"Excelsior!" continued
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I was trying to say, ‘Prokofiev’s Fifth!’ “Oh, you–” After she had unbristled from having been set aside, I looked into her eyes. So, I said. That ‘s why you think John Reed is a traitor. She tilted her head to the side. “Why what?” clearly a bit Scotch-dazed. I had her off-balance, a place I always like to be with politics–and, forgive me–with females. Of course, I hold my liquor better than most women. Why do you think John Reed was a traitor? Because he doesn’t mention Stalin? I asked. “That’s one.” She held up a shaky finger. “He also incriminated Stalin for profiteering during the War. Two.” A second finger sprang up next to the first. She then clawed through her purse. “Do you mind if I vape?” No. And that was Trotsky, I said. Then I asked her if she didn’t know about Stalin’s double-agent work for the Okhrana, the Tsar’s Secret Service. She spat an invective at me. It was salty. “Reactionary capitalist lies!” Her vape was strawberry flavored and somehow took me back to youth. I laughed. So passionate,Governor…even doctrinaire! Her fierce look melted into an odd smile. She left the wall and sat down next to me. “Must we be so very formal, ducky?” and stroked my forearm. No. But Chavez? I asked, and pointed to the wall. “Socialism in the Western Hemisphere! That damned #47 stole our legacy from us.” Our? I asked. I wanted to mention Castro and Cuba, but figured that she had a thing with Karen Bass. She knitted her brow. “Come, now,” she said, and pushed my shoulder in a display of faux anger. I brought up to her the brou-ha-ha of her pied-a-terre tax to bail out Mayor Putz down Bowery Way. “Pfah! Those capitalist slobs should be shorn of some fundage.” She swirled the remnants of her drink’s ice cubes around in a brief alcoholic maelstrom clinking like windchimes in a stiff breeze. Aha! I exclaimed. Big property to the farm workers! Factories to the laborers! What’s next, Governor? The Banks? She frowned again. “Stop now! No more ‘governor’. Kitty. KIT-ty.” By the time she had gotten to the second “y”, her face had transformed into a lilting smile with slightly lifted upper lips. Think about it–quite a facial trick-of-the-tail. Nostrils flare. “Especially when you quote VlaDEEmir Illych.” She justified hitting The Rich with a second-dwelling tax. “They can afford it. And I haven ‘t said anything about laborers running factories.” No, you haven’t, have you. I said. Kitty. That brought out a smile. “No.” No, what? “Just no! Now, scoot over here.” I tried to bring the conversation to the Mayor, but she became immediately prickly. “Now look here, handsome, you can’t fault him. He has PLANS for the city. There just wasn’t enough money.” I grinned. There never is, is there, Kitty? Again she slapped at me with feigned fury. I waved my finger into the air and lifted my chin. Listen! RIGHT THERE! Those notes were a tribute to LVB, 9th Symphony, intro to 4th movement…Now, gone….”Oh…..” she said, leaning into Prokofiev. Next page
I was trying to say, ‘Prokofiev’s Fifth!’ “Oh, you–” After she had unbristled from having been set aside, I looked into her eyes. So, I said. That ‘s why you think John Reed is a traitor. She tilted her head to the side. “Why what?” clearly a bit Scotch-dazed. I had her off-balance, a place I always like to be with politics–and, forgive me–with females. Of course, I hold my liquor better than most women. Why do you think John Reed was a traitor? Because he doesn’t mention Stalin? I asked. “That’s one.” She held up a shaky finger. “He also incriminated Stalin for profiteering during the War. Two.” A second finger sprang up next to the first. She then clawed through her purse. “Do you mind if I vape?” No. And that was Trotsky, I said. Then I asked her if she didn’t know about Stalin’s double-agent work for the Okhrana, the Tsar’s Secret Service. She spat an invective at me. It was salty. “Reactionary capitalist lies!” Her vape was strawberry flavored and somehow took me back to youth. I laughed. So passionate,Governor…even doctrinaire! Her fierce look melted into an odd smile. She left the wall and sat down next to me. “Must we be so very formal, ducky?” and stroked my forearm. No. But Chavez? I asked, and pointed to the wall. “Socialism in the Western Hemisphere! That damned #47 stole our legacy from us.” Our? I asked. I wanted to mention Castro and Cuba, but figured that she had a thing with Karen Bass. She knitted her brow. “Come, now,” she said, and pushed my shoulder in a display of faux anger. I brought up to her the brou-ha-ha of her pied-a-terre tax to bail out Mayor Putz down Bowery Way. “Pfah! Those capitalist slobs should be shorn of some fundage.” She swirled the remnants of her drink’s ice cubes around in a brief alcoholic maelstrom clinking like windchimes in a stiff breeze. Aha! I exclaimed. Big property to the farm workers! Factories to the laborers! What’s next, Governor? The Banks? She frowned again. “Stop now! No more ‘governor’. Kitty. KIT-ty.” By the time she had gotten to the second “y”, her face had transformed into a lilting smile with slightly lifted upper lips. Think about it–quite a facial trick-of-the-tail. Nostrils flare. “Especially when you quote VlaDEEmir Illych.” She justified hitting The Rich with a second-dwelling tax. “They can afford it. And I haven ‘t said anything about laborers running factories.” No, you haven’t, have you. I said. Kitty. That brought out a smile. “No.” No, what? “Just no! Now, scoot over here.” I tried to bring the conversation to the Mayor, but she became immediately prickly. “Now look here, handsome, you can’t fault him. He has PLANS for the city. There just wasn’t enough money.” I grinned. There never is, is there, Kitty? Again she slapped at me with feigned fury. I waved my finger into the air and lifted my chin. Listen! RIGHT THERE! Those notes were a tribute to LVB, 9th Symphony, intro to 4th movement…Now, gone….”Oh…..” she said, leaning into Prokofiev. Next page
Tomayto....Tomato
5.