"DEFENDER"
By Takako Yoshida
Her hair was like a tapestry made directly from the molecules of sun rays captured and held in place here on earth for all to witness-the concentrated beauty of Sol. Alisa's blonde tresses always helped Conrad greet the morning with a satisfied sigh. Looking down on her resting form, symmetrically carved shards of milky marble formed into the slopes and soft arcs of an old world beauty. Yes, Saturday morning was good indeed. Rubbing the stubble on his still drowsed chin, Conrad made his way to the bathroom for his ritual relieving of the holy bladder. Ceremoniously producing his phallus from its cathedral, he silently willed the member into action. Almost nothing, almost, was as good as a morning urine dump. Retiring the sanctified scepter back into its chamber, Conrad flushed. A gurgle. An ominous tremor. Then, aquatic bedlam, right there in their one bedroom apartment. On tip toes, barely dodging the clear pale yellow lava flow now spilling from the toilet, Conrad hopped out of the tiny bathroom cursing. The portents of this had been brewing for nearly a week. Ever since he'd performed a sacred ceremony in the bathroom after last Thursday's vegan experimentation, it seemed the porcelain alter had somehow resented the affront and began stewing silently, awaiting its chance at revenge. That day had come. Dutifully, Conrad went back into the bedroom and began slipping on his jogging pants. "Where are you going?" Alisa mumbled, head still buried in a pillow. "Toilet. Overflow. Drano. I'll be back," Conrad muttered as he stooped over trying to get his Chuck Taylor sneakers on as quickly as possible. "Ooooh, I have to peeeee..." Dating a younger woman was hard. "Two seconds ago you were asleep," Conrad intoned, "you can hold it." Alisa rolled over and groaned melodramatically. Conrad rolled his eyes to heaven, hoping someone was getting all this domestic oppression down for the record. Down on Bleeker street, the Village was slowly creaking to life. Old Ms. Halsted and her cock-eyed poodle Roylan leered at Conrad in unison as they passed him on their way into the building, Roylan offering a half-hearted yip of admonishment over his furry shoulder as the two disappeared into the depths of the structure. Clad in his black hoodie, jogging pants and sneakers, Conrad had to admit, he did look a little menacing in the right light. On that thought, he straightened his posture a bit, and trudged towards the corner bodega. At eight A.M., it was a sure bet to be open, ready to catch those early Sunday New York Times mongers. It had been a few months since he'd been there, but the place looked the same, except for a conspicuous little American flag sticker on the store's glass entrance. Immediately spotting his quarry, Conrad dusted off the ancient bottle of Liquid Drano and headed towards the magazine rack. Britney had upped the ante South to a new 1/5 inch of cleavage on the cover of Maxim. Time's cover featured some wrinkled foreign politico who looked really important, but escaped Conrad's informal grasp of world affairs. And then he saw it. GQ Italia. A nameless beauty, covered in one flowing scarf (was it skin colored, or translucent?), and nothing else. Conrad pulled the magazine slightly out of its place on the rack, and stood back a bit to marvel at Italy's pride. Suddenly, a hand shot out of the corner his eye and violated the soft GQ Italia composition. It was the proprietor, a squat, swarthy man of about fifty. The proprietor roughly replaced the magazine to its former position and haughtily trudged back behind the counter. Stunned, Conrad remained in viewing position while craning his neck to stare at the man. "Yes. That's right," the proprietor sneered. "You don't like, you leave. This not a library!" Conrad remembered the Dr. Gary Null natural healing breath exercise marathon on PBS he'd subjected himself to just last week, and tried to calm himself. "You..." Then he remembered the Ralph Cramden of his childhood, counting to Ten. "You...can't...be...serious...??" |
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