how adultery fixed rita hayworth
Posted: February 2nd, 2005, 12:19 pm
too intent on personal hygiene he trims his nails one morning before leaving for work. right after his shower cause that’s when the nails are nice and soft and don't hang so easy.
always he cuts things close. nails to the quick. hair to the scalp. razor to wit.
nail clipping possesses a strange sensation of self-mutilation. an odd sort of sharpening the talons that cuts them short. dulls them down. makes them impotent talons.
so he heads to work. ah the subway. he has a paper cost a quarter. wakes you up of a morning like coffee or an apple. sensational headlines, mistakes and lies. he skims politics and pedophiles. wonders where they secret merge. too many colorful adjectives tint the truth a reminiscent yellow.
sports section is benign. funnies are the best part. horoscopes are obsessing. read them all and attain a clear balance of hogwash. the sports section is benign. pseudoheroes compete, prevail. many fail. op/ed is strictly off limits. absolutely infuriating.
door swings open down the end of the car. makes for a more authentic experience. a loud clattering ride. and then he’s almost there and he gets to stop staring at people over the newspaper. not often he’s wholly acknowledged by a stranger past assault or insult. through a throng of goers and up myriad steps out of the deep ground. where all the ground is tunnels hundreds of feet deep. bright sun glints off his reflective sunglasses. shaves his head. works in an office. writes informative pamphlets. occasionally he manages to slip some wit into the driest demonstrational illustration.
he mastered the office machines. no halfass fumble through technology. even master of the obsolete. this all keeps him popular in the office. a man who can handle machines.
-please can you help me tame my machine?
-a chance to do something with my hands
obediently he endeavors make the machines obey. success is common.
he is proud of his mechanical metaphorical mastery. he works hard for the minimal proofs of his expertise. they enjoy his toils. the ladies of the office would take him to bed. they ask him to drinks for his gallant effort. which begins with turning the machine off and turning it back on. the best way to fix most electronic devices when they elect malfunction.
several of the office ladies have taken him to their beds. all on the basis of his rectifying paper jams and rebooting PCs. shutting off a powerstrip and turning it back on. anything to keep from thinking about what his job really is. but truly he has to give the shaved head some credit.
machines mean never to sleep. cuddle up to the hum and glow of such luminaries as toasters and obsolete floppy drives. such heated emissaries of the light of technologies.
-pleased to meet ya. my tummy grumbles. what can your peculiar brand of advancement do for me?
the response might look like: C:\ > with a flashing cursor.
invariably inevitably ostentatiously obstreperously they break down. machines crumble. they are assailed by misfortune, misuse and malfunction.
ah the relief, that, in an office, trouble is mostly operator error. (it was the pilot ran that paper shredder right into the ground. he shoulda wore a parachute.) or some breed of media jam. or something replenishable dissipates to nonexistence.
how much did he fix? how much does he fix? if it cant be fixed there are form and applications to enable replacement. how much does he fix? he keeps a little tool kit in the bottom drawer of his desk. better than carrying them on his person and interrupt the lines of his slacks.
‘power cycle’ is what they technically call it when you turn something off, wait a few seconds and turn it back on. he learned that from the IT guy. a ponytailed middleage smiling man of lebanese extraction with a penchant for complex nomenclature, pot and russian girls. call him joe.
this joe. this IT guy. there’s a fixer.
but our main character, the hero of our tale, nameless here like evryman. lets these ladies take him home when he’s fixed their machines and happy hour lasts 4 or 5.
-shit! who’s gunna drive me home?
-don't you ride the subway to work?
-do you think you could drive?
-where am i going?
he walks from the corner hopping the puddle in the gutter and scans the scant traffic of the avenue. he sees it a couple blocks away. the taxi sees his arm dance through the air slow like a swaying birch tree and charges headlong through two red lights and illegal crosstraffic and pulls up to their corner. he helps the lady past the puddle with mild success and pours her into the cab.
her house, it turns out, is a 30 dollar cab ride with a generous tip. the lady breathes crisp fresh flapping island highway air and regains enough composure
to re-invite him.
-one of the flippers on my pinball machine quit flipping
-i never knew a girl with a pinball machine
-it’s a rita hayworth pinball machine but it’s very frustrating.
-i keep my tools in the desk drawer
-oh that’s too bad. the flipper doesn't work.
up the steps of a brownstone in an area where increasing gentrification erases a rich ghetto history. into the foyer. she throws keys on the table beside the door and exhales.
-heh heh. all mine!
-well. it’s beautiful.
-wait’ll you see the pinball machine
she gives him a walkthrough just like it’s real estate with a venomous distaste for almost every object in the four storey brownstone.
-this is this and that’s that. it’s all just more stuff. oh look over there in the corner isn't that lovely stuff i have displayed for your pleasure? but no no you can’t have any. it’s all mine. come with me there are more interesting things than these.
-things to fix
-these things aren't worth the fixing
higher up they go the more the stairs creak. it’s the first time this lady took him home.
-ta da!
-ta da.
it’s the top floor almost exclusively bedroom. there stands rita hayworth all aglitter with flashing lights and bells. he approaches. takes a quarter from his pocket. into the slot. she lights up. the result is one of the flippers doesn't work. what can be done?
-well, what do you think?
-i didn't bring my tools
-maybe i have some tools
-maybe?
-well you never know. but i’ve never fixed anything.
-then they wouldn't be in this room
-not unless i was fixing rita hayworth
-you said you never fixed anything
-exactly
-maybe in another room or not at all?
-if they’re in another room they’re just stuff.
she seduces him blithely by the glittering light of rita hayworth.
-do you have any red wigs?
-wigs?
-yeah. more than one would be best
she opens a door and disappears. she emerges from the walk-in closet in a ferocious red wig. a second red wig dangles from her tiny mitt. she brandishes it and flings it at his shaved pate.
verily they tear every stitch from their writhing bodies. they leap around the room in an elaborate dance of avoidance punctuated by rendezvous in motion culminating in a song. a duet by the fireplace.
it really gets going when he tosses her on the glimmering glass of the pinball machine. they circulate like monkeys bent on tilt.
it’s the extra flipper. the third flipper that doesn't work. the one high up on the machine used to shoot the moon.
the machine jangles and flashes. they rack up points by punching the buttons on the side of the machine with toes or thumbs or tongues. it is an astounding feat.
the congress disturbs the inner workings of the pinball machine enough to knock the spring or stuck sprocket back into whack and suddenly the third flipper clatters in tandem with the rest and more bells and lights flash.
the lady’s face is mashed against the glass. smeared like a teenager on a plate glass window.
-it works! oh. it works!! shoot the moon. you’ve just got to shoot the moon!
there’s a long ramp at just the right angle from the third flipper that leads up to the boldest and biggest jackpot in pinball mythology. a tintinnabulation of whistles, lights and bells. a fierce cacophony of reward.
oh rita hayworth. gene kelly was always too much better than the rest to really dance with anyone but himself.
oh rita hayworth. how you glitter and shine like the moon.
shoot the moon rita hayworth. travel among the stars.
gigantic nuclear furnaces lighting a lot of nothing in between.
-shoot the moon!
she wails and it is thankful glass does not shatter.
he beats a tattoo with his big toes on the buttons. the flippers batter the streaking ball to tall corners of rita hayworth’s domain. the machinery wings the gleaming bearing screaming back as points ring high.
the first time the third flipper connects it wings the ball off into a shooting gallery of bounces and bumpers. another time the ball makes it half up the ramp, loses gumption and rolls back down.
after a thousand deflections the chance to strike the shining sphere with the third flipper comes again. the ball hits the flipper on the sweet spot. the weight can be felt in the button. even by a big toe. it is such a strong and right-aimed shot it shuttles up the ramp by means of pure speed in the metal, plastic and glass vacuum of the pinball machine free of all tokens of friction. it happens once in the repetitive manner of slow motion sports replays. and the moon is shot.
all manner of bells and confetti and carnival charm are revealed as rita hayworth reaches the apex of pinball delight.
-shoot the moon!
-i did
-shoot the moon!
he sees there’s no point in arguing and keeps the game going on the increasingly slippery pinball machine. he gives it one last all-out effort as bells and bulbs explode in ecstasy and he and she collapse panting like olympians.
slowly they slide off rita hayworth to the soft deep shag carpet.
after a few barrels worth of heavy breathing he aims at speech.
-i fixed it
he hears a rumble and feels a vibration deep in the house even in the plush shag, that he figures is a subway or something smaller and more devious.
yes the sound bears subterranean fruit. the sound is that of a very special door from a tunnel to the basement of the house.
she slaps her flat hand on his ass in surprise.
-oh shit!
-huh?
-my husband
-your husband?
-we’re separated but sometimes he drops by
-from the basement?
-there’s a secret entrance
-umm... cool
-he’s a superhero
-so, i’m in trouble
-yes
she nods gravely. her emotion doesn't make him feel any better.
-wow. i’ll get my pants. i cant stand up to a guy in spandex without pants.
-maybe you should go commando. he doesn't have the guts to fight crime naked
-he’s a superhuman adventurer not a pervert
-how do you know?
-i don't. i’m guessing. but you wont be gasping and clutching something to cover your shameful bosom when he comes in.
-no
-better after the fact than in the act
-it doesn't matter.
-i wish i had some boots
he lights a cigarette and leans against the side of the pinball machine.
-how come he drops by when you’re separated?
-he drinks. sometimes it’s a problem.
he smokes.
-honeeeey? honey. honeeeeeeyyyy? hello? anybody? are you here? am i? is this all really happening?
this message wafts up the stairs as a note to the superhero's forward progress. steps creak. finally a soft knock comes at the door.
he ashes on the shag. she clears her throat.
-go away.
-is there someone else in there?
-of course there is. go away!
the doorknob turns. the superhero is drunk.
-how can you do this to me again?
-you wouldn't know i was doing it if you stayed away.
-who is this guy?
-i fixed rita hayworth.
-wow. how’d you do it? i took my tools when she kicked me out. she never fixes anything.
he points his chin at the lady. not rita.
-call it a knack.
the superhero adjusts his cape. the man leaning against the pinball machine scratches his temple and realizes he’s still wearing the wig.
-excuse the wig. it’s been a busy night.
he takes it off and leaves it in an unceremonious lump atop the pinball machine.
-listen, uh, sorry about all this. at least i knocked.
-here’s my card. that’s my day job but this number is good. call me. i fix things.
-wow. i’m glad you fixed rita. i’m not very good with mechanical things. super strength can be imprecise when you’re nervous about it.
-there’s nothing more satisfying than fixing things.
-very little. i’ll leave you two alone now.
-pleased to be of service to you.
-thank you very much.
-thank you
she throws a red velvet pillow. the gold corner tassels pinwheel and slap the superhero’s face.
-go away!
-goodbye darling.
always he cuts things close. nails to the quick. hair to the scalp. razor to wit.
nail clipping possesses a strange sensation of self-mutilation. an odd sort of sharpening the talons that cuts them short. dulls them down. makes them impotent talons.
so he heads to work. ah the subway. he has a paper cost a quarter. wakes you up of a morning like coffee or an apple. sensational headlines, mistakes and lies. he skims politics and pedophiles. wonders where they secret merge. too many colorful adjectives tint the truth a reminiscent yellow.
sports section is benign. funnies are the best part. horoscopes are obsessing. read them all and attain a clear balance of hogwash. the sports section is benign. pseudoheroes compete, prevail. many fail. op/ed is strictly off limits. absolutely infuriating.
door swings open down the end of the car. makes for a more authentic experience. a loud clattering ride. and then he’s almost there and he gets to stop staring at people over the newspaper. not often he’s wholly acknowledged by a stranger past assault or insult. through a throng of goers and up myriad steps out of the deep ground. where all the ground is tunnels hundreds of feet deep. bright sun glints off his reflective sunglasses. shaves his head. works in an office. writes informative pamphlets. occasionally he manages to slip some wit into the driest demonstrational illustration.
he mastered the office machines. no halfass fumble through technology. even master of the obsolete. this all keeps him popular in the office. a man who can handle machines.
-please can you help me tame my machine?
-a chance to do something with my hands
obediently he endeavors make the machines obey. success is common.
he is proud of his mechanical metaphorical mastery. he works hard for the minimal proofs of his expertise. they enjoy his toils. the ladies of the office would take him to bed. they ask him to drinks for his gallant effort. which begins with turning the machine off and turning it back on. the best way to fix most electronic devices when they elect malfunction.
several of the office ladies have taken him to their beds. all on the basis of his rectifying paper jams and rebooting PCs. shutting off a powerstrip and turning it back on. anything to keep from thinking about what his job really is. but truly he has to give the shaved head some credit.
machines mean never to sleep. cuddle up to the hum and glow of such luminaries as toasters and obsolete floppy drives. such heated emissaries of the light of technologies.
-pleased to meet ya. my tummy grumbles. what can your peculiar brand of advancement do for me?
the response might look like: C:\ > with a flashing cursor.
invariably inevitably ostentatiously obstreperously they break down. machines crumble. they are assailed by misfortune, misuse and malfunction.
ah the relief, that, in an office, trouble is mostly operator error. (it was the pilot ran that paper shredder right into the ground. he shoulda wore a parachute.) or some breed of media jam. or something replenishable dissipates to nonexistence.
how much did he fix? how much does he fix? if it cant be fixed there are form and applications to enable replacement. how much does he fix? he keeps a little tool kit in the bottom drawer of his desk. better than carrying them on his person and interrupt the lines of his slacks.
‘power cycle’ is what they technically call it when you turn something off, wait a few seconds and turn it back on. he learned that from the IT guy. a ponytailed middleage smiling man of lebanese extraction with a penchant for complex nomenclature, pot and russian girls. call him joe.
this joe. this IT guy. there’s a fixer.
but our main character, the hero of our tale, nameless here like evryman. lets these ladies take him home when he’s fixed their machines and happy hour lasts 4 or 5.
-shit! who’s gunna drive me home?
-don't you ride the subway to work?
-do you think you could drive?
-where am i going?
he walks from the corner hopping the puddle in the gutter and scans the scant traffic of the avenue. he sees it a couple blocks away. the taxi sees his arm dance through the air slow like a swaying birch tree and charges headlong through two red lights and illegal crosstraffic and pulls up to their corner. he helps the lady past the puddle with mild success and pours her into the cab.
her house, it turns out, is a 30 dollar cab ride with a generous tip. the lady breathes crisp fresh flapping island highway air and regains enough composure
to re-invite him.
-one of the flippers on my pinball machine quit flipping
-i never knew a girl with a pinball machine
-it’s a rita hayworth pinball machine but it’s very frustrating.
-i keep my tools in the desk drawer
-oh that’s too bad. the flipper doesn't work.
up the steps of a brownstone in an area where increasing gentrification erases a rich ghetto history. into the foyer. she throws keys on the table beside the door and exhales.
-heh heh. all mine!
-well. it’s beautiful.
-wait’ll you see the pinball machine
she gives him a walkthrough just like it’s real estate with a venomous distaste for almost every object in the four storey brownstone.
-this is this and that’s that. it’s all just more stuff. oh look over there in the corner isn't that lovely stuff i have displayed for your pleasure? but no no you can’t have any. it’s all mine. come with me there are more interesting things than these.
-things to fix
-these things aren't worth the fixing
higher up they go the more the stairs creak. it’s the first time this lady took him home.
-ta da!
-ta da.
it’s the top floor almost exclusively bedroom. there stands rita hayworth all aglitter with flashing lights and bells. he approaches. takes a quarter from his pocket. into the slot. she lights up. the result is one of the flippers doesn't work. what can be done?
-well, what do you think?
-i didn't bring my tools
-maybe i have some tools
-maybe?
-well you never know. but i’ve never fixed anything.
-then they wouldn't be in this room
-not unless i was fixing rita hayworth
-you said you never fixed anything
-exactly
-maybe in another room or not at all?
-if they’re in another room they’re just stuff.
she seduces him blithely by the glittering light of rita hayworth.
-do you have any red wigs?
-wigs?
-yeah. more than one would be best
she opens a door and disappears. she emerges from the walk-in closet in a ferocious red wig. a second red wig dangles from her tiny mitt. she brandishes it and flings it at his shaved pate.
verily they tear every stitch from their writhing bodies. they leap around the room in an elaborate dance of avoidance punctuated by rendezvous in motion culminating in a song. a duet by the fireplace.
it really gets going when he tosses her on the glimmering glass of the pinball machine. they circulate like monkeys bent on tilt.
it’s the extra flipper. the third flipper that doesn't work. the one high up on the machine used to shoot the moon.
the machine jangles and flashes. they rack up points by punching the buttons on the side of the machine with toes or thumbs or tongues. it is an astounding feat.
the congress disturbs the inner workings of the pinball machine enough to knock the spring or stuck sprocket back into whack and suddenly the third flipper clatters in tandem with the rest and more bells and lights flash.
the lady’s face is mashed against the glass. smeared like a teenager on a plate glass window.
-it works! oh. it works!! shoot the moon. you’ve just got to shoot the moon!
there’s a long ramp at just the right angle from the third flipper that leads up to the boldest and biggest jackpot in pinball mythology. a tintinnabulation of whistles, lights and bells. a fierce cacophony of reward.
oh rita hayworth. gene kelly was always too much better than the rest to really dance with anyone but himself.
oh rita hayworth. how you glitter and shine like the moon.
shoot the moon rita hayworth. travel among the stars.
gigantic nuclear furnaces lighting a lot of nothing in between.
-shoot the moon!
she wails and it is thankful glass does not shatter.
he beats a tattoo with his big toes on the buttons. the flippers batter the streaking ball to tall corners of rita hayworth’s domain. the machinery wings the gleaming bearing screaming back as points ring high.
the first time the third flipper connects it wings the ball off into a shooting gallery of bounces and bumpers. another time the ball makes it half up the ramp, loses gumption and rolls back down.
after a thousand deflections the chance to strike the shining sphere with the third flipper comes again. the ball hits the flipper on the sweet spot. the weight can be felt in the button. even by a big toe. it is such a strong and right-aimed shot it shuttles up the ramp by means of pure speed in the metal, plastic and glass vacuum of the pinball machine free of all tokens of friction. it happens once in the repetitive manner of slow motion sports replays. and the moon is shot.
all manner of bells and confetti and carnival charm are revealed as rita hayworth reaches the apex of pinball delight.
-shoot the moon!
-i did
-shoot the moon!
he sees there’s no point in arguing and keeps the game going on the increasingly slippery pinball machine. he gives it one last all-out effort as bells and bulbs explode in ecstasy and he and she collapse panting like olympians.
slowly they slide off rita hayworth to the soft deep shag carpet.
after a few barrels worth of heavy breathing he aims at speech.
-i fixed it
he hears a rumble and feels a vibration deep in the house even in the plush shag, that he figures is a subway or something smaller and more devious.
yes the sound bears subterranean fruit. the sound is that of a very special door from a tunnel to the basement of the house.
she slaps her flat hand on his ass in surprise.
-oh shit!
-huh?
-my husband
-your husband?
-we’re separated but sometimes he drops by
-from the basement?
-there’s a secret entrance
-umm... cool
-he’s a superhero
-so, i’m in trouble
-yes
she nods gravely. her emotion doesn't make him feel any better.
-wow. i’ll get my pants. i cant stand up to a guy in spandex without pants.
-maybe you should go commando. he doesn't have the guts to fight crime naked
-he’s a superhuman adventurer not a pervert
-how do you know?
-i don't. i’m guessing. but you wont be gasping and clutching something to cover your shameful bosom when he comes in.
-no
-better after the fact than in the act
-it doesn't matter.
-i wish i had some boots
he lights a cigarette and leans against the side of the pinball machine.
-how come he drops by when you’re separated?
-he drinks. sometimes it’s a problem.
he smokes.
-honeeeey? honey. honeeeeeeyyyy? hello? anybody? are you here? am i? is this all really happening?
this message wafts up the stairs as a note to the superhero's forward progress. steps creak. finally a soft knock comes at the door.
he ashes on the shag. she clears her throat.
-go away.
-is there someone else in there?
-of course there is. go away!
the doorknob turns. the superhero is drunk.
-how can you do this to me again?
-you wouldn't know i was doing it if you stayed away.
-who is this guy?
-i fixed rita hayworth.
-wow. how’d you do it? i took my tools when she kicked me out. she never fixes anything.
he points his chin at the lady. not rita.
-call it a knack.
the superhero adjusts his cape. the man leaning against the pinball machine scratches his temple and realizes he’s still wearing the wig.
-excuse the wig. it’s been a busy night.
he takes it off and leaves it in an unceremonious lump atop the pinball machine.
-listen, uh, sorry about all this. at least i knocked.
-here’s my card. that’s my day job but this number is good. call me. i fix things.
-wow. i’m glad you fixed rita. i’m not very good with mechanical things. super strength can be imprecise when you’re nervous about it.
-there’s nothing more satisfying than fixing things.
-very little. i’ll leave you two alone now.
-pleased to be of service to you.
-thank you very much.
-thank you
she throws a red velvet pillow. the gold corner tassels pinwheel and slap the superhero’s face.
-go away!
-goodbye darling.
