Mark Leyner - My Cousin, My Gastroenterologist

i glanced out the window of the computer-run monorail at the feed store, the international harvester dealership, the barbershop, the county courthouse, and the domed tabernacle of the aryan nazarene church and then i looked back at marsha at the epicanthic folds of her Japanese-made eyes, at her olive silk pleated tunic and smoke-blue wool crepe pants and in the periphery of my vision i noticed a group of Caucasian hoodlums entering the car i think they were delinquents from one of the bad parts of Canada recalling the fashion of urban black youth of the 1970s who wore combs and afro picks in their hair, these Caucasian thugs took it one step further — they wore all their grooming implements and toilet articles they swaggered down the aisle with q-tips sticking out of their ears, strands of dental floss hanging from their teeth, and big globs of styling mousse on the tops of their heads they were apparently a gang of deaf Caucasian punks because instead of toting boom boxes on their shoulders, they each carried a letter-quality printer which churned out the lyrics of the songs they began to terrorize the women and elderly passengers i rose in my seat and stepped into the aisle you're dead meat, i said, slowly enough so that they could read my lips i'm the last of the great musclemen for 100 years musclemen ruled the u.s.a. a muscleman sat in the oval office, coconut butter slathered across his bursting rippling physique the senate and house of representatives and supreme court were filled with musclemen and musclewomen the mayor of new york city was an immense musclewoman—165 lbs. of steroid-scented beefcake garnished with a red bikini that marked her bulging latitudes like two rubber bands about to snap but then the engineers with their microchips and modems overcame the musclepeople well, i'm the last of the great iron-pumping vigilantes i cornered each one of those q-tip-sporting Caucasian animals and beat him with my huge fists until his face was a pudding of flesh and blood and his lower lip protruded stupidly from his mouth like the heavy petal of a summer flower

after freshening up in the monorail lavatory, i retired to the dining car for a bit of supper what color is your mozzarella? i asked the waitress it's pink — it's the same color as the top of a mennen lady speed stick antiperspirant dispenser, y'know that color? no, ma'am, i said it's the same pink they use for the gillette daisy disposable razors for women… y'know that color? nope y'know the pink they use on the wrappers for carefree panty shields? nuh-uh well, it's the same pink as pepto-bismol, y'know that color? oh yeah, i said, well, do you have spaghetti? well, what's spaghetti? it's elongated thin solid strings of pasta no, we don't have that, but i want to tell you, mister, that no matter what you order tonight you're in for a treat because our new chef was a texas death row chef what's that? i asked well, the state of texas is executing so many convicts that it's been forced to hire special death row chefs to accommodate the spiraling number of last meal requests — a condemned inmate being of course traditionally entitled to the final menu of his choice in the old days, when capital punishment was infrequent enough to be noteworthy and when death sentences were meted out primarily to the itinerant and impecunious, steaks or cheeseburgers with a side of french fries or onion rings, coffee, and pie а la mode tended to be the order of the day but today, murder, mayhem, random violence, heinous brutality, and wanton slaughter of innocent life is just as likely to occur in corporate boardrooms, health spas, tanning salons, and video clubs as it is in slum alleyways and backwoods motels this coupled with your gastronomic education in the public schools and wardens are finding themselves obliged to accommodate last requests for everything from coquilles st. Jacques and roast pheasant with chestnut stuffing to braised veal shanks, milan style, and cold sautйed trout in orange marinade electric chairs, gas chambers, and firing squads are working at such a frenetic pace that death row kitchens are sites of frantic raucous activity, with depleted items being constantly scrawled on the 86 board and waiters rushing in and out and yelling their orders: i got a steak au poivre, a stuffed sole, an order of fried zucchini sticks and cancel the bay scallops — governor's pardon… the kitchen lights intermittently dimming as power surges to the electric chair ads for death row chefs and death row sauciers appear in all the major trade publications and the Cornell school of hotel/motel management and the new jersey culinary institute offer degrees in last meal preparation students are trained in every aspect and nuance of death row cuisine including which wines more felicitously complement meals preceding death by firing squad and which wines more felicitously complement meals preceding death by lethal injection sounds good, i said, let me try that roast pheasant with chestnut stuffing we don't have that how about the cold sautйed trout in orange marinade, that sounded good nope, we don't have that what about those braised veal shanks? nuh-uh then why don't you give me a cheeseburger with a side of french fries, coffee, and pie а la mode thanks for your order, mister i took a long drink of ice water my bruised raw fists ached from the beating i'd administered to those thugs i slumped down into the vinyl-upholstered banquette my body was exhausted my head felt like a buoy, bobbing on the surface of the water i tried to forget my own exhaustion, my own pain, by eavesdropping on the conversation of a man and a woman in the adjoining booth and i concentrated with such focused intensity that during lulls in their conversation i could hear the secretions of their internal glands drip with the audibility of leaking faucets they were both happily married to their respective spouses, but they desperately wanted to have a love affair with each other unwilling to risk jeopardizing their marriages, they'd decided that on a preordained night they would meet in each other's dreams and that way they could consummate their passion for each other without actually, statutorily transgressing their conjugal vows they would make a kind of oneiric tryst they would have a sort of out-of-body affair they'd agreed that the day after this prearranged night they would meet in the dining car of the computer-run monorail to compare the delights of their telepathic liaison i don't think they'd been there long when i started listening where were you last night? the man said angrily what are you talking about? asked the woman well, all i dreamt of last night was sitting on the bank of a stream eating a turkey salad platter garnished with mandarin oranges that was me! exclaimed the woman what? said the man i was the mandarin oranges or i should say i appeared in your dream in the form of mandarin oranges — because they are sweet and tart and small and cool like me — i was symbolized in your dream by mandarin oranges well, this is very annoying, said the man, why couldn't you have simply appeared in my dream as you, like we planned? well… thought the woman, and then after a prolonged pause she said, well, you have some nerve being annoyed — where were you last night? the man squirmed a bit in his seat why, he asked, what did you dream? i dreamt i was lying on a beach blanket on an endless asphalt field in indiana, thoroughly basted with suntan lotion, reading lee iacocca's autobiography and a squadron of french mirage-2000 jet fighters kept flying back and forth above the field in tight wing formation the man averted his eyes sheepishly, that was me, he said, i appeared in your dream in the form of mirage-2000 jets… but i didn't mean to! i intended to come as myself well, said the woman indignantly, i certainly didn't mean to appear in your dream as mandarin oranges — i had every intention of appearing in your dream in the flesh! the man reached across the table and took the woman's hand in his i wish you had, he said softly this is the problem, said the woman, although we intend to appear as ourselves — we are apparently transmogrified en route into each other's dreams into encoded images or symbols of ourselves this is quite unsatisfying, said the man, how will we ever recognize each other? we'll simply have to assume that any elements congruent with those which appeared last night represent each other you're right, said the man, now i know that any time i encounter a garnish in my dreams it's you — every olive, every tomato slice, candied apple, parsley sprig, lemon rind, grated radish, and maraschino cherry — it's you! yes, said the woman, and i know that each time i discover an F-16 or a MIG-25 or a strategic air command bomber or a 747 passenger plane or the space shuttle or even a soviet SAM-7 surface-to-air missile — it's you… you and only you!