The Performance Artist Saga continues.

Poetic Moments in the Betrayal of “Chaws”

“Is that a banana in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?”

In collaboration with Holly Jahangiri. Part One is “Chaws” The Beat Poet by Charles Roast Part Two is The Performance Artist by Holly Jahangiri. This is Part Three.

Turning left at the next alley, I wonder why the hell those coeds with their sexy, hard-ass bodies aren’t doing it for me anymore. While artistically and financially this has been a sweet deal, those coeds, at first were a nice bonus. Now, it seems all they want is sex. And more sex. And then more sex. And public sex.

Ten years ago, I’d have been all over that shit. Now? Weird as it sounds, I need more than just a quivering vagina and lustful coeds.

As I walk further into the alley, I undo my belt and unzip my pants. A man’s voice in the alley comes out of nowhere. “Dude, I’ll do that for ya. . . ten bucks and a pack of smokes.”

I laugh. “Shut up, Willy. One of these days I may take you up on that offer just to watch you run away screaming from ‘Big Dawg’ like a stuck pig!” Willy laughs back.

“Dude. There ain’t nothing in there to be scared of. . .I heard them coeds talking. They were callin’ it ‘Little Chihuahua!’” Willy and I both laugh at that, and I feel some of the tension ease out of my body.

“Seriously, Little Willy. How’re you doing? Everything okay?” I reach into my jeans and pull out the banana that I stuck in my pants just before I went on stage. I started to throw it down the alley.

“Dude! Don’t waste that! I’ll eat it.” Willy started to get up off the cardboard box he was laying on.

“Man, it’s squashed and oozing all over the place. My underwear got soaked from it.”

“Give it here, Bro’. I need the potassium.” I give Willy the banana. He sits back down.

After buckling and zipping, I reach into my pocket and pull out a thick wad of bills, earned from tonight’s play. I peel off about half, several hundred dollars, and hand it towards Willy.

“Here, man. Go get something good to eat.”

“Hey, Bro. Do I look like I need that much money?” he laughs and shows off the new sports jacket he got from the Salvation Army bin he loots occasionally. He is wearing it over his dirty t-shirt and “Holy” jeans.

“Give me fifty, that’ll be enough ’til next time. ‘Sides, what am I gonna do with the extra? Not like I can put it in the bank.” He cackles and takes a swig of his Boone’s Farm Apple wine, then hands me the bottle.

“They still make this stuff? What happened to your Two Buck Chuck?” I take a swig and hand it back.

“It’s now “Four Buck Chuck. This stuff is $1.99 at the Wal Mart.”

Willy lays back down after stuffing the 50 bucks in his crotch.

“Hey, man. You sure it’s safe putting the money there. Who knows what diseases it’ll catch down there?” He flips me the bird.

“Go away, man. I need my beauty sleep. ‘Sides, there’s someone waiting for you behind the Jail.” I knew that. Which is why I’ve been dragging this out.

“Be safe, brother.” I walk towards the back alley, putting my roll back into my pocket.

I turn at the corner and see her sitting quietly on the retaining wall, by herself. Stopping in the shadows before she saw me, I stare at her for a moment. It’s been a long time. That turtle neck still looks good on her. I start to feel that tingle that always got me into trouble “before . . .” Before we broke up and went our separate ways. Before I walked away.

She looked over at where I was standing in the shadows. She must have sensed my presence. Huh, I wish. No, more likely she didn’t want to get mugged. Although I pity the poor fool who tries it with her.

“You gonna stand there all night, stranger?”

I walk towards her, staying in the shadows until there were no more shadows.

I speak first, my deep baritone a little shaky,

“Nicci, Nicci, wow in a turtleneck so tight- memories of old”

She speaks,

“Banana in pants or just happy to see me: a wet spot in crotch”

My response:

“Solitary man Alone, not lonely ’til now- he lives with regrets”

Her:

“Now is a moment Life is a series of nows- The past was a now”

Me:

“Marcel DuChamp’s ‘Fraud’ Really? Blue Period drink- Taste like betrayal?”

She yells. “Hey! You left me, remember?” It echoed down the alley, but I didn’t care. I won. First time.

“Just like a woman. . .did you ‘conveniently’ forget why I left? How’s Alice? You girls still together?”

“She satisfies me, emotionally and intellectually. Physically, too. Which is more than you could do?”

“Yeah, well, she has a bigger dick than me.” Uh oh. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

“Who doesn’t?” Handed her the victory on a silver platter.

“Shit. Okay, okay. Thought I had you there,” I said, calmly.

She laughed. “You did. You just don’t know when to shut up.” Now I laughed. If this were ten years ago, we’d be ripping each other’s clothes off and shaggin’ each other’s bodies to exhaustion. But it’s not ten years ago. It’s now.

“Does Alice the Wonderland know you’re here?”

“Alice told me to come here tonight and put on the old act. She said someone here needed to be taught a lesson. Remember, she doesn’t know you.”

“Wait! You mean you’ve never talked to her about me?” Jesus! That’s what eight years of my life is worth to a closet bisexual who had an affair with a female co-worker, then expected me to be okay with it? She wonders why I left.

She just looked at me and smiled that smile. God how I loved her! Love, not loved.

“Hey, I gotta go. It was good seeing you perform again. The ‘pwned’ on the toilet was a good effect. I don’t think this crowd would have understood ‘R. Mutt.’ Tho I could have done without the dick pic.”

She laughed. I hurt.

I turned to walk away. She stopped me with a call.

“Hey! What about the farting on cue? Pretty good, huh?” I stopped and turned back. She looked a little wistful to me, but maybe that was more wishful thinking on my part.

“I always knew that skill would get you places. Where better but the Jail Bar? Oh. And tell ‘the boys’ the wigs look a lot better, but they look like the “Mary Jane Girls.”

She laughs. Who’s wistful, now?

Willy cackles nearby. I stride back up the alley, towards the cackling. Time to drown my sorrows in some Boone’s Farm Apple wine with my buddy.

Little Nicci, lost To me, but not herself- Solitary Man

Chuck Roast is a humorist (“humourist” for those of you who like the “incorrect” spelling)for the publication Illumination, a Top Writer in Satire, and owner/editor/writer of his own Publication, Dad-Bods, which is currently sitting idle while he develops his social media skills and gains more exposure through manipulation of said social media. Here are the links to his accounts, LinkedIn, Twitter. Comments are always appreciated. Thanks for reading. Write On!