Steve Katz - Kissssss - A Miscellany

“Isn't that kind of wishy-washy, liked it and didn't like it?”

Sweat pressed out at his temples. He wasn't used to being taken to task like that for something he said. Susan certainly never did it, though they might have been happier at the end if she had. In this situation he was trying to be careful and correct.

“What I meant by that was… ”

“Oh my God,” her hand flew up to cover his mouth. “I can't believe this. Look, Otis—”

She couldn't believe she'd called him Otis. She so embarrassed herself; but he didn't know her former's name, so she let the mistake slide. “Look, Michael.”

As he saw her looking over his shoulder with her dark eyes widened that way and her lips drawn back, Michael was reminded that when he had first seen her in the computer class he had remarked to himself that she looked like a rat; and with her long professionally whitened incisors glinting in the coffeehouse track lighting she looked even more rodentine.

“Look! Look!” she insisted.

Michael thought it could be a trick — when he turned she'd make his Napoleon disappear — but he turned anyway. “Gosh,” he said, spontaneously. Rarely in his life had he ever said “gosh.” The two actors from Farewell My Concubine had just walked through the door. They were dressed in mostly western clothes, though they were made up as if to perform the play within the movie, one of them with a kimono over his jeans. It was like The Rocky Horror Picture Show in vice versa.

When she spotted the actors entering the coffeehouse Gloria gasped, blowing the foam of her cappuccino across the table. Harriet was indisposed in the bathroom, and Gloria was keeping an eye on the door, in case the police arrived. They had arranged to meet them at the coffeehouse. A quick look around the crowded room made Gloria realize the actors would probably sit down at the table right in back of theirs. “Oh my god,” she thought. She really didn't know what to think. If it had been Mel Gibson or Richard Gere, perhaps she could have thought more clearly.

By the time Harriet returned, the actors were settled at their table, energetically conversing, oblivious to the rest of the room.

“Do you remember their names? That pretty one is Dee, something like that.”

“Whose names?”

“Turn around and look at that table, but don't make it too obvious. The one drinking the giant mocha, I mean. The pretty one.”

Harriet turned, then turned back quickly. “Oh my God, they're right next to us. How did they get here?”

“Maybe they knew we were here,” Gloria said. They both giggled into their cups. “I think his name was Dede, or something. God, we just saw the movie. And the big one is Louie, I think. The one with the iced tea.”

“Do you think they're the real actors? Why would they come here?”

“I wish I could understand what they are saying.”

“I don't have time. I have to look out for the cops when they come. Some day I'll learn Chinese.”

Gloria leaned their way to try to recognize the voices, and she realized she understood what they were saying. It was English. They were speaking the subtitles.

“I've eaten my candied crab apples. I'm a fucking star already,” said the pretty one with the stripe of mocha along his upper lip. Gloria wasn't sure that was his line in the film.

“What does it take to become a star,” said the big one with the iced tea. “How many beatings?”

“They're talking English,” Gloria leaned back to tell Harriet, who was staring hard at the door, as if only her concentration could get the cops to arrive.

“I'm so strong I can uproot mountains,” sang the pretty one, rising slightly from his seat with the line.

“Sorry this took so long,” said the waitperson with a circle of blue ivy tatted around her bicep. She set a plate in front of Harriet.

“I didn't order anything,” said Harriet. She leaned closer to the plate. “Not this. What is it?” It protruded from the center of the plate, bathed in what looked like a raspberry sauce, so she assumed it must be sweet.

The waitress had moved on to another table.

“Since the Chu king has lost his fighting spirit, why should his favorite concubine value his life?”

Gloria was dizzy, reliving this powerful movie over a cappuccino, like post-cinematic stress disorder. It wasn't comfortable.

Harriet grabbed her arm, “You know what this is?” Harriet pointed at the thing on the plate, her forefinger tipping the tip of it.

“No matter how resourceful you are you can't fight fate.”

Gloria stared at the pinkish thing on Harriet's plate. “Of course I know.”

“Tell me.”

“It's a nose.”

“Looks like it, doesn't it?”

“I recognize it.”

“What do you mean, recognize?” Harriet flipped it onto its side with her long latte spoon. “How do you recognize it?”

“I'm almost sure. That's Harvey Keitel's nose.”

“Not! How would you know?”

“We saw that movie a couple of weeks ago. He had tattoos on it.”

“No! Not! Even if, how do you know it's Harvey Keitel's?”

“I go to lots of movies. I've seen all Harvey Keitel's movies. Reservoir Dogs. You saw that one with your eyes closed. And GoodFellas. It's an educated guess, but I know that nose. Things of Desire. Remember? That was Harvey Keitel who was formerly known as an angel.

“Why did they serve me this nose?” It made Harriet nervous. She would have left just then, except she had to wait for the police. “This is a coffeehouse. Nobody serves nose in this city.”

“I've followed my king on his military campaigns, enduring wind, frost, and hard toil. I hate only the tyrant who plunged our people into a life of misery.”

“Ask the waitress. Take it up there and ask them.”

Harriet had enough on her mind already.

“My king, quickly give me your famous sword.”

Harriet took the plate back to the counter. “I didn't order this,” she said.

“I'm sorry,” said the tattooed woman. She turned to her coworkers. “Didn't someone order this Bobbit thing, this special?”

“That was dope. Totally whack,” said Timarie as they emerged into the lobby. “Especially where she flashed her pussy at him from her chair at the what-do-you-call-it, when they were questioning her. Did you see that?”

“No, man. I never notice the pussy. I missed it. I was busy licking ashtrays in the smoking,” said Nolly, a hand on the 9mm under his belt under his shirt.

“That embarrassed me,” said Willie. “I couldn't have done that in front of one of those big cameras.”

“You fucked in front of a camera. I was there.”

“That was different. This was Sharon Stone, man. I was embarrassed for her. Anyway, I don't like that word, pussy. It don't sound right.”

They walked out into the parking lot and looked around. There were tons of cars.

“I'm gonna buy that Wagoneer over there, man. Our Fairlane is way past its warranty by now,” Rick said.

Willie was shaking her head. “Shit, I don't wanna ride in no Jeep. I was embarrassed in that fuckin' Fairlane. It was so old. There's all these other cars on the lot, man; like, even that red Camaro.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“From now on,” said Timarie, “I'm never gonna wear underpants. It gives a big advantage to a girl. And I'll wear a dress, so when it comes in handy to show your slit, there it is. It's whack, man.”

“I didn't even see it. When did it happen?” Nolly grinned, and pinched Timarie's nipple.

“That's because you a faggot, man. Faggots can't see pussy.”

“Slap it shut, bitch, or I will.”