Our Lady of the Streets
The city’s rectangular eyes towered over me. Banks and offices whispered to each other forecasts of my movements. They knew I was lost and trying to escape them. Where the city wanted me to end up was anybody’s guess. Probably the same place where everyone ended up, and where my family, transformed beyond all recognition, would be hungrily awaiting my arrival.
I kept my movements erratic, preferring the small-aired sidestreets. Stores leered at me. A sewer drain gurgled a recognizable melody, something sweet and sad, trying to lure me.
Then the one-way street dead-ended in a rockwall.
I yelped and fell over myself trying to escape. But it was too late: between me and the streetmouth was a little girl in a frock, with a rose in her hair.
If she was a real child, the streets would literally eat her alive—unless they killed her first. Not my problem though. I pocketed my hands and hurried past with my eyes averted.
But her fingers like five steel cables closed around my elbow, and I had no choice but to turn and look.
She was incredibly old, with a scrunched face and a single tooth. She had small confused eyes and seemed to have already forgotten what she wanted to ask. Then her face lifted off from her skull and smoothed out like a photo of a teenage girl uncrumpling, with eyes like tiny red lightbulbs. Then her entire head collapsed and reformed as a glossy black vortex grinding inward. I watched my own frightened reflection sucked in. She spoke, and her voice was like rusted machinery.
“You waaaaant to fuuuuck meeeeeeeeeee?”
I did not.
At her place she kept the lights off and played porn on her face. Was she trying to make it easier for me? Could something like her feel pity? Her bed was a wide and cold as a bay, and she was gently trying to push me down onto it. I thought that if I cooperated she might stay gentle, so I lay down for her, but the mattress was sandy and wet and strewn with trash, and pebbles and loose screws dug into my back. I winced and tried to adjust myself, but she was already climbing onto me, and she was heavy as a building. I felt crushed into place by concrete and steel, with the mattress foaming and swirling around my head. Slowly she winched her architecture down over me. Her face had split into a city square with flashing billboards. By now bridges lashed together my knees, and my sagging jaw was filling up with high-rises. Skyscrapers crawled all over my body and trains ran straight through me, carrying sleepy commuters that stared out from my torso bored, as if she weren’t out there bearing down on me like an infrastructural sky, all her vast cabled machinery bouncing hard and heavy on my radio tower. Up through the tower pulsed a painful red sun; inside was my screaming face. Then the sun burst, and a mushroom cloud as thick and brown as gravy rolled over her harbours and meatpacking plants.
I was going to be a father.