Plante was a fucking idiot but who could look cooler in a Yankees hat, turquoise walk-of-fame star earring, mohawk and no socks? Since April I've rated life's value according to whether Plante is missing anything having overdosed.
Tuesday night I had a blind date who turned out to be a princess. No choice but to take her to a salty, pathetic piano bar, avoid the beauty and the beast glares we'd get any of the usual places. Aged sixty with blue eyeliner, the waitress called me and her, 'Ladies and Gentlemen.' I ordered gin and a "Mr. Bojangles" from the piano. My lovely date wanted gin and "Tie A Yellow Ribbon." A piece of hair curled three times hurtling from her mannequin scalp to true rose lips.
Plante and me snorted smack for the first time two years ago at a loft party indoors from a hard summer rain. Leaning on the fire escape, rust stripes painted my white shirt. Raindrops fall on rat fur sliding off the oily slopes to the ground. Picked up a rat that night with tongs from a friend of a friend's kitchen. I held it very close and agreed with Plante that in the right light at a good angle, a rat's muscles are somewhat beautiful.
"You said you wanted to try it."
"They have some?"
"I scored."
"You do?"
That volatile ass on the girl Plante was after showed up. Loose pants worn tight, pantyline. She could not be talked into bed, it had to be an active thing like wrestling or miniature golf or swimming. Plante told her he came from a family of folk guitarists, Green politicians and white collar prison residents. Not a single girl before her refrained from biting hard on that lure.
It's Tuesday, Plante, and I'm out tonight with a woman. Plante, I'm allowed to look at her tonight. She sits across from me. I'll pay for dinner in cash. No laugh, but she knew I was making a joke when I said my swordfish filet's shaped like Australia.
A drunk old lady missing teeth approached me when my date was in the can.
"You know what I'll do if he plays that song?"
"Lady, I couldn't give a fucking shit less what you do."
"I'll dance if he plays 'Mr. Bojangles.'"
"Is that a rare..."
"Occurrence?"
"Well..."
"For a dinosaur like me?"
"You're not overly old. I'd join you if I wasn't here with someone."
"I was under a glass table watching young ladies jiggle in bikinis the first time I heard 'Mr. Bojangles.'"
"Me, too. So what'll you do if he plays it?"
"I'll dance."
"You're not doing this strictly for my benefit."
"I love to dance."
My date returned. The lady introduced herself with a stumbling hand movement. She had to steady herself on the table, Plante, and where'd she choose to put her hand down but on the edge of a bowl of peppercorns running off all over the slippery table and stained carpet.
"She says she'll jump around," I tell my regal date.
"Oh, like in Hopscotch," my heavenly rental returned.
"He means I'll dance," said the nuisance.
Plante dropped the phone. Downstairs, I waited to be buzzed up. He stopped talking, I couldn't hear his breath.
Plante, the drunken pianist did play the song and the woman did struggle from her seat and her drinks and her undeterred hormones. Then she began dancing, my friend Plante, she danced for us. I forgot where I was in her motion. I thought I'd call you. I thought I was missing you, wondered where you were, if you'd be able to hear my call over tunes or if you were about to come and didn't bother with the phone.
Graceful her dance, I think she learned her circular curtsey and shine many years ago, for handsome suitors, for a country with USO and easy enemies and opportunity and fresh fruit and migrants who won't stop until they have control of our media, pundits who taint our reservoirs with frugality, Dan Aykroyd movies and fluoride.
You should've seen the sweeping, swooping trail of this woman's limbs. I had a date Tuesday and when this old lady was dancing for us, I might've been emotional squeezing the thigh beside me.
She loved it, Plante you fuckhead. She swallowed wrong but recovered and seized my wrist. Looking at me, she asked me to let go of her leg. I didn't budge, couldn't be bothered. I was part of the dance. Couldn't really understand why you weren't there, but I knew you had no part in this dance. I did. Glad to be alive, glad to be alive, glad to be alive. My lovely date said she felt bad what happened to you and then she let me fuck her she said we were closer than she planned. Goodnight, she whispered when I walked her home Wednesday morning at five.
I stopped for twinkies at the store and watermelon slices. Sort of white and bitter, Plante.
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