As I sit here, intent on typing the third installment (now long overdue and angrily demanded) of this sorry tale, a song begins to shuffle and shimmy out of my speakers…

The song is ‘Do Right Woman’ by Aretha.

Oh, the precious, delightful irony (and another bit of proof to back up my theory that iPods on ’shuffle’ are actually a direct line from God).

God has a sick sense of humor, but we knew that already.

Anyway, where were we?

That’s easy, we were here….

THE COLE FIASCO. PART 3-

The humidity was dense and suffocating. From the moment we debarked the plane the air began molesting us with sticky fingers.

It was hot.

It was wet.

It was like trying to walk through sex.

I loved it.

Cole, on the other hand, was used to more temperate climes.

Whenever love presents itself, no matter what the extenuating circumstances, I always advise people to leap at it with an open heart and mind, to take it by the balls and make it dance a drunken jig, to go meet its parents and charm them into submission. Do it all. Dive in head first. Go crazy! BE MAD!!!! Fuck love’s brains out with a rubber strap-on, and respect it with an eager blow-job in the morning.

Love your love, for that is what nourishes it. Love, carnivorous, cannibalistic, feeds only on itself.

Love.

Embrace it, adore it, run towards it…

Unless you’re clinically depressed and fucking kidding yourself.

If this is the case, then think very carefully. Be cautious and mindful of yourself and your actions, and the way they affect your life and others.

In mid-2005 I was still sick, but with all the heady jubilation and fluffy butterfly moments… I just couldn’t see it, or I forgot, or I chose to believe I was better.

A depression manifests in many different ways.

In my case I was a volatile and emotional basket case. Reactive, angry, scared, suicidal, at times vicious, often terrified and constantly, consistently, without hope.

When Cole innocently tripped into my life I managed to sweep these symptoms under the bed, then clamber unceremoniously on top of them for a dirty shag. I was so happy and so in love that my demons were temporarily banished into something flimsy, a paper bag perhaps, something it didn’t take them very long to claw back out of.

Cole and I spent ten blissful days in paradise. There were no pressures, no stresses… just sun and sex and food and beach and sex and laughter and a bit of sex on the side. We banished the Fijian help from our house so that we could utilize every one of its surfaces. Finally alone we pottered around, naked and sweaty, playing “happy families”, imagining all the while that a vacation in the tropics was indicative of what a REAL LIFE together would be like.

We were naive.

When Cole left I was bereft. We spoke every day, as many times as we could, and reverted to our routine of sharing Internet stories and twisted adventures.

I wrote-

“A lopsided ceiling fan stirs the air above the bed, click-click-clicking as it rotates.
The air is barely stirred by the motion of its blades, for the dense humidity resists all movement.
The air is wet and think.
Like a loaf of fruit bread.

Beneath the mosquito netting He stirs. One hand rises to shield His eyes from the encroaching sunrise, the other moves stealthily across the bed to touch Her. Blindly He gropes through the sheets until He hears Her sigh sleepily in response to His touch.

Her breathing stays regular, She dreams on. He can feel the soft rising and falling of Her breasts against His wrist. A sticky curl of long hair falls over Her shoulder and tickles the tips of His finger. He is about to tug on it, gently, to bring Her to life when He hears a small sound.

A rustle, barely discernible, from under the bed.
A bug?
An animal?
A crazed Fijian crouching in wait, maggoted on kava?

He opens His eyes and looks around. She shifts in sleep, arching Her back, smiling a little at a private joke, a memory. He can almost see Her small triangle of pubic hair before She turns completely and bares Her back, moist with the perspiration of One Who Dreams Heavily.
He hears the noise again.
Odd.

He withdraws His hand from between Her legs and shifts the mosquito netting from around the bed.
The morning light is still vague, but His hangover has magnified the reaction His head is having to it. In short, He feels fucking awful.
What monstrous chaos did She cause last night?

He peers over the edge of the bed.
Nothing.
He hears a scurrying, a patter.
He leans further.
The darkness under the bed is slowly fading as His eyes adjust.

What is that?

What are THOSE?

Reaching, from the floor up to the mattress, are dozens of tiny ladders, spaced at intervals of a few inches, all around the bed.
What?
He starts to speak, to laugh and rouse Her, when He hears a voice.

A tiny voice.

“Freeze”.

And so, He does.

“Turn, very slowly, We have You covered”.

He raises His hands and slowly lies His prone body back on the pillows, finally turning His head, His eyes squinting in apprehension.

“Don’t move”.

There, on the bed, facing Him, are row upon row of miniature soldiers, rifles drawn, expressions fierce. The stained, damp wrinkles in the sheets have become trenches, forts and watchtowers. His legs have been swarmed with orderly lines of infantry and canons. Thousands of small, beady eyes are trained upon Him, peering out from their bunker in His crotch.

“Are you kidding me?”

“SILENCE!!”

The order comes from Her side of the bed. All along the silhouette of Her body stands a regiment of officers, swords and guns drawn. A General perches upon the highest ground, the rim of Her hip, just above where it melts into Her thigh. The General tries valiantly to keep his footing as the ground beneath him moves with Her breathing.

“One move, big boy, and we’ll fire”.

Nobody moves. There is silence. A few members of the cavalry shuffle and dig in further behind folds in the bedding.

A thought occurs to Him, a vague drunken memory of something that happened last night. He struggles to remember the cause of the violent reaction that had been triggered in Her. What was it?

She freaked out about something. Caused pandemonium in a restaurant… Spiders?

“SPIDER!” He yells, and instantly there is chaos.

She erupts from the bed like a human hydrogen bomb, naked, sending pillows, sheets and little soldiers into the air.

“Where? Where?! What the FUCK?! WHERE????”

The men in His crotch fire desperately as He attempts to swipe at them, but She is already destroying all. With pillows as weapons She swings and smites. The bed is a battlefield.

“DIE YOU FUCKERS DIE!!!”

Her fury knows no bounds. She is deranged.

She is still trembling in the aftermath, when the bed is once more Their own.
She huddles behind Him, eyes like saucers, freckled skin pale and shivering.

He comforts Her. “There there. Come here. It’s okay. I’ll protect You.”

Her hysteria subsides and She slowly relaxes. “That was horrible”.

He flicks the corpse of a small officer off the bed and reaches down. The ladders are still there, perhaps they will come in useful when He gets back to Los Angeles.

“I hate it here”, She says.

“Me too”. He says, His voice dripping sincere empathy, and reaches lecherously for Her arse.

“Next time lets just stay at the Chateau?”

The End.

And Cole replied…

“Aspirin dreams, sedative dreams, tequila dreams. No, what kind of dreams? Stoned, drugged, something. Haze.” He fell back into sleep for several hours and drifted into what his body clearly identified as something that resembled (a little too closely for its own comfort) — death; and he shot wide awake, hurtling into the obese person in the seat next to him, whose layers of fat oozed over the side of the seat like blue cheese dressing on a skimpy lettuce salad at a bad steak house.

He violently tried to put the blood back into his arm and the leg on his left hand side by slamming them into the seat and he caught, because of the spill-over, the edge of the hefty sized t-shirt on the passenger next to him and pulled him inadvertently across the demarcation zone that divided the two seats so that he started suffocating under the weight on top of him.

“Get the fuck off me lard ass. And take a fucking shower. You smell like you have been wiping your ass with your face.” He screamed this so that the entire business class section and most of coach turned to stare.

“Oh, excuse me, excuse me.” The fat man said repeatedly with a disarming sincerity, squishing his seat mate as he pulled himself back into his own.

In the mean time one of the flight attendants, trained after September 11 for events such as these, raced hastily toward the overhead bin, searching frantically but methodically for the in-flight tranquilizer gun and handcuffs. She opened the overhead bin and as she did so she heard something that sounded like “ALLEZ” and the tranquilizer dart miraculously lodged into her forehead and she stumbled into the seats and passed out.

“I’m really sorry about the fat insults.” He said as the blood slowly crept back into the left side of his body. “I just kind of feel into a weird sleep and woke up and was not sure where I was and had one of those shitty death instilled dreams.”

The fat man, smiling all the while, said “I have those dreams all the time. No big deal. My name is Ron.”

“Nice to meet you Ron. Do you think she is alright?” He said as they both looked toward the commotion of the other flight attendants who were pulling the sedative dart out of her forehead and carrying her to the back of the plane. While she attracted the attention of the passengers he felt a distinct but but slight pulling sensation on his pant leg and he looked down to see one of the soldiers winking at him and he quickly scooped him up and whispered into his ear “Get back in that bag and behave yourself or we are really going to get into trouble. Nobody has a sense of humor about airplane pranks anymore.”

And he casually dropped the soldier to the floor just as his seat-mate turned back and hefted “What did you say?”

“Nothing, just commenting that it probably hurts like hell to have a sedative dart stuck in your forehead.”

“No shit. But I kind of had a premonition something like this would happen,” Ron said happenstancely, “In fact, I even wrote it down about an hour ago in my journal. Want to see?”

“Sure man. That would be kind of cool.” And Ron pulled from his bag a tattered old journal full of food stains and his pudgy little fat fingers that looked swollen with high blood pressure turned to a page and Ron handed the book to him and he started reading and almost to the action, Ron described the preceding 20 minutes with a level of detail that escaped even the events themselves; and as his eyes arrived at the end sentence and it read “Right about now the captain of the plane will tell us that he has to make an emergency landing.” And he looked at Ron and started to ask a question and over the intercom a smooth fly boy voice came over and said, “Ladies and gentlemen no need to be alarmed but we are going to need to take this big bird down a little bit sooner than we expected. One of our flight attendants shot herself in the forehead with a dart gun and it looks like she may need some medical attention and we are still about 5 hours out of Sydney and so we are just going to drop in on the nearest airport, which is on the island nation of Fiji. We are about 10 minutes out so if everyone would return to their seats, buckle up and get ready for a little unexpected tropical getaway.”

“I told you so.” Ron said with no hint of pride. “I am what is known as psychic.”

“You are not what is known as psychic you are one bad ass mother fucken psychic“, He said with a good deal of respect.

Ron struggled to get the buckle out from underneath his ass and looked at him and said “Could you help me find the other end?”

“No way man. Not a chance. I’m not going near that thing. You’re psychic. You’ll find it,” he said reassuringly.

“Oh there it is” Ron extended the seat belt to its maximum girth and took a deep breath, sucked in his stomach and barley managed to clasp the belt. “I meant to tell you,” Ron wheezed, “your girl is not in Sydney, right about now she is sitting in some office in Fiji reading her emails.”

“That asshole,” he said out loud. “She was going to make me fly all the way to Sydney and then what? Fly back to Fiji? Any idea why, Nostradamus?,” He asked Ron.

“I don’t know the why’s, I just tell it like it is.”

And He sunk into deep thought as the wheels of the plane touched the ground of a tiny island in the middle of a very large ocean.”

The End.

We were having fun, despite the distances between us.

I had never felt so in love, so loved in return, and so inspired. I told myself I was better, and stupidly, I believed it.

A month passed and we missed each other with adolescent fervor.

I was broke and employed as a writer in Fiji, an adventure indeed, but not a lucrative one. I didn’t have many options. Cole considered returning to see me, then at the last moment cashed in some points and sent me a ticket to join him. We were to spend a week together in LA, my old home, my favorite city in the world, the place I dreamed about returning to. After a month in the jungle I was ready for some city. I wanted to kiss the pavement, the graffiti, the filth…. Cole.

He met me at the airport, lingering, laconic, in the background of the departure area.

He leaned against the window and waited, smiling, almost shy, as he watched me walk towards him in my jet-lagged haze.


To be continued….

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ZOE BROCK was born in New Zealand and raised in Australia. She has lived in more cities and on more continents than she can count (truly, she's a model and can't count) and is currently residing in the deep fog of San Francisco. Her true home lies on the dusty plains of Burning Man where she feels safe and challenged and truly alive. Zoë once had a very popular blog on MySpace and writes everything from awful poetry to truly delicious dark satire, and all sorts of sexy things in between. She has appeared on the cover of Elle magazine, inside the pages of Vogue, Cosmo and Marie Claire, to name a few, and is working on her memoir, an expose of 'growing up model'. Zoë is also a certified yoga teacher. Yes, that means she's bendy.

One response to “The Love Chronicles, Part 4- In Which the Author Crosses the Seas and Returns to the Bosom of the City She Adores….Just to Kick it in the Tits for Good Measure”

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