port lachaise

Norma stood at the counter smoothing the fingers of her right hand
across the linoleum. Patting and pinching the growing bulge under the
apron tie with her left. Gazing blankly at the clock, high on the
opposite wall. Twelve thirty or near enough. The mind numbing
fluorescents flashing, barely perceptible on the worn, grease imbued
furnishings. An hour until the after bar rush. An hour until the place
would be thick with the worst sort of drunks. The drunks who never get
drunk enough. Who stop in for a feed before returning to wherever
people like that live. finishing off their night, always the last.
Sucking at half bottles of rut gut booze started earlier in the
evening. Playing and replaying remnants of their past lives on third
hand stereo systems. Waking their neighbors with moans and sobs. They
are the worst of all of the bottom end customers she deals with. Worse
then the pimps and the helpless addicts nodding off over endless cups
of coffee. "Scum" she muttered. Feeling the smooth countertop.

The Port Lachaise Caf? is at the bottom end of the worst street on the
wrong side of a bad town. One of those crippled, boarded up, shut down
places whose remaining population are holding on through sheer gut or
slipping away at the end of desperation. A town that by any thinking
mans estimation should be burned to the ground and tilled under. A
place that could only benefit from a toxic waste fill. A town so far
gone it no longer appears on the states charter as an area of concern.
It is of no concern. A place you have to leave to get a tooth
pulled.

Norma is the last shift waitress in the only eating establishment open
after eight Pm in this town of no concern. This is no comfort to a
women of thirty-six. Who never having been a beauty was losing the last
of her narrow appeal. Her hair has gone flat and dull. Gaining weight
daily, watching her ass spread into the periphery of her vision.
Counting now four steps, four rolls from her waist to her breasts when
she sat.

The sole consolation to a women like Nora. A slut, a tramp, the town
pump, a regular mattress back whore is that here in the Port Lachaise
Caf? she had her pick. From one am until two she could choose from a
steady flow of drunken desperate men to bed. A bleak pleasure, but one
that at times made her giddy in the afternoon as she again fantasized
about that perfect, only slightly inebriated Bo hunk, cocks men.
Slightly off track but good in his core. The one who would some night
wander in to make her feel like women again, or at least manage a
decent screw. Instead of the foreign smelling, sloppy drunk itinerate
she would eventually wake to.

In this badly lit white Formica and red vinyl room Nora had witnessed
every sort of debauchery. Had stood by to let play out acts of
depravity between humans barely qualified as such. Without spilling a
drop of coffee. She had been witness to and participated in acts of
violence, sexual and nonconsensual, so foul that her soul has been left
barren of compassion. She held on to disgust.

So calloused she has become that when this man lumbered in, pink of
cheek, to drop all of his gut weight on the stool directly in front of
her she simply handed him a menu. It being of no concern of hers if a
man wanted to make the rounds in shirt and tie but no trousers. Those
tight, soiled, white briefs cutting into sickly, sagging, pale, chaffed
thighs. Just another sorry case, just another night. She poured the
coffee and waited for his order as he tried in vain to adjust the
complicated comb-over swirled around the barren top plate of his
skull.

She pored the coffee and retreated to the kitchen. Lasaree standing at
the griddle mincing hash browns. The drunks loved their hash browns.
She leans against the sink, adjusts her falling breasts for the inth
time that night, and lights a cigarette. "Laseree, what do you think of
my tits". She casts this out and eyed him straight on. Arching her back
to give the fullest view of what were once an impressive pair of 36
c's. "Very good Nora, very big". He responded dully from over the
spattering grease. "yeah, fine" she had thought of taking Laseree to
bed many times. He wasn't bad looking. He seemed well built. It was his
face though, there was something pinched. There was a flicker of
degeneracy that she knew would be disturbing in daylight, morning
light. She knew Laseree had been up state, she suspected something with
children. Though This would often work into her fantasizes, she was
repulsed by the reality of it.

Through the order window the pant less one was studying the menu
intently. Licking his lips and whispering to himself. Shifting
expectantly on his stool. "shit" she tossed her but into the grey dish
water and strode back to the counter.

"You ready hon" she drawled in her best flo imitation. Emph, ah EEh"
he grunted. His face jiggling, fat cheeks and waddles separating and
colliding. "Eeemph, EEE hee" he cleared his throat. Pointing his dirty
stubby finger at the menu. Then looking her in the eye with his huge
paynes gray eyes, burning with fever. With lust. With hunger. " I want
Something with crab, lobster I want crustacean". Then a long "
eeeehmmmm". His soundings were barnyard, psycho ward, but his
pronunciation was sharp, clipped and educated. Nora was momentarily and
unexpectedly taken a back. Silently she looked into his burning eyes
sunk into the pink, quivering flesh. Then in slow motion his wet,
chapped lips mouthed "wine", "Any white wine, Pinot Grecio perhaps,
Eeeeeehhhmm". Nora placed her left hand comfortingly against her paunch
to collect herself. "This is a diner, what's on the menu dig".
"OOoooemm" the fat man shifted, fingering his red and white necktie,
tattered and thick with human grease. "The sign says caf?, a caf?
should have wine".

Nora narrowed her gaze to a stare. She had dealt with all types of
useless drunks. She forced her eyes away from his. "Burgers, eggs, hash
browns, and cheap steaks with fries, that's what we got". Squirming
again, fingering the elastic of his briefs, generating a smell that
penetrated the odor of grease. "Any salad, goats cheese type of thing"?
"No, What's on the menu or fuck off to the Ritz !". The burning in his
eyes intensified " Oh, the Ritz, they make a beautiful salad there,
with candied pistachios, lovely. They invented the Waldorf salad there;
don't believe any one who says it came from the hotel of its name.
EEEEEEEhhhh". He reverted back to his animal grunting and slurped his
coffee. "Are you ordering or leaving". Nora eyed the clock, coming up
to one, hoping something nice would come in. Like the time that German
or Dutch or whatever, he was all right. So clean no diseases, Barely
any smell.

"AHHH Emphhhh, cube steak". He found her eyes again now darker, slate
grey in a ring of red burning. He looked ill, ill and mad. She didn't
want to know. "Cube steak, how's that prepared, can I have a baked
potato with that instead of fries"? "No baked potato, fries". "EEEEow"
low, nearly inaudible but for the quivering of his lips. "I like a
baked potato, so comforting". Nora has lost her patience with all of
his gibberish. Leaning over the counter, hovering inches form his face
"what the fuck do you know about the Ritz, white wine, goats cheese or
baked potatoes"? It was a restrained yell, he could smell the nicotine
and tar on her breath, fell her spittle on his brow Eyes half closed
"the Ritz" he mumbled "Not the best you know, it has seen its time. But
I loved the ambiance, the formality, they just know how to treat a
patron, with , eeeemmmm, diligentence I suppose. Eeeeeoow". Another
deranged, another had it all lost it all sob story. No money just
words.

Nora snatched the menu from beneath the undulating chin. "You have
anything to pay for that coffee"? She had the desperate creep, had him
right. Should make him eat her in the toilet to pay for it. A thought
so disgusting it was titillating and set her nipples to stiffen.
"Money, eowwww" his hands reached out, claws, just in front of his
face, swiveled around and then plunged into the folds of his drawers to
produce a thick roll of hundred dollar bills.

For the second time that night, for the first time in her life Nora
was speechless, or nearly speechless, only able to mutter "money".
"Money ehmmmm," he held her with his eyes "Yes money, heaps of it. So
much, eeeeehhhh me a captain of industry". A deep feverish pulsing
around the iris's. "A corner office on wall St. over looking the
harbor. Helioooo-copter to my beach house. My monthly parking fee would
buy this" and he sputtered "caf?". Nora instinctively reached for the
coffee pot. So many bad nights of crazy talk. She could deal with this.
The fat man squirming again his face aglow, his eyes ambers behind the
dead gray. "My dear EEoWWWWW, your weekly salary wouldn't have
laundered my shirts". His fat little fist brought down with force on
the counter, made a plopping sound.

"god damn it". Slamming the coffee pot down near his hand. A plume of
thick, tepid chicory splashed against her face. Now on the verge, at
the edge of an unfathomabel collapse " If your so god damned rich why
the hell are you here". From this he folded visibly, his head dropped.
"Because of a woman" . "Christ" she frowned so hard her mouth looked
like a razor slit. Again with this tragic shit, she stole my
heart.

His eyes flashed up again to catch hers, the glow faded. "No, not
that", he grinned. The grin turned to a sneer "no women could touch me,
Eeehhhh, I was an animal". He prodded his sloppy gut, "I didn't have
this". He picked at the comb over "or this". For the first time he
looked at her with control, "a women I had never seen before".

He had left the office, 59 Wall St. on a blustery October afternoon
for a game of squash followed by lunch with some useless partner. At
which he intended to get drunk, and continue on for the evening. It was
a fine day, the sun warm, the wind blowing off the Hudson touched with
cold from Canada. He had as usual made a great deal of money. Win or
loose he profited. Coming and going he made it. Thirty-four years old
and he had the world by the balls. He could look at any one on the
street and buy them. Master of the universe is a clich? but fuck it he
was.

Walking towards the club where he intended to beat the living shit out
of levert. Feeling strong. Secretaries were rugged up prematurely,
looking forward to sweater season when they could hide the fat. Racquet
on point, daring any one to step into his path. He nearly fell into
her.

On the sidewalk, splitting traffic. Directly in front of him was a
squat, nearly naked, very brown, meso women. Standing dead still on the
sidewalk, starring fully into the sky. He was frozen, he couldn't
react, couldn't look away. She was positioned, wide hipped, tub like in
dimension. Wearing only a small red loincloth. Nearly invisible under
her over hanging belly. Pendulous breasts brushed her naval. Long black
hair hung in matted plaits over her shoulders, and caught under her
arms.

People flowed by in oblivion. No one else seemed to notice. It was
only he. His body seized, but his mind functioning fully enough to
realize how pathetic this must look. Staring at this Neanderthal who
was in turn starring into the sky. Staring dead into the sky and
rubbing a wooden bowl. Just rubbing this flat wooden bowl, rubbing and
turning it.

He started to get himself together. His left arm loosened. He took
possession of his legs. Had regained after some time the understanding
of movement. Gathering all of his strength and concentrated on pushing
by her. His left leg made a trembling baby step, followed by a jerky
right shoulder when he was nearly blinded, scorched from head to
toe.

He didn't make it to the squash game that day. Or to lunch, or the
office ever again. He eventually found his way back to his apartment,
mostly through touch. His eyes were full of white blue light. He lay on
the floor for days after in the dark. Regaining his vision, letting the
burnt skin heal against the cool marble. Sick in his soul.

Aside from the physical effects of that flash there was, more
debilitating, moral disruption. Everything that he had once known to be
good and true seemed sickening now. Everything he had worked for all of
those years. The contacts, contracts, mergers were sullied. He now saw
in clear lines the ramifications. The factory closing, unemployment,
homelessness. He saw his role in creating the welfare state. The
unmatched prison population. The impoverished girl dying in a sweat
shop fourteen hours a day in some disease infested country. The
deforestation, pollution, all of this hippy dippy nonsense was, to see
it, horrifying. Became all encompassing, it was vital. This because of
what he could picture clearly in his mind but never actually saw. That
huge ball of fire that burst from that little brown tubs mouth.

The bell above the door chimed. Two sour, staggering drunks poured
themselves through in a tangle of limbs. Nora was brought back to the
Port Lachaise caf?. She flicked her eyes away from the burning gray
eyes of the speaker and caught the clock. One ten, damn now she was
going to have to really hustle her ass. "Son of a bitch", she spat in
his face. "Waste my time with this shit, waste my fuckin time. Pay for
your coffee and get out". Her head making a little involuntary
revolution to emphasis the point. He was slumped forward, shoulders
bowed. Sweating from the effort of retelling the story.

"Nora, what about my steak, EEEEEhmmmmm, my steak, Nora what about my
steak eeeehhh". She ignored him, moving to the booth. His voice was raw
and rising in pitch. His eyes stoking up to the point of combustion, no
white, dead grey and fierce, hot orange.

The drunks had fallen into a booth. Nora quickly, expertly made her
assessment. Dirty yes, young enough, one seemed to have the majority of
his teeth. Too drunk to do any good. "What about my steak Nora eehhmm".
She spun by him with menus and hissed, "Get out". He was squatting now
on the stool, grasping at the bottom of the seat with his stubby hands.
His chin on his gut. The tendons showing on his dirty, skinny legs
where they doubled at the knee. "What about my steak Nora!". She tossed
the menus on the table "coffee for you boys"? "What about my steak
Nora! Eeeeehhhhhmmm?" He was shaking on the stool, which had started it
revolving slowly with him crouched atop. His disfigured toes digging in
to the vinyl cover. Spittle flew from his mouth and saliva ran down his
chin, soaking the tight collar of his shirt where it bit into the neck
fat. "What about my eeehhhh steak Nora eeeemmmm what eeeee about ehhhh
my steak eeeeehhhhhh". "Shut up" She had lost it the sight of him
spinning and yelling his ridiculous tie streaming with drew put her
over the edge. Turned and screamed at him "shut up". The drunks, blank
faced and sallow, looked on with slow comprehension. Maybe a lovers
spat their dulled minds thought in unison. Nora turned back to them,
tried a nervous smile, her coffee hand trembling. "Then what about
this". His voice had the resonance of a thunder blast. She kept her
back turned, she refused to look. He threw his head back. Long gray
hairs loosened form the structure of the comb over spiraled around his
face. The stool, turning faster, started to creek. Neck fat bulged, his
head trembled. The drunks were caught by the full force, staring
directly into it.

A group of three neighborhood regulars staggering on the pitted
surface of Water St.. Homing into the caf?s neon. Watched in confused,
amazement as the interior of the old place lit in pure blue. Seconds
before a ball of fire tore through the roof, disappearing gradually
into the sky. Still unsteadily staring at the debris strewn across the
walk and into the street when the fat man rolled out the front door.
Disheveled and pant less as well, one noted.