A mirrored disco ball of dental work, his mouth agape and I’m inside hearing that thought-shattering cackle, the malodorous stench tastes of brandy manhattans, giving offense. Why the hell did I say “yes” when Larry asked me to dance?
Larry, the dumbfuck from Hoboken, his mouth in a purse and then, again, jarred open with a mountain more than a touch of wrenching gracelessness. “Come on, baby, quit busting my chops, why doncha!?”
When I quit reaming him out four ways from the middle for stepping on me all the way up the ankle and for even daring to pull his respiration act on me,
he sat down right,
no left,
in the middle of the dance floor.
“Well that there dance step be a new one on me, Scary Larry.”
I could see the vomit of muddled ardor beginning to rise in his craw. He looked philosophically kind and pensive in this moment, completely at peace. He’s in the Garden of Eden instead of this rundown Roseland. Suzie thinks: he’ll be off the floor in about two seconds with his mitts on my ass and his tongue waggling, “I’m really very deep, Baby, you’ll see!” or some other such tripe. He’ll want me to show him how it’s all done by people in the real world. Slinky trips into the cesspoolish puddles in Larry’s mind left me feeling slathered with disgust. Even the saintly medallion is murmuring obscenities from the safety of the nest on his breast; that uber-glint of silver and gold, olive skin, lustrous ebony hair, everything, all, with the green patina of Larry’s life.
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