Monday, June 6, 2011

Rapture

Folks were saying that the world was going to end tomorrow. I decided that this short-sighted philosophy could excuse a last, wild night.

When you think about it, the Rapture is satisfyingly violent – death, sorrow, and supernatural suffering all wrapped up into one, neat, Apocalyptic scenario. Certain people will be subject to murder, torture, and starvation while others will have privilege, power, and peace. I can't imagine such a world, a place where entire countries wallow in disease and poverty while other countries rise above it all... well, at least we had tonight before that would come to pass.

Tonight had me gliding towards the French Quarter. I wasn't sure what I was going to do, but I knew that I needed to get out. I could feel myself reverting back to my reclusive ways, where I'd lock myself away in the apartment, growing more and more restless, contemplating whether I should go out and get food but feeling this weight, this panicky inertia. The last time I'd felt like this had been when I was living in Chicago, and that feeling would often translate into my darting outside for some booze and food before rushing back inside and drink-gorging myself over a video game. I don't know where it comes from or if it necessarily needs a source. I hadn't felt that way since the start of my travels, so it surprised me when it came back. I think it's a paradoxical, lonely-but-wishing-to-be-left-alone mindset that sneaks up on me.

But I was in New Orleans. Tomorrow was the Rapture. I couldn't stand for that.

I jumped on a streetcar and rode it to the end of the line at Canal street. I sat near the front and recalled my first streetcar ride a week earlier and how I had met a stranger, a journalist moving to Massachusetts, who had lent me borrow a book called A Confederacy of Dunces. He had also recommended a 24 laundromat/punk bar near the French Quarter called Checkpoint Charlie's. I decided that would be my pre-Rapture destination as the streetcar conductor halted his route to pick up some cigarettes from a gas station. No one left on board complained about the conductor's temporary, smoking absence, since a random stop suited the leisurely inefficiency of that hulking, rusty red, metal car filled with wooden seats and sliding windows.

After disembarking at Canal, I headed along Royal toward Esplanade. That lonely-leave-me-alone feeling started to evaporate, and I walked with a little swagger. Part of this newfound confidence came from having found my unbreakable glasses of the Apocalypse, which I thought News Orleans had devoured. Recovering my beautiful glasses from underneath the futon in my little brother's apatment earlier that night meant the I could drink more and see farther.

Along a particularly empty part of the sidewalk, a woman walked towards me with a little bit of a stumble. She was a few inches shorter than me with smooth, ebony skin; a narrow, regal nose; long, straightened hair; perky, natural breasts; wide, shapely hips; and a heart-shaped butt that I could've ridden down the Mississippi.

“Hey – how are you doing tonight?” she asked in a friendly, soothing voice. She didn't quite stop her passage but spun halfway around, swaying her hips ever so slightly. I didn't quite stop either and leaned awkwardly while rocking back-and-forth on my heels. We had entered into the opening movements of a negotiable mating dance.

“Hi, I'm doing alright. How about yourself?” I replied.

Good – I still have the rest of the night too – just finished hanging out with my sister at the bar where she works. But I was going to head up to this place for drinks that I know,” she said. I had been worried that she was super-drunk, which would have explained her friendliness. The steady way she spoke and held herself convinced me that she was sober. I could keep talking with this exceptionally friendly girl and not feel like a creeper.

“Sounds nice – I was heading to this 24 hour laundromat/punk bar that someone told me about,” I said.

“Oh, so is that what you got planned tonight? I'm Chanel by the way.” By this time, she had resumed walking. I turned around and walked along on her left side.

“I'm Robert, and it was just an idea, not like I really have anything planned.” We shook hands with the introduction, and she let her hand hang limp in mine while her fingers brushed my wrist. Her dainty mouth puckered and she exhaled; her chest heaved with her next inhale. I watched and throbbed. “How about I join you for some drinks?” I asked.

“OK, I've only been to this place a few times before, but I think I know where I want to go,” she said. I walked beside her, our elbows brushing occasionally. She told me how this was her last night in New Orleans. She lived in Memphis and was here to help her little sister move. She was 26, had two drinks earlier, and wanted to stay out for a couple more hours and a couple more drinks.

The first place we considered was Jimani's, but Chanel decided that it was too crowded when she had thought it would be laid-back. We walked into another place called Dixie's Divas – the name of the place was advertised with a vertical neon sign that had a girl's side profile with the helpful tag “Girls” underneath. We walked inside the dimly-lit dump and sat down at a wide wooden bar while a Hispanic stripper with a wonderful body but worn out face crawled past on her hands and knees. There were two other, semi-attractive strippers walking the floor, and it was the clientele that made me wish I hadn't found my glasses just quite yet.

The bar patrons were mostly men in their early 30s to late 60s, but age didn't stand out as much as their collective, slumped, meek, sadly hopeful demeanor. I wouldn't have stayed in that place for five seconds if it hadn't been for Chanel – she looked even better sitting down, her posture arching her butt and pressing her breasts tight against the fabric of her shirt. I ordered some Grey Goose with a splash of Sprite for her while I got Maker on the rocks

We talked about her family – she was indignant when a teacher failed to help her nephew, so she tutored him on her own. She had a goddaughter that looked just like her and knew how to behave. She showed me a picture of her and her sister hugging on a beach. I started talking about my younger brother. We stopped talking about family when the Hispanic stripper stopped her crawl along the bar in front of us – she began pumping her pelvis against an invisible crotch.

“You should give her something,” Chanel said. I thought that was generous of her, so I handed Chanel a dollar and took out one for myself. I'd been to strip clubs before with my ex-girlfriend, and I liked to watch her proffer the dollar first so that I could follow the angle of approach and pick the same region. Otherwise, I would fumble in giving the stripper her dollar; imagine a drunk trying to smooth out a worn bill to use on a undulating vending machine with too many options.

Chanel tucked the bill into the left side strap of the topless stripper's G-string. I tried to do the same but forgot to fold my bill, so it slid back out onto the bar. I crumpled it hastily and wadded it back into the strap – the stripper's skin was surprisingly chilly but smooth. The stripper took her hands off the bar and rose to her knees before leaning backwards until her butt touched the bar. She did a reverse crawl until she was past Chanel and me; she stopped when a tall old bespectacled man wearing a red-white checkered shirt came up and started putting her left bare breast through a variety of different stress tests. I noticed that my dollar had fallen back out again. I looked at Chanel, and we began to speak about education.

“I used to be in nursing, but I'm doing biotechnology now,” Chanel said. I was impressed. I started talking about how the maneuverability of the common household fly far transcends that of a helicopter and how ants may have been the first farmers with leaf fragments and fungus. I sensed her losing interest and also noticed how she rarely made eye contact.

“So you used to be in nursing? I had a few surgeries in the past few months, got to interact with some nurses,” I said.

“Oh, surgeries for what?” Chanel asked.

“Cancer,” I said shamelessly – if I'm losing the interest of a beautiful woman the night before the Rapture, then yes, yes I will play that card.

“Wow, what type of cancer?” she replied. We made brief eye contact before she resumed looking a little past my right cheek.

“Uh, the Lance Armstrong type,” I said. This prompted a quizzical eyebrow raise from Chanel. “I had a tumor on my right ball, but they caught it... and everything still works fine,” I blurted. I decided that post-Rapture I would not tell any of my potential hook-ups about my redesigned unit. I'm so sick of adding that cheesy disclaimer. From now on, I'll just wait until we're both naked. If there are questions, then I'll answer them from there.

“Wow, well you're fine now, right?” Chanel asked.

“Yeah – what do you think about scars?” I replied, determined to milk at least some capital from having to drop the disclaimer.

“Ugh, no, no scars,” she said. This time, it was my turn to give her a quizzical look. “I mean, it was fine when I was a nurse, but now I can't deal with blood or any of that. I don't know why. Maybe later would be fine,” she added.

“Hmmm yeah, I have a good-sized one, but it doesn't look too bad,” I said. There was an awkward silence, during which I got us another round of drinks. Each round was about $15 plus tip, so I was beginning to get low on cash. I asked the saggy, artificially blonde bartender if they took cards and was told that it was $50 minimum tab. She pointed to an ATM in a dark corner, furthest from the door. Chanel was looking in that direction too, although I wasn't sure when she had turned her head.

As we went through our drinks, we talked about my education. I felt pretty snazzy telling her that I had a B.S. in mathematical biology and was getting a master's in creative writing. I also did my little trick where she told me her phone number once while I memorized it. She clapped her hands lightly and touched my knee when I put the number in my phone and hers rang. Momentum was lost when she asked me about my plans for the future; I started to make something up before shrugging. I toyed with the possibility of making a Rapture joke about not needing plans, but I wasn't feeling smug enough.

We started talking about our bodies. Chanel was worried that her mid-section was too plump; I told that it was just right for wrapping your arm around and showed her. I kissed her cheek; she giggled but didn't turn to meet my lips. We'd only had two drinks, so I headed towards the distant ATM while Chanel followed. I needed her there because it was too dark to even see the number pad to put in my PIN. She held her phone to light my way as I typed in the digits. Then began the longest ATM processing time that I've ever seen and ever hope to witness. Chanel and I had been shifting and talking there for two minutes when the Hispanic stripper came over to join us. She was no longer bare-breasted but wore a top that must have been designed for prepubescent girls. I noticed her only after she wriggled into the crook of my right arm, her left forearm brushing against my crotch while she pulled Chanel in closer with her right hand.

Chanel didn't seem to mind, so we began a linked arm ATM dance that revolved slowly, three sets of eyes keeping track of the processing status. Another two minutes later, the screen shifted to my checking and saving account options. I withdrew $40 when Chanel beseeched me to give our stripper friend $10. We resumed our huddle and made our way to the far end of the bar. Chanel gave me the stripper's name, which I promptly forgot.

I thought for an instant that it was odd that Chanel knew the stripper's name, but that thought vanished when she (Chanel) grabbed my crotch. I slipped a hand from the back between the stripper's legs and traced her wetness with my index finger. She giggled and started kissing my neck while inserting herself between Chanel and me. Chanel slipped off part of the stripper's top and kissed her nipple before drawing back and stroking my hair while I did the same. The stripped writhed between us as my mouth lost contact and started grinding against the seat of my pants. I took a step back for balance and bumped into one of the seated bar patrons, who I realized had been watching us this whole time. Before I could apologize, he slunk off a few seats down the bar. By this time the stripper had pulled down the front of Chanel's shirt and was kissing her dark, silver-dollar sized nipples. I wrapped my arms around her hips with the stripper sandwiched in between and added my own kisses. I may have nudged the stripper a bit to my left side as I started kissing Chanel on the lips. Her thin, shapely lips massaged mine as we resumed our clockwise rotation. My left hand was now the one between the stripper's legs, and I jammed my right hand down the front of Chanel's dark jeans, arching forward to feel the first, fine lines of peach fuzz. Chanel and the stripper were now making out.

“We should go upstairs – they aren't going to keep letting us be like this at the bar,” Chanel said. I turned halfway around to see who 'they' were, and my hand became awkwardly wedged in her pants

“Yeah, $240 for both of us for the hour – you get to do whatever the fuck you want,” the stripper chimed in. I had never been in a threesome before; I wouldn't have gone with the stripper on her own; I was infatuated with Chanel and didn't mind getting to be with her as part of a package deal.

Parts of my mind had been coming to this conclusion several times earlier in the evening, but by now, at 2AM with three drinks and my hands in between two strangers' legs, it was undeniable that both of them were prostitutes. Chanel didn't have a sister, wasn't from Memphis, and didn't give two shits about nursing or biotechnology. And yet and yet and yet – so what? The Rapture was coming, and I didn't have any flight plans.

I freed my hands and clawed my blue debit card out from my wallet. The previous female bartender had been replaced by a saggy man with genuine white hair that covered his scalp and face in a style that seems to have been popular since the middle ages. He reminded me of a past undergraduate humanities professor, except he looked as if he'd be able to use a sawed-off shotgun with minimal regret. I handed him my debit card and ID before resuming my rotating dance with the prostitutes. I wasn't sure how much money was left on the card, since I mostly used it to store additional funds before transferring them to my primary bank account.

“It was declined,” the saggy bartender said. He spoke as if I had taken a crap on the bar before asking for a free drink.

“Try it again,” Chanel demanded. The bartender grumbled but obliged. We kept our dance, but I began to lose my rigidity as it sunk in that I was trying to pay money for something that was supposed to be passionate and spontaneous – rapturous.

“It's declined. It's no good.” The bartender slammed a small clipboard on the bar, and I slipped my ID and blue debit card back into my pocket without putting them in my wallet.

“You know what – if you have $200, then just wait an hour. We've got you,” Chanel said.

“I guess I can check my balance,” I told the prostitutes halfheartedly. We went back to the ATM, and I began to understand why it took so damn long to process.

“You're going get so hard with two girls wanting your dick,” Chanel said while the stripper hovered nearby, not quite joining the dance. I wasn't hard any longer despite her groping. There was this hunger, this greed that seemed pointless with the end of days coming. The ATM finally relented and showed my balance as $75.39. The immediate disinterest from both women was palpable.

“How about you go see if your sister is off work?” I asked Chanel.

“Yeah, go see if your sister is off of work,” the stripper said. She winked stupidly at Chanel. I was led back to the bar and told that the stripper would take care of me. Chanel left – I ignored the stripper and waited at the bar for several minutes because I noticed two guys outside, decidedly not looking at me – one of them had also been at the door of Dixie's Divas when I had come in.

I finally left and went in what I thought was the opposite direction that Chanel had headed. The two guys continued to not look at me and didn't follow. I decided to keep to my original plan of going to Checkpoint Charlie's, the 24-hour laundromat/punk bar, although it was about eight blocks away. I sniffed the fingers of both of my hands along the way. The left didn't smell of anything, so I concentrated on the right, which had a promising, musky, cinnamon odor.

When I made it to Checkpoint Charlie's, there were half a dozen people there, despite it being 3AM. I started speaking to the bartender about what had happened to me earlier, and he laughed as he got me a beer. I made sure that my fingers did not touch the cup's rim as I drank. A heavy percentage of the people there were the level of drunk that usually warrants a bartender refusing to give service. After someone tried to shake one of my hands, I remembered that I should probably wash them.

The bathroom was of the gas station variety, one urinal, one toilet, and a small sink. The sink was clogged, filled to the brim with stagnant water. I turned the faucet on and slid my hands a few inches above the overflowing basin – there was no soap in the bathroom.

I went back to the bar and ordered a glass of Wild Turkey on the rocks. The bartender was one of the generous types that seems more common in New Orleans; he filled the small, plastic cup to the brim. I went back to the sink and spit some of the Wild Turkey carefully on my fingertips – problem solved. I decide to take a tour of Checkpoint's – past the bathrooms was the laundromat, not a gimmick but a dozen washers and dryers that seemed fully functioning. Coming back out, I passed by the bar area once more, which had a kitchen behind and several tables spread out over the extra floor. On the side opposite the laundromat was a raised section that housed a pool table and several windows looking out into the street beyond. Coming back down the stairs, I noticed a jukebox. Yeah, I could get my pre-Rapture drinking done here.

I stuck with Wild Turkey and sent Chanel three text messages:


  1. Thanks for the experience – told you I was a writer and sorry that I already knew the card would be declined. Sorry I couldnt resist :)

  2. Also – tell your friend not to wink – sort of gave it away. Have fun.

  3. One last thing – youre beautiful and smart – you can do better.

By the third message, I was on my third glass of Wild Turkey, and my pickings at Checkpoint were looking slim. There was one kind of cute brunette with small boobs whose nipples showed through her thin, white shirt, but the bartender knew her and wouldn't stop chatting her up. There was also a withered blonde with a decent body, but she looked more worn out than the stripper from earlier.

I realized by then that my blue debit card and remaining cash had been stolen, probably by Chanel. I ordered another Wild Turkey and started bumming cigarettes. Elevated cancer risks would not matter post-Rapture. The only thing that mattered was getting laid, and finally she came.

She was a redhead, thin but curvy with a complexion and demeanor that reminded of a girl I've had a crush on for years now. She wasn't beautiful, but she certainly topped anyone else in the bar. I don't know what we said, but we started kissing. The redhead led me back to the laundromat, and I started fingering her on top of a dryer. I paused momentarily when I noticed that the sun was up outside. She laughed at my confusion and helped me close out my tab at the bar.

“How many condoms do you have?” she asked.

“I only have one,” I said.

“That's not going to be enough,” she replied. When we got back to her place, we soon found out that she was right. We had collapsed on the couch near her door and gone missionary for a bit. She never asked me about my scars, and I never volunteered any information, which was just fine.

“So what if I were to fuck you as is?” I asked, tapping my cock lightly against her inner thigh.

“Then, I'd have to tell you that I have Herpes,” she replied. Something in my expression must've annoyed her because she sat up. “I haven't had an outbreak in, like a year, and it's almost nonexistent. People make a big deal about it, but it really is overrated. You probably won't get it if you do. I just told you so you can decide,” she said.

“So there's not much of a risk, but it's a possibility?” I asked.

“Yes.” I had already had a Herpes scare earlier in my travels, although I'd been safe. Was this an opportunity to overcome yet another pre-Rapture fear?

“Fuck it.” I slid deep inside, thrusting and bit my lip when her hips began answering back. We took it upstairs to her bed, which had a wonderfully creaky metal frame. One or both of us fell asleep for a few hours. I woke up rock-hard, and the real fun began. We didn't screw around with any positions other than missionary, doggy style, and her flat on her stomach while I grabbed the bed frame for leverage. Every time she came, she'd squeeze so hard that it'd literally push me out. I kept at it for as long as possible, trying to make the best out of a bad decision.

As we were recuperating and considering another round, I remembered that I needed to pick my little brother up from the airport. The redhead agreed to drive me back to his apartment, and she was nice enough to drive back to her place when we were halfway there. I had forgotten my unbreakable glasses, which I had only found the night before. We found them lodged under the couch next to the condom wrapper. We exchanged numbers outside my destination, although I knew I wouldn't seek her out again.

I hopped in the shower and began singing while washing my genitals repeatedly. I don't know the lyrics to very many songs, but a few stick out to me, such as “Because I got the Virgin Mary, assuring me that I'm not going to Hell and “Well if I go to Hell, then I hope I burn well.” I beatboxed and tested out each tone, poised somewhere between acceptance and defiance. Why is it that, when we sense something horrible in our future, we have to self-destruct to feel invincible?

Before leaving the shower, I felt for that slight discontinuity at the end of my SuperBall's top vein insertion point. My growing end-of-the-world lump hadn't been Raptured up, and it shifted underneath my thumb. And my heart no longer skipped a beat. And my throat didn't close up. And my breathing remained steady.

After picking up my brother an hour late from the airport, I collapsed on the futon near his door. I slept for fourteen hours but woke intermittently. The shadows outside the door failed to resolve themselves into a pair of horns, and the Rapture passed while the consequences of the previous night began to sink in.

Negative versus positive, benign versus malignant, unspeakable Heaven versus unfathomable Hell - perhaps it all starts right here on Earth, a progression of unknown speed, this fine but blurry line with no discernible discontinuity. There's a capacity to lean in one direction or the other, but there's trouble brewing in that dull, disorienting, in-between state, a false rapture and its concrete aftermath.

No comments:

Post a Comment