by L.A. Fontaine
I came to in a motel room, tied standing, that is, my feet, somehow I’m on them although I was out. I’m in now, but in what I’m not sure. A trance perhaps. Im wavy like that. I can’t feel my body, I can’t feel my eyes [I can’t feel my eyes!]. Am I door? I mean, hm, am I dead?
I want to scream, or even blubber, but I have nothing but helpless thoughts.
All I wanted was some new cast iron pans. That’s the last I remember, checking the junks in an outdoor flea market and auction run by some country folk with the look of spooky secrets.
And now I’m here, Hostaged and cursed. The shirts that surround me I would say, are one with the flesh. [barf] The three men in them, nebbish, soily wook level fitness with michigan bad vibrations. These are some diabolical hippies. And I don’t know how, I don’t know why, but they got me.
They pass around a crystal, giving it a good hard blow before moving it on, finally, into the pocket of the last man in line: light shorts, heavy on the socks. Truly wicked.
They gaze in my direction, silent, intense, as if watching smoke from a slow motion fire projected on the side of a tent.
This continues for millennia until a fourth man enters, wearing a leather jacket, flannel shirt, corduroy pants, and a suede hat with sequence spelling out the word “denim”. Not too porky, but rich, he carries a birdhouse for a briefcase. From it he pulls a mister. He tests it in the air with a poof and Cannoli sweetness powders the pissed pants motel air.
For sure he is the ringleader of this jam band of dark star schlimazels. He approaches, addresses a figure that I can now see from the corner of my maybe dead eyes.
“Tell me, what are you?” He asks.
“I am a boy. I am Elijah”, is the response.
He sprays the boy with the mister.
“What are you?”
“Elijah”, spritz, spritz.
“What are you?”
“Elijah”, someone turn those tunes up louder man someone requests, the mister fills up up the room beyond a stink, there is something more warm wet, choking me in sweet piss, chocolate chips and citrus what a door a door, oh door, door door oh odor. door odorrrr..
“What are you?” “A door”. “What are you?” A door. “What are you” “I am a door”, says the boy.
With this the men get giddy and give each other a series of backwards handshakes that evolve into a putrid jig.
One man removes his shirt, folds it neatly and then bounces his trunk in an extended sacred boogy, causing sweat to flee from his chest hair while the other men chant, “Oogliff oogliff” or gliss or goniff can’t make it out. Geez I just wanted some pans.
The shirtless one struts to the boy, and then with one big stride, he steps his foot inside of him, through the stomach, producing the embarrassing sounds of wet pressure. He glides in further, deeper, but the foot finds no exit. He just keeps crawling in, ducking his head under the rib cage, pulling his second foot behind him and disappearing into the boy. The other men follow, smiling and prancing like happy dancing bears, all the way into and through an Elijah who was once a boy but is now a door, and when the last of these twisted earth people step out of the motel and into whatever hellish realm the door boy tenders entry, they close his door behind them, and this Elijah vanishes within himself.
Now I am alone. I know I am next. The music keeps playing and the crystals are still smoking in the ashtray. The next batch will no doubt blow in here soon and when they do, I must not let them through me. I am a human and I must remember who I am. I Creak, I swing, I slam.