HEART MECHANICS: THE ANCIENT SERVICING OF BROKEN HEARTS WITHOUT MUCH SUCCESS
======================================
First comes the revelation. The blade in the back. It’s her birthday the next morning you wonder what thoughtful deed could surprise her. You know she doesn’t like surprises. She likes to plan. For you to call ahead. But you’re a spontaneous animal. You like French rap and rock music. She thinks it’s not real. That you do it to seem…like one of those people that like obscure nonsense. She lives in the real world. You live in daydreams.
But birthdays are for exceptions. You will surprise her at her place at night. And be the first to wish her good things. You will arrive bearing gifts, food, and drink. She believes in food and hard liquor. Not wine, wine is deception. Spirits send the demons away. She’s from a drinking home. Their men shed tears of gin and their women menstruate stout.
You arrive at her place late in the night. You want to be the last face she sees passing out of the old year. Most of which you’ve spent together. There’s a car parked outside. But you know her neighbors well. And you’re a car man, and that car was an uncommon sight. But what is it to you? You’re just a car man, who loves cars. And that was just a nice car. Much nicer than the bike that took you there.
You hear loud music playing as you walk up to the door. Sleek RnB. You wonder if the party started without you. Baggage in hand you shape your fist to knock. You hear a moan in the interlude. You know that moan. You know it very well. You know what it means. You don’t know sign language but if that moan was signed you could interpret.
Again, it slips out like an adlib. It becomes constant, rapid. The moan usurps the music. Your ear is glued to the door now. You run around back for visual confirmation. There through the crack in the window, you see a man with huge muscles wrestling your woman for an orgasm.
Now, you have her dead to rights. She cannot explain. No excuse. You sit at the door and wait for the man to leave. Steaming with anger but scared to interrupt. But he doesn’t leave and you’re stranded, so you eat and drink for your cache of edibles. And you fall asleep. When you wake the car is gone. And she is looking at you with shame in her eyes. You know what shame looks like. You confront her. Without revealing you have decided to forgive her. She doesn’t want your forgiveness. She’s done with you. You wish her a happy birthday and leave the leftovers.
Then comes the shedding. To shed weight many things are required. But you may only have some things. To cope you will require copious amounts of booze. And coitus. And finally, madness.
After this discovery, you are tormented for days. Everything smells and tastes like her. You can’t eat or sleep. You can’t pay attention in class. Not that you ever could but…EVERYTHING stings and burns. You start to sing in your room one night as you cry. Your neighbor tells you to keep quiet. You don’t. He barges in and dents your head with a fist. He has an exam to prepare for, he can’t afford to fail it again. You cry again. Much quieter, sobbing like a schoolboy. You start to scatter things. Some clothes fall out. You see something. It catches your eye.
Her panties. Her wonderful red panties. She never remembered to get them. You crawl towards it. And grab it like a hungry fox. Crawl back into a corner and then you smell it. You rejoice. You rejoice because it is not clean. It has all of her sweaty essence laced on its lace.
One night you take a stroll in the dark. You stop by a joint. You drink all the types of alcohol till a rainbow of drink is projected from your insides. It becomes your life. Drinking and puking. Some nights were alright. Others you fall asleep in unfamiliar gutters that flowed. A drunk should know his gutters. Some nights you wake up choking on your own vomit. Some nights twice, thrice like a snooze alarm.
Some days you hunt in the area chasing stray dogs for fun. With sticks, with stones, with words. You find a cat and crush it. You race a 10-year-old on the street for money. You slap him when he wins. You pee on yourself because your trouser is on the wrong way. It begins to soothe you. The self peeing. You learn to backflip in the fields. You land on broken glass. It reminds you of your heart.
Other nights are for clubbing. You meet a girl named Pamela she doesn’t know how to dance and she is the most hideous of her friends. You tell her not to hide her hideous face. She has never felt that much kindness. She decides to have sex with you. The sex feels like you sandwiched your penis in a washing machine designed like a spinning red hot toaster. But you are not in the position to complain. So, you rinse and repeat, with other Pamelas. And some Justinas. A Justina is a girl with a respectable backside, she doesn’t talk a lot. You don’t either. You exchange your fluids and shake hands.
And now it burns when you pee and you drink a lot and pee a lot. Some days you wear HER panties just to feel close to her once again. You wear it to class and it feels uncomfortable. But comfort is a luxury and you are no Hushpuppi. You are Ramon. You need to be Ramon because that is how you exorcise those demons. By being rugged.
You see a Justina on your way to class and you get an erection. The bikeman feels it warm on his back. He raises questions. You try to adjust and tip the bike over. You fall and bruise your knee. Your chinos rip from the back. The pant string is wedged firmly in your ass crack and you feel the wind blowing. You feel it before everything goes black.
You wake up in hospital. The bikeman is pronounced dead you are told. You laugh. They ask why. You say he should be pronounced bikeman. They wonder if you suffered major injuries to your head. They take tests. You look down and see the coverlet. And the bedbugs racing over it. You trace your penis like a phone thief in Sabo. It’s intact. But the panties are gone. You begin to cry again. 5 months you preserved those panties. The last thread of your sanity. Somehow you know you are finally free. But you don’t want to be free of her.
