Horizontal Lives

True Tales of the Infamous Courtesan: Persephone N. Hades and her Horizontal Life underground. How she got there, her mis-adventures and her struggle to re-surface.

Monday, December 06, 2004

Have a Strong Mind & A Soft Heart

I'm a dork. I'm a dweeb. I'm dingbat. I know it. There's nothing wrong with having a soft heart, but there is if it infects your brain making it soft as well.

I actually spent time thinking about that call from that boy, Christopher. Wavering back and forth as to what to do. Should I call him? Should I see him? His voice was so sincere, so needy.

The fact that I even considered it is a testiment as to how egocentric I can be. He had appealed to the Saint and Savior in me. I'm the only one who can save him. I must call him.

Ran the summarized phone message by a client today who gave the obvious answer, the answer I would have seen had my brain not been clouded by my heart and my ego were a bit smaller.

My Client: Why doesn't he just go to a bar like the rest of humanity? Fuck a co-worker. The usual. ?

Duh. Okay.

Me: But should I call him and gently suggest that? I feel like I should at least call him back. No?

My Client: And if you do, then what's he gonna say?

Me: He's gonna say if he did one of those things he risks discretion. That's why he called me.

My Client: Right.

Duh?

My Client: I can't believe I have to explain this to you, young lady. That's why he called you. That's what the money is for: discretion. That's all the money is for. The rest is gravy.

Ka-doy.

Should have learned from the past. Got whapped before from the boomerang effect of my 'got to save the world' complex. Not actually the whole world, just a bit of it. Everyone has some issue that tugs a heartstring. Mine is Lonliness. Especially Lonliness coupled with The Elderly.

About a year back, decided to volenteer at an old folks home. My job was to provide company and companionship. Right up my alley. The night before, I envisioned myself, as seen through a Vaseline coated lens, surrounded by a white aura, bending gently over the beds of the old and feeble, smoothing their brows, listening intently to the stories of their, soon-to-be-over lives. What a Saint I would be. A legend in my own mind.

The next evening, I reported for duty. A rather heavy-set nurse with a blase voice, munching potato chips, explained, in between crunches 'the lay of the land'. While I was listening attentively, my eyes unblinking, eyebrows scrunched together in intense focus, I felt a sharp pinch on my behind.

"Hey." I turned around to see an old man in wheelchair looking up at me.

In a thick Yiddish accent he said: "You gotta shana tookis." (Basically means: Nice ass.)

I smiled, letting the incident breeze by, allowing me to hang onto the vision I had of myself.

Later that same evening, I was summoned to the bedside of another very old man. The room was dark but for the street lamp outside casting a line of white beneath the drawn shade across his bedsheet. He could have been a corpse, so pale, gray, and thin was his body.

Me: Did you want to see me? (I whispered.)

He: (Barely audible, also in a thick Yiddish accent) I want to tell you something. Come close.

I tiptoe into the room and seat myself gently by his chest on the side of the narrow bed. My hand instinctively goes to his brow, smoothing his coarse eyebrows with a soft finger. He licks his lips like a contented baby. My heart swells. My fingernails trace stripes on his forehead. He mumbles something I can't understand.

Me: (Whispering into his ear) Did you say something?

He: I can't talk good. Come closer.

I bend lower, closer to his body.

He: Closer.

I do.

He opens his mouth to speak when I feel a hand inside the top of my blouse gripping and squeezing my right breast.

Me: (sitting up but unable to loose his hold) Hey. What are you doing?

He: What? I'm dying here. I could be dead tomorrow. You would deprive a dying man? It costs you something?

Paralysed by Jewish Guilt. Very effective.

What to do?

I let him squish and massage that right breast until all my Saintly illusions were fondled right out of me.

Went home with the knowledge I truly was a Courtesan to the core. If I hadn't found It, It would have found me.

An Honest Courtesan.
A Pedestrian Courtesan.
A Saintly Courtesan.

Which just makes me, in sum, an Onomonopeic Courtesan.

Oy vey.



1 Comments:

At 4:45 PM, Anonymous Anonymous said...

Too, too funny!

 

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