls to a top-notch club in the Mexican
Riviera, & she was invited. then she held me tight, her tears starting up like
a busted faucet. she said, ‘if you want me to stay, I’ll stay, baby. f*ck that
guy. just tell me to stay & I will!’
could I let her pass up a golden gig like that? I told her to go. I told her
whores like her were a dime a dozen. I’d have another one here before the
sheets were cold… then I turned & walked to the window. I couldn’t let her
see me cry.
as she walked out the door, I had one last, lousy thought – of all the hearts
in all the bums in all this broken down world, she had to fall into mine…
[apologies to the writers of 'Casablanca.']
Published 26th May 2013
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26th May 2013 10:16pm
Speaks so much this piece John, my conclusion at the end, is men are damn fools.
Great write. :)
Great write. :)
27th May 2013 00:19am
Digging the noir as always, John, with such cool hard boiled lines as "the pay wouldn’t support a girl scout on a saliva diet" and "when you feel that good without liquor or dope, you don’t let go." Nice job
27th May 2013 5:06pm
Great story. Third and fourth stanzas/paragraphs superbly show the transition from commonplace desire to love.
Anonymous
1st Jun 2013 11:43pm
Your last line, [apologies to the writers of 'Casablanca.'] added more dimension and meaning to your writing. I liked that you did that.
I also wanted to say I relate to what you say in some of your writing, felt on a metaphysical level. Unfortunately, you wouldn't understand. It's strange how I relate to your words on a certain level, I don't feel inspired nor feel joy, but it has a quality that is certainly fascinating.
I also wanted to say I relate to what you say in some of your writing, felt on a metaphysical level. Unfortunately, you wouldn't understand. It's strange how I relate to your words on a certain level, I don't feel inspired nor feel joy, but it has a quality that is certainly fascinating.
