Quadruple Abecedarian : His First Solo Vacation
Ancient, it seemed, Zach’s mama listening to Diz’
blow his horn; yams, cob corn, and savory
chicken cooking to xantho-brown; stoic Zach on coccyx
down in that wonderful yard, smelling deeply. Now
everything was different. Viciously labyrinthine, the age XXXV.
Formerly wed, now uncommitted, off alone to Honolulu.
Grandiose melodramatics aside, the thing he knew that
he wanted there—sex. Though with his books
in his bag, rapturous ennui was super-
jacent. Needed a quieting hajj, he’d joked, post-Talaq.
“Kevin, my boss, pushes task upon task; up-
load this, that, or hell, make coffee.” Too
much bullshit with no premium. But the Hawaiian
nights weren’t restorative. Makame Fern, a young, slim,
olive-skinned, brown-eyed, gorgeous local—“Hello,” he’d started, ill-
prepared and drunk, “kind tulip…” Alas or alack,
quite surprisingly, a joyful Q and A. “Raj…
Raj Bhakta…some intelligent financier, no?” “Well, I
suppose,” she responded. He was feeling (pitifully) mannish—
that is, over-confident. God, what a mistake. “Feeling
unreal…you look fantastically—you see…your half-
voluptuous…ass—like Elaine Cheznov, my ex-wife.” Makame
walloped him. Most devastating blow he’d seen. And,
x-rayed, had broken (…contemptible ex-…) his jawbone. Apologetic,
yellow-bellied, missing Elaine’s bosom; stray dogs, a honeycomb
zephyr; back to Albany — schmaltz without the lava.
A tip of the old fedora for John Deming. From the archive; first posted April 30, 2009.