May 16, 2010
Lola Does Not Get
Flash Fiction Fridays: Get Hip.
It wasn't how fresh the air was that first drew you, hell there's been a cigarette attached to your lips all-day, every-day since you were seventeen. Your decision to fly down the pock-marked serpentine road at those ungodly hours was more of a push than anything else. A push from the city's putrid innards. Although you couldn't recognize fresh air if it sat on your face and jiggled, you knew that the city stank to high heavens of malfeasance. The odor seeped into your clothes, and your pores reeked of the violence that only concrete and steel pressed men are capable.
Lola's bright eyes burrow into the side of your skull as she fiddles with the edges of her mammoth Virgo earring. The breeze from the open window plasters her hair onto her face but you know that the corners of her sweet lips dip low in vexation.You ease your car into a lower gear and pull onto the lonely stretch of tree-lined asphalt that cuts across the peninsula. The only life you see here is the occasional jogger or biker out for serious solitude. There is a cove at the very end, where other city dwellers bathe and watch the sun dip behind the cottony shadow of the Venezuelan coast. Lola? She doesn't care.
"I wanna see it Ernesto!" she barks.
These bitches all want something you think; a prize, a trophy, a big bright shiny piece of your mind so that when they leave, waving their loot aloft, your cries of despair are really just the howls of a loon. The air in the car shifts and you feel her change tactics. You ease on the clutch as a hump breaks the tarmac and glance over to peep the Betty Boop eyes next to you.
"Please Ernie," she coos. "Let me in."
And in the waning light of the sun, her velvet dark skin calls your name in tongues you are unable to discern. She knows what she's doing. Maybe all the oxygen is making you nuts, but hood rats are not supposed to be this cute. You are thinking this, of course, as you make the U-turn to go find your little Nirvana. The spot you found last summer when the thugs beat Miss Gregoire right next door. The space where you sit and sift your weary mind till you can breathe again. The place where the peridot fronds bounce in time with your pulse. Where you cradle your last connection with the One.
The cheshire grin that cleaves her face is almost enough to make you spin another big U in the road, but you see the glint of an oncoming car in the distance.
"Ah Loh Lee!" you sigh and resign yourself to it.
As the wide old Cadillac comes closer, it's hazard lights flashing, you notice a man in front pedaling feverishly on an ill suited bicycle. His knees jut outward as his lanky frame folds uncomfortably on the tiny seat. The bike wobbles and his lack of balance is alarming. His face is a mask of some sort, undecipherable. All you can see is his merino plastered to his skin by the sweat blazing trails down his ribs. His huge flapping Airforce Ones make you think clown thug.
"Dedication," Lola says, and tilts her chin toward the hapless cyclist.
You bust a belly laugh right as you pass alongside the Cadillac and look up in time to see two big gold teeth staring at you from the back seat. Your eyes rove the face with the teeth and you are right... The jet black helmet hair, the tiny eyes nestled in a face full of flesh, the jagged ear lobe and the shilling sized patch where a bullet pierced jawbone. It's Ron 'Jingles' Jagmohan; the meanest, wickedest dealer in the west. The man whose turf stretches across the valley; whose caprice is legendary. Jingles who'd saw off your thumb and make you suck it like a baby till the shock wore off. Jingles who'd bury you alive and make it home for in time for din-dins with the grand kids. That Jingles.
Last week comes to you, you see the same car trundling down the road behind another hapless soul. Cheap weave stuck to her neck, and fashionable gym boots pounding the ground, you knew this trick was no athlete. Her fat ass bounced too much through her silver mesh dress, and the run was way too long for an unseasoned jogger. You thought something was strange. Jingle's Junkies, bound to that earthly nectar they can't live without.
You turn to watch as the biker stops to steady himself. A fat fist wreathed in gems bursts from the back window... keep moving! Jingles knows where his power lays... and so do you. As clown thug soldiers on, you arc your car in a wide circle and pass them again. This time, you can see the stone in his face as he pumps his legs. His mask is one of blind submission and you know you have made the right choice. You'd never bee a steel pressed man like Jingles or his slave.
Bitch could argue all she wants. You'd rather have your solitude... your escape from the sans humanite.
It wasn't how fresh the air was that first drew you, hell there's been a cigarette attached to your lips all-day, every-day since you were seventeen. Your decision to fly down the pock-marked serpentine road at those ungodly hours was more of a push than anything else. A push from the city's putrid innards. Although you couldn't recognize fresh air if it sat on your face and jiggled, you knew that the city stank to high heavens of malfeasance. The odor seeped into your clothes, and your pores reeked of the violence that only concrete and steel pressed men are capable.
Lola's bright eyes burrow into the side of your skull as she fiddles with the edges of her mammoth Virgo earring. The breeze from the open window plasters her hair onto her face but you know that the corners of her sweet lips dip low in vexation.You ease your car into a lower gear and pull onto the lonely stretch of tree-lined asphalt that cuts across the peninsula. The only life you see here is the occasional jogger or biker out for serious solitude. There is a cove at the very end, where other city dwellers bathe and watch the sun dip behind the cottony shadow of the Venezuelan coast. Lola? She doesn't care.
"I wanna see it Ernesto!" she barks.
These bitches all want something you think; a prize, a trophy, a big bright shiny piece of your mind so that when they leave, waving their loot aloft, your cries of despair are really just the howls of a loon. The air in the car shifts and you feel her change tactics. You ease on the clutch as a hump breaks the tarmac and glance over to peep the Betty Boop eyes next to you.
"Please Ernie," she coos. "Let me in."
And in the waning light of the sun, her velvet dark skin calls your name in tongues you are unable to discern. She knows what she's doing. Maybe all the oxygen is making you nuts, but hood rats are not supposed to be this cute. You are thinking this, of course, as you make the U-turn to go find your little Nirvana. The spot you found last summer when the thugs beat Miss Gregoire right next door. The space where you sit and sift your weary mind till you can breathe again. The place where the peridot fronds bounce in time with your pulse. Where you cradle your last connection with the One.
The cheshire grin that cleaves her face is almost enough to make you spin another big U in the road, but you see the glint of an oncoming car in the distance.
"Ah Loh Lee!" you sigh and resign yourself to it.
As the wide old Cadillac comes closer, it's hazard lights flashing, you notice a man in front pedaling feverishly on an ill suited bicycle. His knees jut outward as his lanky frame folds uncomfortably on the tiny seat. The bike wobbles and his lack of balance is alarming. His face is a mask of some sort, undecipherable. All you can see is his merino plastered to his skin by the sweat blazing trails down his ribs. His huge flapping Airforce Ones make you think clown thug.
"Dedication," Lola says, and tilts her chin toward the hapless cyclist.
You bust a belly laugh right as you pass alongside the Cadillac and look up in time to see two big gold teeth staring at you from the back seat. Your eyes rove the face with the teeth and you are right... The jet black helmet hair, the tiny eyes nestled in a face full of flesh, the jagged ear lobe and the shilling sized patch where a bullet pierced jawbone. It's Ron 'Jingles' Jagmohan; the meanest, wickedest dealer in the west. The man whose turf stretches across the valley; whose caprice is legendary. Jingles who'd saw off your thumb and make you suck it like a baby till the shock wore off. Jingles who'd bury you alive and make it home for in time for din-dins with the grand kids. That Jingles.
Last week comes to you, you see the same car trundling down the road behind another hapless soul. Cheap weave stuck to her neck, and fashionable gym boots pounding the ground, you knew this trick was no athlete. Her fat ass bounced too much through her silver mesh dress, and the run was way too long for an unseasoned jogger. You thought something was strange. Jingle's Junkies, bound to that earthly nectar they can't live without.
You turn to watch as the biker stops to steady himself. A fat fist wreathed in gems bursts from the back window... keep moving! Jingles knows where his power lays... and so do you. As clown thug soldiers on, you arc your car in a wide circle and pass them again. This time, you can see the stone in his face as he pumps his legs. His mask is one of blind submission and you know you have made the right choice. You'd never bee a steel pressed man like Jingles or his slave.
Bitch could argue all she wants. You'd rather have your solitude... your escape from the sans humanite.
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