I sucked it up, reverently and physically, finished off the Jack and Seven I had switched to, and made my way over, watching her notice my approach from the corner of her eye and doing her best to stay as cold as possible...”black butts make good book ends”. Again. This insane iambic refrain was running through my banal mind as I got closer...a last ditch mantra to try to will some cool into my veins...my neck felt like it was fastened in a wooden cangue and my mind was caught in a bad infinity...I was listless and vile and in spite of it all, I said "Hello, Michael," (hand out) "What’s your name?" Nothing. No smile. A slight nod of the head. Enough to keep me going. “Do you have a name?” That brought a sneer...but words cameth: “Johanna.”
Look away. Total disinterest. She wouldn’t look at me...le vice anglais. Le vice white. “What did Black say to you” I stuttered, laughing uncomfortably and nearly apologizing for my weirdness...She started to show the faint upward curve of a smile at this one, as if her and Blackie had shared the juiciest bit over on me and there I was, capsized in a sea of evil with thousands of years of very major imbalances tipped in my favor but knowing inside that karma had a higher hand over these things than politics or shift-shape morals...ah, a vale, a refrain, an alibi....”Would you like a drink?" We were right up to the corner of the bar and she finally said "Baileys and cream"
Huh. That was a new for me, had heard of drinking Baileys in coffee, but with cream?
"On the rocks?”
Incredulous. I told the bartender to make it a Baileys and cream on rocks and a Jack and Seven and inside I'm thinking, Jesus—two Dylan song birds—first Ramona and now Johanna. Was I headed for some elegant, eloquent choice between the lies, the truth, and the pain? I fiddled with money in my pocket and thrust some on the bar top, the girl behind me, sitting on a stool five sensing the scene…I made a great presentation of this Baileys and cream on the rocks ...she was totally non tactile, taking the drink from me with no overlap of hands or fingers, no skin on skin not a minute too soon or too late, just smooth smooth manipulation of the "lets pretend" school of theory and panel door wisdom…
Johanna, meanwhile, took nickel sips from her drink while I asked her stupid questions, answering in shakes and nods mostly, causing me to pick up the pace of my drinking so that I might bury my head in the nearest ass and be done with chunky motions...I wondered where the sozzled wisdom and beginners luck I had grown so accustomed to was…In the face of black beauty it was nowhere to be seen...However, just when I had reached my often ridiculous limit, she surprised me by speaking. “I'm going to dance. You can come with me if you like.” Literalism. I liked it. Pars pro toto…saying vamanos to my 36 selves and following what I now saw was a really blythe and beautiful visage, as I said, mall white, and smooth with nary a faint line suggesting underwearables of any kind...She moved through the crowd in a historical critical rational manner...
And the humpty dump dance square was moving, nearly ablaze...Johanna fluidly made the transition from pedestrian to spectacle, not missing a single beat...it was as if she was more at ease in motion, whereas I could be caught enjoying a more sedentary repose not quite showing off my junky dance moves...but in this situation there was no choice but to chase a sudden breakthrough, keying the cipher of uncertainty as to where it all might roll to, hips rolling, yes, there were hips rolling when spied down through my tropic goggles, rolling like danger, like aspirin in the palm of the hand, high crack laughing here, this wonder woman moving like water running down a pane of glass...and nothing to do but slide in behind her and behind every action she was about...
-Michael Price
