Jan 13, 2015

Dry humpin' --- This is heaven (teaser)

It's Day Three of the festival, and the boys are prepping Godehart for The Debate, today's criterium. Let's take the plunge (apologies for the repeat of the Ben-scene): 


Now, the handshakes,” Maurice says to Godehart.
“It will be more like a square dance, on account of the number of candidates. Make sure you won’t forget anybody,” Alex says. “John, you’re on the jury. How many candidates left?”
I have to use my fingers. “Five, I say, Haagen, the Fox woman, Blanche Dubois, and that shady character. Plus Godehart.”

“Godehart,” Alex says with another sip, “the handshake is just the libretto---we all know your grip is firm and sweat-less---the music is in the shoulder slap. You step forward, clutch the foe’s arm with your left hand, clutch his shoulder with your right hand, bring your left arm around, and now you tap his left shoulder, several times, with measured force, palm fairly flat, from behind. It’s almost an embrace. No pelvis action, mind you.”


“The way you stretch the back of your hand, darling,” Maurice adds, “says it all. Don’t stretch it too much. That’s anal. Americans don’t like anal. Even Southern Baptist don’t like anal.”
“Especially Southern Baptists,” Alex says. “They like barbecues.”
“Why do you say barbecues?” Godehart asks.
“Oh---you don’t know,” Alex says. “Americans always vote for the candidate they’d love to have over for a barbecue.”



The bedroom door opens. Ben and the bulge of a morning glory darken the frame. “Oooh,” Ben moans. Godehart gets up, steps forward, clutches Ben’s right biceps. Ben stirs, recoils, and disappears in the bathroom.

“Perhaps we need a break,” Maurice says. “Ben will need coffee.” Alex get up and fumbles with the percolator, then grabs a new Budweiser can from the fridge. The toilet flushes, the bathroom door opens a tad, Ben’s face appears in the crack.

“It’s okay, doll, we’re just practicing,” Maurice says to Ben.
“Practicing what?” Ben replies.
“The usual thing,” Godehart say.
“Oooh,” Ben moans, and enters the kitchen.

“Where did you get these undies?” Maurice asks.

Ben wears different briefs today, not the muchacho graffiti, but a pattern-repeat design of naked men in celibate poses printed blue on a white background. “Oohh,” Ben says, walks stiffly up to the counter. Godehart follows his every movement, the tight procession of the bubble butt, the spiel of his triceps as he works the percolator can, a stray ray of sun undulating on his skin (not to mention the effortless stretch of his abs under the band of the wallpaper briefs).

Design by Alessio Slonimsky


“Where did you get these undies?” Maurice repeats.
“Bonus payment,” Ben says. He disappears in my chamber, returns with a slip of paper, check-size, hands it to me.
"Three thousand dollars," I read. "Name field is blank. We can cash it immediately."
"Oohh," Ben says. He sits down next to Godehart, the only empty chair left.
“You’ve been helping us with the lederhosen, Ben, is it not so?” he say. “We never formally made acquaintance. I am Godehart Wagner.”
“Nice to meet you,” Ben says, shakes hands, then gets up and disappears, coffee mug and all, behind the bedroom door.

“I have seen these under pants before,” Godehart says.
“Perhaps we should tell Brigitta,” I say idiotically.
“Brigitta?”
Brigitta Haagen Dasz, she’s writing a book about Ben,” I say.
“A book. He deserves it,” Godehart says, and casts a wistful glance at the closed bedroom door.

“Day Three,” Alex says, “the debate.” He tosses his tall-boy into the garbage can, fixes himself a cup of coffee. “Where were we?”

“We’ve done the initial embrace,” I say.
“Right,” Maurice says, “the initial embrace. There’s a final embrace, at the end of the show, which is different and may include pelvic action on a moderate scale. Sort of dry humping.”
“Dry humping.”
“Yes,” Maurice says, “you know, apes do it a lot to signal alpha-status. It’s part of your reptile brain. You dry-hump, you’ve won already. Subliminally. First seen during the primaries of 1999. You know, I write a script about George W. Bush, I know these things, darling.”
“And in between, what do we do in between?”
_____________________

Somebody will rise and say: ‘Excuse me, Sir. There are persistent rumors that you’ve stopped beating your wife’.
_____________________

“We take up position behind the lectern. The master of ceremonies will ask us for an opening statement. We ignore him, raise our shoulders leisurely, and point at random individuals in the audience, arm stretched out, gleeful smirks of recognition on our face. We connect. You connect.”
“I connect.”
“Yes. But first you’ll get an unscheduled question. Somebody will rise and say: ‘Excuse me, Sir. There are persistent rumors that you’ve stopped beating your wife’.”
“What?”
“Maurice is joking. The question is: ‘Excuse me Sir, there are persistent rumors that you don’t believe in the American Flag’,” Alex says.
“What’s the American flag to do with it?”
“Look, Godehart, you’ve came all the way from Transylvania to suck the blood of real Americans, of course they need you to believe in the Flag,” Maurice says.
“Okay.”
“So you are prepared. You don’t dignify the question with an answer. Instead, you wear the Flag pin on your left lapel. A pin with Stars and Stripes.”
“I don’t think I own an American Flag pin.”
“It’s chasmal. Even Obama wears it, the anti-Christ. He doesn’t beat his wife, you see,”---Maurice.
“Think of it as some kind of inverted garlic. The vampire strikes back,”---Alex.
“Inverted garlic.”
“You touch pin with the palm of your hand and nod the slow, Southern nod of self-agreement,”---Alex.
“So I have to get a lapel pin.”
“Remember this show, Absolutely Fabulous? British Show. Written by and starring Jennifer Saunders?”---Maurice.
“Yes…”
“She starred in another show, Let Them Eat Cake, where she’s a French aristocrat with the ancien régime, before the revolution.”
“Yes…”
“In once scene, she and the other courtesans are all aflutter, mimicking French parlez-vous by means of an estuary-inflicted Oxford brogue…Say ‘yes,’ darling...”
“Yes…”
“In that particular scene a young lady is visiting from the American colonies, and Jennifer explains how to properly spread your legs in France, all the other girls' heads bobbing, and then the American does the slow nod, slow, and says, vowels spread, ‘When I’m good, I’m good. When I’m bad, I’m better.’”
“Yes.”
“That nod.”




Godehart nods. “How about the opening statement?”
“The nod is the opening statement,” I say.
“Not so fast,” Alex says, putting his can down and swiping his cell, “not so fast…Here, the first Republican debate of the last primaries, May 5th, 2011, verbatim, ‘First of all, Bret---that would be Humbert, then---first of all let me thank everybody for hosting this debate. I think it’s an important discussion about the future of America and I want to thank the other contenders who are here with me on this stage tonight for showing up…”
“Sounds presumptuous,” I say, “he’s thanking himself.”
“Worse,” Maurice adds, “it sounds prepared. Godehart is not prepared, Godehart is authentic.”
“Alex just said I should be prepared. About the flag.”
“Maurice is right, though,” Alex says. “You are prepared to be authentic. Here, second debate, June 13, opening statement: “We are the proud foster parents of 23 great children.”
“Yes,” Maurice interrupts. “ ‘Proud.’ Great. I mean ‘great,’ as in great. Great.”
“Or this: I delivered babies for a living and delivered 4,000 babies.”
“I suck humans for a living and I sucked 4,000 humans,” Godehart says.
“We’re getting there, Godehart, we’re getting there.”
“I’m not even lying.”
“Proud and great, Godehart, is crucial. You are proud of your wife, children, and grandchildren. You are proud of your dog, your cat, and your cat pictures on Facebook. You are proud of the troops and the flag. You’re proud of your mother in law, provided she’s battling cancer. You are proud not to be one of those people who are not proud enough. You are proud to be proud.”
“You’ve seen the movie where Glenn Close speak French with a Chicago accent, also ancient régime, she’s the evil schemer and in bed with John Malkovich…”
“…Day Three,” Alex interjects, “day three…”
“…and so she schemes that Malkovich needs to destroy Michele Pfeiffer, her rival, by first seducing and then ditching Pfeiffer, and when he ditches her, he shows up at tea time and says to her, the only words he says, and repeats, ‘ce n’est pas ma faute,’ 'ce n'est pas ma faute,' ‘it’s not my fault,’ over and over again. Until Michelle is destroyed.”
“Day Three,” Alex says, “Day Three.” He tosses the tall boy into the garbage can and looks at his watch.
“John, how do you say ‘I’m proud’ in French?”

Are you still there? Then you will like the GREEN EYES, the first part of this story, which is now available as ebook with Amazon, under this link:


Night Owl Reviews



Go here for the previous teaser of This is heaven, and here for a selection of chapters of the Green Eyes.

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