BLANCA'S BEAT
APRIL 9 -
On my way to New Orleans
I drove through several patches
of bad weather - hail, thunderstorms,
gale force winds - which caused me to
arrive at the French Quarter
later than I expected. Not that I
was expected, understand.
Not a soul in the world knew
my travel plans.
I hadn't notified Scott
because he's one of those rare people
who absolutely adores
drop-in company.
He lives for it, he's told
me on several occasions.
But then Scott
has always been
a spontaneous,
'drop in'
kind of guy.
Unlike myself, who would ask the
Fire Department to call
first. It was after
six o'clock when I
turned onto St. Charles
Place and headed down the narrow street
toward Scott's apartment. The rain had slacked
off by then, and waves of steam were rising from the
hot pavement.
Scott's four-plex, resplendent with
courtyard and wrought iron gates, looks
both inside and out like the set of
A Streetcar Named Desire.
Staring into the night from the upstairs window, as
I'm doing now, I've often
spotted Blanche Dubois
leaning against a
St. Charles street lamp.
I see her there now, in fact; make-up
smeared, hair askew, clinging in
desperation to a guilded post.
Or perhaps it's a
similarly attired drag queen. In
New Orleans, one never knows.
I AM ABDUCTED!
Scott was sitting in the porch
swing when I pulled up and, against all odds,
parked directly in front of
Plac Le Roche. Although he wasn't wearing
what we call his 'happy face,' my welcome
was assured when he snatched
my valise and southern-drawled, "This is a joke,
right? The rest of your things are being
brought by
rivah-boat." "Spur of the moment visit,"
I said. "I won't be staying long." Scott led
me into the foyer and we ascended the
stairs.
"You will stay, Maxie Lee, until I tire of
your company." "Two nights?"
"Don't be droll. It doesn't suit you."
Scott was thirty-five years old when I
first met him,
back in 1984. A
blond and attractive man then,
I'm afraid Scott hasn't aged well.
There's a tiredness to his face now,
his hair has turned ashen; and his body,
once muscular, has become thick from drink and lethargy. "Watch
that last step, Maxwell. It's quite malicious."
His voice is still soft and deep, though;
there are times it reminds me of the late
Tennesse Williams; and it always, always soothes me,
just like a lullaby.
HEeeeeeeeeeeeeLP!
I AM BEING HELD AGAINST MY WILL BY
UGLY CHILDREN FROM OUTER SPACE!
We walked down a
dimly lit hallway to his front
door. "You'll have to forgive the
condition of my apartment.
It's a pigsty.
I'm ashamed to have you see it." Of course
the place was spotless. There wasn't a
speck of dust anywhere.
The knotted pine floors
were immaculate, I suspect they'd
been recently
waxed. His hanging plants were all thriving,
pictures all
placed for
optimum effect, accessories arranged just so.
"I've been living in absolute filth. Still, I'm
happy
you're here. This will be
more excitement than I've had in six months of
Sundays."
That I doubted. "And look! You brought your little
computer! How festive. Oh, Maximus, what fun we
shall have!" Scott never called me simply 'Max,'
incidentally; that was too plebian a name
for the lips of an ex-Broadway chorus boy. He preferred
his friends, all of his friends, to have regal
or at least exotic sounding names. And if they didn't,
he assigned them new ones. "This is my bedroom. You remember
my bedroom," Scott said dramatically. "That place
where NO MAN DARES GO." Still clutching my valise,
he swept past a Louis XVI armoire and collapsed
onto a Colonial four-poster. "Oh, cruel wedding night,
long and empty days are in sight." He stage-coughed
a few times, then fell into a fit of unrehearsed
hacking. "Remember me in Ariadne Abused?"
he finally managed to gasp. "There wasn't a dry eye in the house."
"I see you're still smoking."
"My only vice." "Yeah, right. Now if
you don't mind, I'd like to unpack and take a shower."
"So who's stopping you?" Scott was crisp as
lettice. He tossed me the bag. "You know your way to the
guest room. Please excuse me. I have some important phone calls to
make."
Had I hurt his feelings?
The creatures have immobilized
me with unknown
psychic powers. They are gathered
around me. I can feel
their slender fingers running through
my hair. The tips of
their fingers, sharp as cats' claws, have begun
massaging my scalp. I gotta admit it ain't
a bad feeling but for some reason
...
OUCH! I'm stuck! Those sumbitches
stuck me!
Now they are inserting
their claws into my head .
They are probing my brain,
feeling around, making themselves at home. My eyeballs
are being pressed - from behind! My inner ear is plucked.
My abdula-lysha-wan gets a french twist.
They are adjusting - no, fine tuning -
the device which they earlier
implanted there. It is this device, I feel certain,
that has brought my mind on-lined!
How do I know that? Have I become
psychic also? Maybe I can work for Dionne Warwick!
Talk on the phone to interesting people all day long.
Suddenly the universe is expanding my oyster for the taking and I know many things I never knew before. For example.
I know that my brain waves are connected to the Internet.
That much I know for sure. But how do I know that? Have I
become psychic also? Maybe I can work for Dionne ... Wait! I just said that. I just thought those same words onto the
Wide Web. Is this The Circle? Am I a vision? Are there echos in the windmills of my mind?
I better stay tuned. You better, too. Blanca signing off.
I am an alien among aliens,
vulnerable as a bowl of Aunt Hopi's
chile. I am frozen somewhere in time,
and laid out
like a chicken enchilada. Will I be eaten?
NOTE TO BLANCAPHILES: This 'column' will be on indefinite hiatus or until I get some persuasive e-mail stating, in 25 words or less, What Blanca Means To Me. (We'll make it a contest. - ed.)