Feast! Pure Slush Vol. 9

by Susan Tepper

  I look about the room. There’s not a lot of gloriana about it, beige walls and odd tables and chairs and barstools, poets scribbling away on ripped up paper with nibbled-on pens. The bar looks like an old bamboo reception desk from a tropical hotel. And so does the barman behind it, face and neck shiny with sweat and eyelids hanging down over his eyeballs.

  Eve pushes the plate towards dreadlock guy. “Have an Anzac.”

  “Don’t mind if I do,” he says, picking one off the plate. He bites into it and the bite snaps off in his mouth. “Yeah, I’m taking a break from iambic pentameters,” dreadlock guy says, nodding, chewing, grinning. “Like a holiday but just for the weekend.”

  “Carolyn here’s from Adelaide, just sort of for the weekend too,” Eve tells dreadlock guy. “She’s just left her husband who’s a bank manager. She’s staying with me trying to get back in touch with Life, hey.”

  “Mmm, Adelaide,” dreadlock guy says, popping a stray crumb in his mouth with a finger.

  His face is tanned and his blue eyes twinkle when he breaks into a smile. He must be in his late twenties but it’s hard to tell beneath the tan. His skin is leathery and dusky and dry. Maybe he’s so chilled out he doesn’t need to shower.

  Dreadlock guy swallows and says, “Mmm, great Anzac.”

  He puts the hash Anzac down on the bar and picks up his glass again.

  “It’s our grandmother’s recipe,” I say.

  I sip my bush lemonade, served in a bamboo flask with a paper straw. (Dunno what bush lemons are, but bush lemonade tastes just like normal sugary and sour homemade lemonade to me.)

  “Well, it’s Grandma’s recipe without the hash,” I add.

  “What is it about you people from Adelaide, hey?” Eve says, but she turns to dreadlock guy and shrugs her bare shoulders, tossing her hair again. “It’s like you’ve all had the adventure bred out of you.”

  I smile – well, my mouth turns up a little at both edges. “How old were you when you left Adelaide, Eve?” I ask.

  Dreadlock guy tilts his glass in my direction. “Don’t knock Adelaide,” he says. “I’ve had some great times in Radelaide.” And smiling at me, he sips his drink again. And then, putting his glass back down on the bar he says, looking at me, “That’s a beautiful sarong you’re wearing.”

  I peer down at my cleavage, which is nowhere to be seen, entirely hidden by the faded green and yellow fabric. The knotted ends of the sarong digging into the back of my neck are giving me a neck ache.

  “Yeah, it’s mine,” Eve says. “It used to be my lucky sarong but I had to trade it in for this one.” And arching her back, she sticks her breasts out and sticks her bottom out and somehow still manages to stay upright on the barstool. “Exactly the same fabric, just brand spanking new.”

  Eve’s bangles jingle on her arms as she claps her hands together right beside my ear. (I almost jump off my stool!) A man in a heavy brown t-shirt and black shorts stands on the podium set up in the back corner of the Gloriana Room. He bends towards the microphone but the first sound out of his mouth is silenced by the CCCRRRRRRR!!!! of screeching grating metallic feedback.

  I clap my hands on my ears, as brown t-shirt guy steps back a little and says, feedback-free, “Whoa.” And then, deep and throaty, he adds, “I’m the Pyjama Poet. But most people call me Rocket.”

  “Oh yeah, Rocket,” Eve says, not really to anyone.

  The crowd – about twenty, hard to tell just how old they are because they all look like dreadlock guy, dusty and brown and leathery – clap their hands above their heads. Eve cups her hands and Whoop Whoops at the ceiling and her bangles jingle again. Dreadlock guy grins and nods some more as he swallows the last of his third hash Anzac.

  “This is a poem I wrote called The Orgasm Big Enough for Two,” the Pyjama Poet / Rocket says, then he grunts into the microphone.

  I reach into the bowl of Nimbin Nuts. Biting into a brazil nut, all I can really taste is the curry powder coating my tongue.

  “You can call me Nesbitt,” dreadlock guy says. His eyes are red and his nose is red and his lips are green (from that weedkiller drink). He sticks his hand out and I shake it. It’s like a wet fish in my palm.

  “Okay,” I say, though I’m not sure if that’s his name or he’s just making it up. Or maybe he meant his hand is called Nesbitt. Maybe he has a talking hand and it’s part of his poetry act.

  “This is a poem I wrote called The Orgasm That Saved the World,” the Pyjama Poet / Rocket says, still standing on the podium. Then he grunts into the microphone again.

  The crowd clap their hands above their heads again and Eve cups her hands and Whoop Whoops at the ceiling again. Her damn bangles jingle. Then she turns to me and through the bright green and yellow fabric of her sarong, rubs her fingertips against her nipples. “I think I’m going to fuck him,” she says.

  I look at her. I don’t know what she wants me to say.

  “I bet no one ever does that in Adelaide, hey?” Eve asks.

  “Does what?” I ask, though I don’t know why, because Eve is looking at Nesbitt now and Nesbitt is looking across the crowd at the Pyjama Poet.

  I reach into the bowl of Nimbin Nuts. There are only peanuts left – I’ve eaten all the other nuts – so I chew on some peanuts and that’s when I see Nesbitt has his hand down his shorts. And his other hand is stuffing another hash Anzac in his mouth.

  “Yeah,” Eve says, looking from Nesbitt to me and then back to Nesbitt and then at the poet on the podium and then back at Nesbitt. “I’m definitely going to fuck him.” And then she looks at the poet again and then out of the corner of her eye, she glances at Nesbitt. “Definitely, right after his last poem.”

  I ferret in the bowl of Nimbin Nuts. There’s one brazil nut that looks a bit dodgy – green and furry, even through the curry coating – so I grab a handful but push the bad nut aside. I toss the rest into my mouth.

  Nesbitt stuffs another hash Anzac into his mouth, whole. Luckily, his mouth is wide enough to take it. And he still has his other hand tucked inside his shorts. Which looks like it’s drumming something but I can’t really tell because I’m not a drummer.

  Eve steps around me and grabs Nesbitt by the shoulders. Her fingers push down, down, deep into his muscles.

  “Ow!” Nesbitt says, but he just sits there anyway, hand in his shorts, as Eve stands behind him, kneading his body, bangles jarring.

  “I really need to fuck that poet,” Eve says, her eyes dark as she works her thumbs into Nesbitt’s neck. “But I need to work off this tension too.”

  I grab at the Nimbin Nuts but there’s nothing to grab except the dodgy brazil nut. I peer into my bamboo flask but yeah, I drained it of bush lemonade a while ago.

  The Pyjama Poet steps away from the microphone, but a beat later he’s back up there and speaking again.

  “This poem is called The Big O,” he says. “But it doesn’t stand for Orgasm … it stands for … Opening.”

  Eve stops kneading Nesbitt’s shoulders to cup her hands and Whoop Whoops at the ceiling again again and the crowd clap their hands above their heads again again.

  “Oh God,” Eve groans, “he’s making me so wet.” She shakes her head loose, and the white flower falls from behind her ear, onto Nesbitt’s shoulder and then drops to the floor.

  Nesbitt giggles. “The Pyjama Poet has a big cock,” Nesbitt says, looking down at the white flower, beside my foot on the floor. “I saw it once, in the toilets.”

  “Yeah,” Eve says, as her fingers knead. “Rocket.”

  Nesbitt titters. His green lips are wet with saliva and he grins, his tongue covered in hash Anzac crumbs. He swallows. “That’s not why they call him Rocket.” He slips forward off his barstool. “I need a piss.”

  Eve reaches into the Nimbin Nuts on the bar and grabs the only nut left, the dodgy brazil nut. She screws her face up at the taste but chews and swallows anyway.

  “Nabisco’s yours, if you want him,” she says. She stands, pelvis thrust forward, hands
on her hips. Together we watch Nesbitt weave his way through the crowd, towards the toilets.

  “He likes a bit of Adelaide,” she adds.

  “His name is Nesbitt, I think.”

  “Well, he’s yours,” she says. “Jeez, too stoned to get a hard-on while I’m massaging his shoulders and talking about getting wet.”

  I nod. I don’t know why though. Maybe it’s the Nimbin Nuts making me do it.

  Eve cups her breasts with her hands and she shakes her head loose again, red frizz flying as those bangles screech. She does this so often it’s getting kind of annoying. Maybe it’s a tic.

  “I’m gonna get me some poet,” she says, wiping the curry powder from her lips on the back of her hand. “Don’t wait up. You could be back in Adelaide by the time I get back.” And she steps away from the bar and into the crowd.

  6.00am

  Berlin, Germany

  6.00am Feed

  by Claudia Bierschenk

  He’s made his body from mine. He’s got perfect little fingers, toes, eyelashes, and earlobes. And in the two months that he’s been in this world, he hasn’t eaten anything that didn’t come from within me. I am his only source of food.

  12.10pm

  Donnybrook, Western Australia, Australia

  Café Tiffany’s

  by Allan J. Wills

  Two and a quarter hours down the track it’s lunch time. Each trip I stop in the same small town for lunch. I’ve tried all three of the town’s cafés and the bakery during my many trips away. The bakery has good pastries, reasonable rolls and sandwiches but bad coffee. One café has good burgers, an excellent chicken Caesar salad and average coffee. Another café has average coffee but bland food. Now I lunch at Café Tiffany’s.

  I don’t stop especially for the food, which includes a tasty vegetarian selection and comes in generous portions, or the coffee, which is good too but sometimes tends to be a degree too milky. For some reason the owner has a thing about Audrey Hepburn. There are various photos of Audrey on the walls, all showing her beauty, gamine and chic and at the height of her stardom. There is even a biography of her among the newspapers and magazines on the buffet, bound in coffee table format with many photos from across her life. The blackboard menu boasts all-day breakfasts. Maybe the owner of the café is named Tiffany and is playing on Breakfast at Tiffany’s. It’s a hypothesis. The facts are likely to be much simpler. I guess I could ask the cashier sometime, but that doesn’t matter so much to me. I stop there to see one particular photo of Audrey. Having a pleasant lunch too is a convenient extra.

  I order the Quiche Lorraine and a mug of coffee and take a seat opposite the photo while waiting for the food to arrive. In the black and white portrait Audrey is in her mid-twenties and standing under what appears to be the foliage of an olive tree. Her arms are raised and frame her face. The photographer, Philippe Halsman, has captured the slightest trace of pensive vulnerability along with her beauty. Perhaps she has just discovered that Halsman has fallen in love with her. I have seen this expression somewhere else: on my wife, in the earliest days of my love for her.

  Audrey is long deceased. She’s timeless now, living only on film as Holly Golightly on the crazy quest of looking for her cat in the rain with Paul Varjak.

  When I first saw my wife in Audrey’s expression I felt a pang in my heart so intense and sharp. Now the fleeting expression captured in the photograph affects me less. It serves to remind me of the bond between my wife and me. Two and a quarter hours down the road from home I think of that and I think of her looking after our little boy.

  7.00am

  Bratislava, Slovakia

  Tripe Soup

  by Andrew Stancek

  David yawns. Another night when he’s slept no more than three hours, and the throb behind his eye is like a dentist’s drill. The rooster which used to wake him at daybreak now crows throughout the night and screeches in his ear.

  David runs to catch the streetcar, trips, the loose shoe catapults into the gutter but he grabs the rail and pulls himself onto the landing as the clanging streetcar gathers speed. He hates those brown slip-ons with the silly tassels and glares at the scuffed right shoe, lopsided in the downpour. He crashes onto the orange plastic seat. At work he has a pair of dress shoes and in the meantime, no one he knows will see him, barefoot. His toe throbs but it isn’t bleeding. His stomach grumbles. If he’d missed the streetcar he would have been half an hour late but now he’ll be able to stop in at the cafeteria on Sturova, grab a Turkish coffee.

  A man, maybe two years older than David, with his arm around a six-year old, moves his son’s head to stifle the giggles at David’s bare foot. The father shrugs apologetically, and David wiggles his toes for the boy’s benefit, who sprays snot in laughter. The rain pounds against the window and on a fence a sparrow shivers.

  Ever since Taia left he cannot eat. Yesterday he threw away the half-eaten wurst that had briefly seemed appetizing, then walked into a pastry shop for chestnut purée with whipped cream. But at the counter the thought of sugar revolted him and he scurried out clutching his stomach. He sees Taia’s scarf, her coat, her skirt twenty times a day, on every Bratislava street, but when he runs up, grabs a sleeve, another woman snarls. At night he drinks liters of sparkling mineral water, recites Halas and Seifert and pisses. His boss told him he looks like shit and stinks. David walks around the flat, sniffing for Taia remnants. In the bathroom, next to the nail file, he finds a perfume bottle with a few drops at the bottom, and he undoes the stopper and inhales. He screams from the diaphragm, just like his music teacher taught, years ago.

  If he loses his job he’ll have to join the homeless on the other bank of the Danube, by the bridge. He hates the pointlessness of checking endless invoices, but knows there’s no way in hell he can make it on the streets. He remembers being told that what kills the jumpers is not the drowning in the Danube but breaking their neck from the impact. He loves answers to odd questions but isn’t sure who to ask. Probably a broken neck is faster, more merciful. His friend Karol’s mom slit her wrists in the bathtub and Karol says that years later, he still feels blood on his skin after a bath. David shudders. And hanging, eyes bulging, tongue sticking out, pants full of shit – too grotesque.

  Taia said he was self-obsessed. David knows he’s the very milk of kindness. He offers his seat to seniors on the bus, helps a blind man across the street, joins the rescue team for a lost child. What she meant is that he doesn’t pay her enough attention. She needs to be the center, always. And David worships her but he is lost in his thoughts, and forgets what he promised and where he said he’d be. He looks up, notices a kite, wonders how it’s possible to catch the gusts and fly forever and suddenly he’s stood Taia up again. He doesn’t blame her for leaving, but doesn’t know how to change.

  He knows the sharp pain in his chest is not a heart attack. It’s a void – she ripped his heart out.

  The streetcar makes a right by the Carlton Hotel and stops. David hops off. He takes a few limping steps, decides he’s too ridiculous, kicks off his left shoe in a huge arc, watches it plop into a puddle. Barefoot is more sensible, even on cobblestones in the center of town. He drags his feet through puddles, the water chilling his toes. Forget coffee and a sweet, he decides, he’ll have tripe soup for breakfast, with an extra piece of rye bread, and a pickle, straight out of the barrel. They probably don’t have the schnitzels ready yet, barely eight in the morning. He pushes the door of the cafeteria open, is slammed with the sharp smells of frying onions, spilled beer, debreciner sausage. He shuffles to the end of the line-up of yawning workmen in grimy overalls. The woman in the green blouse runs up to him, grabs his cheeks between her meaty hands and kisses him hungrily. David is stunned. She breaks the kiss, slaps him, rattling his head. “Swine,” she spits. She runs out the door and David’s eyes follow the jiggling behind.

  “I’ll also need a shot of slivovica,” he decides.

  1.50pm

  Bridgetown, Western Australia, A
ustralia

  Talisman

  by Allan J. Wills

  It’s half an hour to where I’m going. The client is expecting me at 3:00 pm. He likes to discuss business over tea and homemade cakes, showing off his wife’s baking prowess. I’ll arrive early at this rate so first I have one more stop.

  In another town along the highway is a secondhand and antique shop. I call by there every couple of trips to check out new stock. I sometimes find an inexpensive gift for my wife. A man having an affair with another woman often attempts to reconcile his guilt by showering his wife with gifts. There is no guilt in my acquaintance with Audrey Hepburn’s portrait, yet I’m not sure why I buy these gifts. When I give them to my wife she scolds me for wasting money on useless junk. Gifts aren’t her love language.

  Once, I found a Synyer and Beddoes hallmarked silver match case engraved with my initials. What are the odds of finding something like that with your own initials? This time I see a pewter thimble with lucky horseshoe motif tucked away in the corner of a display cabinet.

  “May I look at the pewter thimble? The one there in the corner at the back.”

  “It came in an old sewing box amongst everyday things. I have better ones too, silver or porcelain.”

  Close up on my finger I see its rustic, home-crafted optimism, much like the ring from the crackerjack box presented to Holly Golightly. The sticker on the back says ten dollars.

  “I’ll take it for ten dollars!”

  “I mustn’t have put a high enough price on it,” the proprietor laughs.