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.


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.


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.


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

Too, too funny!


Post a Comment

<< Home