ALIEN HOSPITAL ROOMMATE (Or, THE LIMITS OF TOLERANCE)

(Hey, I had to show you how he ended up in the hospital, didn't I?)


ALIEN HOSPITAL ROOMMATE
(Or, THE LIMITS OF TOLERANCE)



I suppose it’s a good thing that we’re trying to get along with them. It’s certainly not fair to deny them anything just because of where they’re from. They should be able to use the pool at the hotel, of course. If everyone else gets out of the pool when one gets in, that can’t be helped. You can’t control everybody, now can you?

But let’s face it – if given a choice, would you share a hospital room with one?

We have one TV between us. True, we each have a remote. But it doesn’t matter which button I push, when he can just flick out one of those tentacles of his, without getting out of bed, and change the channel back. So he picks all the programs. Ten hours a day of nature shows about squids and octopi gets old fast, let me tell you – and what do I care how homesick he is for a world where everyone has tentacles?

And the first time the doc needed to check his private parts, what does he do -- have the doc just drag the curtain around, like anyone else would? Oh no, he has to eject this cloud of noxious-smelling black fumes for camouflage! The staff were quick to point out that it’s harmless, that it doesn’t pollute the air anymore than an octopus pollutes the water with its ink. But they don’t have to lie here and smell it all afternoon. I don’t care how much Glade the nurses spray in here, I can still smell it. And I don’t care if he just did it by instinct – what it means to me is that in here, it stinks.

Then his squeeze comes to visit him, and they do pull the curtain around. If I wasn’t hooked up to all these tubes, I woulda been outta here. I know they were just kissing hello, but I never heard such a disgusting sound of slurping and gurgling and smacking in all my life. And the flashing red lights! You’d think he just pulled in his own private ambulance over there!

I used to be a lot more liberal, but now that I’ve had to live with this for five days, I think we need to ship them all back to Venus where they came from.


-- © 2010 by Jack Veasey


(All rights reserved. This work may not be reproduced or duplicated in any way without the author's written permission.)

AND THE SLAM GOES UP IN SMOKE

photo by Nerval, from the English Wikipedia Project


God, I’d like to take
A big drag on a cigarette –
It’s been so long.

Remembering the night
I stormed out of
The slam, sat at
The bar and filled my lungs
With burning menthol
I’d just bought
From a machine.

And the black dude
Who had read the homophobic poem
And got the huge reaction
That drove me out of the room
Came up and stood next to me
With no idea who I was,
To get a drink,
And I just answered his hello
Like it was nothing,
Thinking maybe I should even
Offer him a blowjob
Just to blow his mind.
And Randy, the slam organizer,
Sidled up to me
And said, “I didn’t think you smoked,”
And I spat out, “I don’t,”
And left, and never came again,
Boycotting
The damn slam
Forever.

Smoke
And the memory of smoke
Have teeth for me.
The word
“Slam”
Has more than one meaning.

Later, I’d explain
The how and why
Of my perpetual new absence.
But for now,
I’d suck the fumes
That killed my father
And march out into the night,
A private kind
Of Pride Parade.

Only the taste of smoke
Is a fond memory,
A measure of defiance,
Doing something
That is not
“Normal”
For me.


-- © 2010 by Jack Veasey


All rights reserved. This work may not be reproduced or duplicated in any way without the author's written permission.

A SCRUFFY IRONY

(Old Beggar, by Louis Drewis, 1916)

I dress for comfort.
Sometimes, I forget
To shave.
Sometimes, I’m mistaken
For a bum -- even by people
Who know better,
Who have seen and heard
My work, if not
Appreciated it.

A local art gallery hostess,
Who’s been often
Rude to me,
Now cringes, fearful,
Should I pass her
On the street.
So I’ll glare at her
To add to the effect.
Frankly, it tickles me
A little – the absurd
Assumptions of
Her tiny mind.

What we lack in wealth,
We make up in
This power given to us
From a distance
By our disenfranchisers.
Since it’s about fear,
This is some sort
Of advantage.

As for the so-called “powerful”
Who rule so-called
“polite society,”
Those of us whose calls
They’d smugly not return
Can stalk them
Through dark alleys
In their dreams –
The demonized
At last
Supreme, at least
In certain situations.


-- © 2010 by Jack Veasey

All rights reserved. This work may not be reproduced or duplicated in any way without the author's written permission.

CHROME AND CROSSED SIGNALS

(photo by David Shankbone)


My partner and I go to a certain diner in our small town as often as we can. Outside, it’s all chrome, and has the design of a classic old diner, though it really wasn’t built that long ago. They play a lot of music from the 50s and 60s, and have an authentic soda fountain where they can make egg creams and such.

This diner’s first owner was our ex landlady. We liked her, and started going to support her business. But now, two owners later, we go because we still like the food and atmosphere. However, the story I’m about to relate happened relatively soon after the place first opened.

Late one afternoon we went there for dinner. Our waiter was new, an obviously gay man. As a gay couple ourselves, we were happy to see that they had hired Family.

We didn’t stay happy for long.

Mary Wells’s bouncy old love song, “My Guy,” came on. Another source of delight – we’ve both loved the song since our, ahem, long-ago youth. Our waiter, on his way to get our glasses of water, was dancing around to it. When he came back, he found us smiling and singing along.

This is when his attitude changed from civility to apparent seething hostility. He slammed our glasses down and scribbled our orders loudly on his pad with a scowl. When I ordered coffee, he pointedly asked, “Do you want that WITH your meal, or afterward?” This weird question foreshadowed treatment to come.

He brought our food when it came out, but otherwise haughtily ignored us. We each got one drink, and no offers of refills. Whenever either of us tried to get his attention, he would look away with a huff. Meanwhile, he lavished constant gushing attention on the table of ladies next to us, to show that his scorn was reserved specifically for us.

We were totally bewildered by his behavior. And, of course, we didn’t leave him a tip.

When we paid, our friend the owner was at the cash register. She asked, “How was everything?” I told her the food was great, as always. I was tempted to add, “but the service was horrible” – but some intuition stopped me. I just let the incident pass.

Later, I deduced what must have happened.

Our waiter’s gaydar must have been on the fritz. When he saw us smiling and singing along to “My Guy,” he apparently thought that we were having a joke at his expense. He took us to be straight and homophobic, laughing at him for dancing to the song. It wasn’t at all professional of him to punish us for that – a good waiter would have shrugged it off and ignored it. But at least I could understand why he reacted the way he did.

He didn’t last long at the diner, possibly not even at his profession – too thin-skinned, I’d bet. But for an obviously gay man, waiting tables in a Central PA Bible Belt small town diner must be a tough job sometimes. I’m glad it wasn’t us who got him fired.

-- © 2010 by Jack Veasey

All rights reserved. This work may not be reproduced or duplicated in any way without the author’s written permission.

SAME NAME, DIFFERENT PLANETS

SAME NAME, DIFFERENT PLANETS

When you were small, I was your father’s bud;
We hung out all the time. I was around
More than your relatives. You knew the sound
Of my voice on the phone. I was not blood;

You never called me “uncle,” but I would
Bring gifts for you. Monster movies, I found,
Held you rapt all afternoon; you rewound
“the good parts” to watch them again. You could

be quite funny, sometimes. One day, watching
“Nosferatu,” you told company it
dated “from before people could speak.”

Now that you’re grown, your Dad reports the sting
He felt when you called me a “fag” at sit-
Down dinner, when my name came up – a leak

Of your new attitudes. You always knew
My story. I was never anything
But friend to you. But you’ve revised your view
Across great distance, not based on remembering.

Your family moved down South in your teens.
Your Dad and I remained in touch by phone.
Amazing how a young man’s life careens
Through changes when he separates from home.

I wonder what you’d call me to my face.
You claim to be above hate based on race.
I know that my behavior’s not to blame.
Ironic -- we still share the same first name.

-- © 2009 by Jack Veasey

All rights reserved. This work may not be reprinted or duplicated in any way without written permission from the author.