I realize I’m caged. Not in the I-must-work-in-a-shitty-customer-service-job-so-I-can-feed-my-four-kids-but-I-really-want-to-paint way. Much less complicated than that. I’m literally caged. I now find myself in a roughly 4x5 foot enclosure. How did this happen? you ask. Think, must think.
I was at the bar. Drinking Jameson, as I’m prone to do. And do until I’m prone. That blonde with the big boobs and bigger nose was snorting loudly in my ear. I wanted to move down the bar, but it was packed. I hate those nights. But I love Jameson, so there I was, on a date with a bottle. A bottle that gave part of itself to any patron with money. Whore.
The band was playing 80’s hair metal covers. As if I liked the songs the first time around. The lead singer was wearing rouge and a yellow unitard was wearing him. Just like that one time.
I liked to lie in my parents’ bed and smoke the cigarettes they had stashed in the back of the bureau drawer. There were dirty photos back there, too, but that was just gross. That day, I opened their bedroom door, and there was my stepdad, in pink spandex and blue eyeshadow. I laughed and laughed, so he ripped off his stiletto and threw it at me.
I was pretty tipsy, by this point. The Jameson was about spent and I was ready for a rebound. On cue, a brunette with an amazing collarbone slid up and asked what I wanted to drink. Mesmerized by her calcium-infused frontispiece, I croaked, “Gin, straight.” She smiled, and more calcium-infused bits hypnotized me. We made repartee. At least, I hope I did. Things were going well, and I looked forward to later having her strap-on jammed to the hilt in my anus.
Then it all becomes blurry and slow-mo, as if I had been swimming underwater at the bar. Or like that Prodigy video. Calcium-girl smiling. Big-nose blonde frowning. Leotard singer-guy falling on-stage. Every eye in the bar on me. Being grabbed. Bouncers, I think. Hard concrete. Pain. Then salvation, a dark-headed angel. Though angels are always depicted as blondes. Those dead painters had no idea.
That’s all I can remember. I have to pee. This room is cold and bare. It’s lit by a lone bulb. There’s a trapdoor in the floor and the wooden rafters are angled sharply. Like her collarbone. I wonder what happened to her. I’m uneasy. Not because of my situation. I feel strangely secure in this cage. Because I miss her, though we just met last night. Well, I assume it was last night. I don’t know what day it is.
What’s that noise? Holy shit. Someone’s walking up the trapdoor stairs. I see the door tip up and bounce on its springs. I see dark hair emerging. Then an angel’s face. A perfect collarbone. A yellow spandex unitard paints her frame.
I smile and relax. My bladder empties warm and wet down my leg.
published 13 March 2013