I’m Allergic To Phosphorus
There was something familiar about her house. That is not to say that I had ever been there before or had ever been anywhere quite like her home before. It had a familiar quality to it- like a Dentist’s office. Everything was cold and sterile and in the right place. It was meticulous and orderly, and not particularly warm.”You’re a Leo,” she said. “The Lion. That means you’re independent. A leader.”
“I’ll never trust an astronomer,” I said.
“Astrologist.”
“Whatever.”
“You’ve heard the story of the Lion who was afraid of the mouse?”
“Are you that mouse?”
“I’m a great white hunter.”
“I didn’t know this was going to be about sharks.”
“It’s not.”
She reached her hand to the sky and pulled down the moon and poured it into two pint glasses. The moon had a rough taste to it like Metamucil. Fiber, I suppose. My lip curled and I set the pint glass down. I wasn’t trying to offend my host but the moon was not easy on my stomach.”Can I offer you the stars in the sky?” She asked.
I thought about it. They looked like big white light bulbs and they blinded my eyes just as easily. She kept the stars on a dimmer switch and kept making them go up and down.
“I’m allergic to phosphorus.”
“Bullshit.”
“No, it makes me break out in hives.”
I don’t believe that she trusted me, but by that point it didn’t matter. We sat there at the table, talking, as she finished up my glass of the moon. She also told me all about the circus. 1945 had been a strange year for her. She had gotten her first rocket car and had a robot dog sidekick named Warren. They spent their time together solving mysteries and having adventures. They traveled across the United States riding the rails and seeing the countryside while the war in Europe and the South Pacific raged on and then ended explosively.
I nodded my head and realized that I needed to leave.
“Kids these days just don’t understand. They have no respect. They’re wild. They don’t listen to rules. They don’t respect their elders. They don’t respect establishments. They don’t respect their parents’ hard work.”
The newest news isn’t news at all.
She polished off the pint of the moon and showed me the door. It was a wooden door with a peep hole and a doggy door at the base. She unlocked the locks and unhitched the chain and opened the door for me.
“This will get you into the back of my mind,” she said. “Don’t catch your ass on it on the way out.”
“Your mind?”
“The door.”
“My ass?”
“Don’t be rude, I’m older than you are.”
This was very true. She was 200 years old, though she didn’t look a day older than eighty-seven. I wouldn’t put it past that woman to lie about her age.
I walked through that door into the wildest garden I have ever seen. She was growing fetuses on a vine that wrapped all the way up a wooden fence. The fetuses looked ripe as tomatoes and were round and red. Every now and then the plant moved when a fetus kicked. There was celery in gigantic, leafy, purple stalks that looked like the columns of Roman ruins. At the center of the garden was a very large crop of cannabis. The buds looked electric green and my eyes watered in amazement.
“That’s medicinal!” she shouted from the porch.
I laughed and snapped one of the purple stalks of celery off a plant. It tasted all right, though sort of like iodine. Perhaps that explained the purple coloring.
Towards the back of the garden was a fountain with a statue of Huckleberry Hound. In my mind I could hear him singing “Oh Susanna”, for in the back of my mind I was singing the same song.
“I’ve come from Alabama with a banjo on my knee.”
There was a girl sitting stark like a cigarette on the lip of the fountain. She was waiting for a light.
“I’m allergic to phosphorus,” I offered.
“Bullshit,” she said.
I shrugged.
“It makes me break out in hives.”
She shook her head. She was testing my patience.
“Do you have the time?”
“Which one?”
“You know what I mean.”
I shrugged.
“Well?”
“I think it’s time for lunch.”
“I want to make love.”
“I’d like a sandwich.”
“Wouldn’t you rather make love?”
“Does it involve pastrami?”
“That could be arranged.”
“Then I’m game.”
She opened up two slices of Rye bread and we crawled in. We covered up in a slab of pastrami and made love. I kissed her neck and it smelled like Dijon mustard. Her mouth and body left an aftertaste behind that can only be compared to the late night diners in my mind. I pressed firmly against her. I entered her like a patron in a new restaurant and she smiled like a hostess.
“I like that,” she said.
“I could use some kettle chips,” I replied.
She nodded and took a bite from the pastrami. I chewed the scenery. It was good. We ate the sandwich and made love like hungry children. We ate too fast and swallowed instead of chewing. We talked with our mouths full. We finished the sandwich and climaxed together. We laid on the counter top spooning. It seemed appropriate to take the form of a utensil when surrounded by jars and crumbs.
“That was delicious,” she said.
“Indeed.”
“Are you going to tell me your name?”
“Is that important?”
“Marginally.”
“I’m Captain Carl Hancock. I’m with the Navy.”
“What’s your real name?”
“I’m Jason Wagner, Pro-Bowler and Public Defender.”
“You’re lying.”
“I’m Donald Timberlake. I won the lottery and quit my job.”
“You’re lying and you’re full of shit.”
“Is this an interrogation?”
“You’re under the lights, stoolie.”
“I’m allergic to phosphorus.”
“Bullshit.”
“So they say.”
She scooped me up in a ladle and dropped me off in a bar with a Saint Bernard. The Saint Bernard was drinking brandy and sitting all alone. He looked happy to have company. Around his neck he wore a small wooden barrel on the end of his dog collar. His coat was shaggy and clean.
“What’s your poison?” he asked.
“Anything but the moon,” I said. “It tastes like Metamucil.”
“They only have the moon here.”
“Then I guess I’ll have nothing.”
“That isn’t an option.”
“Then I guess I’ll have the moon.”
“I guess you will.”
The moon tasted different this time- to my surprise. The taste was pleasant and I drained the glass quickly. The Saint Bernard ordered me another pint of the moon and I drank it down just as fast. At the end of the night I had drank seven pints of the moon. I was not only seeing stars but also seeing constellations.
“This doesn’t taste bad now. I wonder why that is?” I pondered.
“You’re older now,” said the Saint Bernard. “Things will grow on you like that.”
“I guess you’re right.”
“Of course, I’m right.”
The bar closed and the Saint Bernard got in a cab. I just kept walking.
“There’s lights in here,” he said motioning to the back seat.
“I’m allergic to phosphorus,” I said.
“Bullshit,” he barked.
“That’s what everyone says,” I said. “But it gives me hives.”
“I know I’m right though.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because you’re made of filament.”
The Saint Bernard rode off and I kept walking, not sure what I would find next, but feeling fine about that. I walked into the sunset like a cowboy in a spaghetti western. The tumbling tumbleweeds scattered behind me and Orion’s belt shining brightly in the night sky.