Saturday, May 28, 2005

 

[PB DREAMING TB’S LIFE IN DREAMS]


From the Ark-Hives:

My husband’s name is Patrick, comes from Texas, lived in a tower by the San Antonio Zoo, with his binoculars every morning at breakfast he’d stare down into the open-air locker room of the female attendants changing into their zoo-grey uniforms. White/brown legs, red/chartreuse panties into zoo-grey slacks. It was the braless daze, double your pleasure. He’d visit the zoo Friday afternoons, not for the animals but for the attendants, many of whom he knew by face not name. It was binoculars, not a telescope. “I may have been a peeper, but I weren’t no voyeur,” he sez now in his best Georgia low country whine. Up close though he could make out the names from the auto mechanic badges sewn on their chests. Cindi was the girl – the keeper – of his dreams when he got up close. Brown-nippled, Gauguinesque in zoo-grey, she worked the zebras, antelopes, and elands. Patrick dreamt her at night, in his tower, horned and striped. Wondered, he did, if a trip to the Witte Museum just up the road was too far afield for Cindi, too forward for him. Snatch the McFarlin Diamond, live off the fenced proceeds. This was in the daze before the Lawn Chair Bandit. After the LCB took out the big shiny rock, the Board of Directors at the Witte took out all the rest, right down to the last measly worthless flint. Put up a styrofoam wall commemorating King Tut that collapsed every time the Brackenridge Park miniature train came barreling around the bend. No mountain, though there was an abandoned quarry. Cindi sat on a bench, said no, she had a steady, had he checked out Monika with a K? Patrick blushed, thinking surely they can’t see me all the way up on the 18th floor, thank god he wore clothes behind his breakfast bowl of shredded wheat, then realized (hoped, anyway) it was just an innocent question. With a K, she repeated. You’ll find her in with the snakes, only she’s out this week on accounta she got bit. Cindi didn’t talk like that, but Patrick does now on accounta he’s my husband and this is, after all, my dream we’re havin’. Snakebit?, said Patrick. Husbandbit, and sure enough, Patrick saw it Monday morning, bigtoothed tattoo sliding gingerly into the short left sleeve of a zoo-grey shirt. Thought, too, he saw Cindi conferring with Monika with a K and pointing up his way behind the bowl of frosted flakes (Frosted Flakes were Monday, Shredded Wheat on Friday), but just decided that was wishful thinking. Man in a tower gets to doing a lot of that up on the 18th floor. Rapunzel with a crew cut. Much harder to evacuate when Traci with an i happens by. I wasn’t from Georgia low country for nuthin’. I’d worked the Atlanta Zoo and I knew all about towers and open-air locker rooms. My first day on the job, I had 3 questions for the girls all sleepy-giggly in their panties: 1. Where’s the nearest porto-let? 2. Is the men’s locker room open-air? And 3. Who’s jungle boy up there with glasses behind the bowl of Cheerios? I’d started on a Tuesday. Patrick could tell I was pointing right at him, wishful thinking be damned. That day, his wishful thought had been anything but wishing. After our first trip to the Witte, we sized up the diamond, I said wouldn’t take nuthin’ more than a lawn chair and a quiet pair of shoes and damned if a squeaky pair didn’t get the job done anyway. I gave the girls the spyglasses so they could watch the moon rise every morning for a week of penance.

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