Fenby’s 2

I have a horrible compulsion. An almost O.C.D. like need that either requires I give in to it’s demands or spend a huge amount of will to resist it. At best I can strike a common ground and it’s effects end up being negligible. Imagine, for the sake of simile, that I am a magician and not a writer. That instead of navigating the morass of the Internet on your way to this entry, you were watching me on some stage. A small, intimate setting (I still run the risk of freezing up before large audiences) in which I’m doing slight of hand and the classics in misdirection, forced perspective and prop magic. Something better than your five year olds b-day party, but an act that sees the two drink minimum still leaving you dry.

       Anyway, I’m up there in my best magicians cloths, doing my shtick….music popping along somewhere unseen. And at regular intervals in the feat- I give it away. Not only that; I’m still performing the linking rings…or no wait the ‘pouring the pitcher of milk into the newspaper cone’ yeah we’ll use that one, I tell you why I’m doing it. The afternoon shows end up looking like a beginners magic lesson. And the evenings are monologues on why (and how) Copperfield’s vanishing of the Statue of Liberty capitalizes on mans fear that even his monuments aren’t permanent, while I saw a lady in half.

The drapes don’t cover the duplicate objects, I turn my body to show what I’m hiding and no effort is made to conceal the addition of canary blood to the stage dress. All the while I’m lecturing on the decline of cruelty to animals in performance. I’m explaining why this bit will set up the finale, and how the hollow thumb can be taken of stage with the silk scarves during a particularly revealing dance number made by your assistant. Not only do I want to perform the trick but I want to show you how cool it is to pull off, how socially relevant it is that I do it here, now.

But I’m not a magician, I barley even day dream about it any more. But, what can I do, like I said it’s a compulsion. So from time to time I’m gonna have to tell you about this trick I’m gonna do. Some device I’m about to turn on, that somehow will lead us to a higher truth, or at least a finished thought. Or maybe I’ll use something that I just think tastes good, feels right somehow and I’ll need to turn aside and make sure you taste it too. Thats what we’ve got here. An aside.

So forget about Fenby’s a minute. Forget that I actually ended my last post with ‘to be continued’. Otherwise, I’ll figure out a way to do a ’star wipe’ with out actually writing ’star wipe’. Yes, yes, we’ll come back to what my boy had to say about old friends and ex-lovers. Let’s flash ahead a bit. Later that night when I’m driving back from Canada and the groom’s last night out. 

Danny came straight from the airport, so he didn’t ride over in the limo. And at the end of a night of Absinthe and strippers (they take it all off in Canada and you can drink in the clubs) I rode back with him in his rental car. It had been a good trip north of the border and Chris ended up trashed and happy. He made friends with some dancer who kept him occupied for the better part of two hours. Abel spent the evening making jokes about wearing “her ass for a hat” and rolling things on her thighs. We were pretty well behaved and Windsor’s pleasures were many and seemed to open to us….”Mike, are you still talking about the Brunette?” , “Abel, when have you stopped?”.

  Anyway, Danny and I got turned around a bit in Windsor and when we finally got to the border crossing the last few cocktails had made new homes in my brain and there was an extra of everything. The border guard barely batted an eye at Dan’s passport (he lives in Brazil) and my California drivers license. I think Dan’s mumbled replies to the stock questions and my shit eating grin told a simple tale that he’d hear again from the next three cars , probably.

Thankfully, the drive from the Windsor tunnel to the small neighborhood of Hamtramck is a short one. And I think Danny was doing better than I was, since it looked like he wasn’t having any problem staying in the lane. And with a glance at the speedometer I could tell, by the needles smooth motions to an almost up right position, that we weren’t speeding. The plan was to fall back to one of the groom’s men’s flats, to more beer and tequila no doubt. It was still relatively early and with the wedding not until late the next evening there was plenty of time for both our troop and the bride’s camp to sleep off tonight’s nonsense.

We had just started early is all. We spent a few hours hanging around Charlie’s flat waiting for everyone, with a fresh round of drinks coming out with each new arrival. And then it was dinner at Polonia, and I don’t care who ya are, ya can’t eat pirogi and Kielbasa with out beer. By the time the limo showed up we were well primed, happy and a little rowdy.

So, later when Danny and I were rolling down Joseph Campau, Hamtramck’s main drag, I was wishing that I had had Brian ride with him. The relative quiet of the rental car and Detroit’s passing lights had allowed the blood that had been rushing through my head to flag. The strip club had been a nice break from the weight of home coming since it’s tough to slip into melancholy when your dick’s hard. But with out the constant jabber and jab of a limo full of amped and loaded guys I could feel the sinking in my gut.

Nope, it was vomit. We had just turned the corner onto Belmont and Dan was looking for a spot to park, when I opened the door and stepped out of the slowly moving car. I didn’t get very far. With Dan laughing at me I stumbled two steps and opened my mouth in a “BLAH” of liquid and slimy chunks. The streets in Ham town are all one way, each avenue running in the opposite direction than a block before or after. With two way main streets like Campau and Conant  connecting them all. The one ways were packed full of two story houses (with barely five feet between them) with porches on both levels. With each building containing at least two flats, both sides of the street where lined with parked autos. I had just laid a Technicolor yawn on one of Charlie’s neighbor’s car. A cone of splatter across the hood of this white Nova.

Still laughing, Dan gently parallel parked the little Ford and got out. “Ha, Ha ya Mary…you ok?” he was walking towards me thinking I needed to be reminded where the flat was. I grinned and pointed a finger at him. “I feel great now” I said, not lying totally. “The lights are still off at Charlie’s”, looking up I could see that the porch was still dark. He looked in the same direction and mumbled something about our beating the limo. “Come on”, I said heading down the block. We can get coffee at the Campau Tower.

 

 (more to come)