Lust Demented

{XXVII}

THE ONLY THING WORSE THAN being alone: Is to never be alone. Columbus Circle lit up with squad cars, firetrucks, and ambulances. I hung on for life at the top of the sculptor’s solid nationalist erection.

“Get off of me!” A Taino spirit was screaming at Columbus.

“I never liked Percy.” Missy admitted rubbing my back in an attempt to coax some sort of agreement out of me.

“Uh.” I said. It wasn’t uh-huh or uh-no. Nothing more than the slight recognition that I heard what she said: The grunt of a caveman that spent his life painting on walls while society was off on their hunt.

“Asshole what’s your name?” An officer was already on the megaphone.

“People usually call me Farrow.”

“The sociopath? The writer?”

“Yeah?” Nobody clapped. I kept waiting, just in case.

“Everybody move away from the area.” The police got organized, pushing people off to the side, but there was nowhere to go. They just all stood around circling the fountain: Staring up at the crackpot writer, drinking their cocoaccinos, yapping on their plastic phones. Cars honking. Sirens whirling. Lips smacking.

“I’m coming down.” My grip was slipping. The drop was enough to maim me, but probably wouldn’t do me in. Lars had to be paying detailed attention from the other realm. Most likely he wrote this scene sipping on milk from a goddess’s breast while scarfing down tarts filled with ambrosia.

“Sir, don’t move. Stay right where you are.”

“Help me.” Not even the three steel boats could stop the slide. I hit each one with an ascending grunt missing NYPD’s finest trampoline by a couple feet. Concrete I knew better than dirt. Somewhere along the line I learned the right way to take a fall.