Descant
- Dec 8, 2017
- 5 min read
by Toti O’Brien
He sits on a slight ledge off the wall, his back leaning against the concrete. Dark clothes, a dark baseball hat, dark glasses though it is night time, dark beard cut kind of short.
She kneels at his feet. Her mid-long hair a coppery color — not too bright, almost natural, in spite of its metallic shade. She wears an orange top, though it is winter and freezing cold. Low-waist, tattered jeans.
Her back looks young — something is agile and graceful in its lines, in the interlocking shapes of her hair and T-shirt neckline. Yet a sense of decay is also present. Not sure what conveys it. My study lasts seconds — time for my front lights to shine on the couple, while I cross the diminutive parking lot towards the exit lane.
Slowly, yet not too much: a queue of cars presses behind me. We are all leaving the local thrift store — closing time — loaded with last minute holiday gifts. Christmas has taken us by surprise, or so it seems. The evening is wet, the weather appropriately calling for home, lit fireplaces, thick rugs, cups of tea. We are all eager to hit the road, leave this cramped lot.
***
They don’t share our frenzy. There’s no hurry in the scene my headlights reveal. They (those two) don’t need to go home. They are at home. Namely, they are in their bedroom.
I realize it on second two: she is giving him a blowjob. On the calm side, not less focused. Concentrated. Devoted. Second one saw me dumb, jaw dropped at the beauty of the unexpected tableau. The figures (connected, then spreading — a large tree taking roots) struck me like a painting would have, a Renaissance masterpiece dumped besides the Donations door, propped against the concrete for visitors’ sake.
This is where they are: besides the Donations door, now closed.
They strike me like a sculpture, in fact. Such strong composition, so plastic. His abandon. Her intentness. The vibration. The silence. Michelangelo’s Pietà flashes through my mind. It will come back later, obsessively. I am looking at a somehow reversed Pietà — same sacred authority.
The lane turns right. I pass them so close I could roll down my window, poke her back. Of course not. I am not even sure they are real.
***
What about this wonder I feel? Same elation as when I spot a rainbow, or the full moon. Same awareness of miracle, seizing me when I surprise a wild animal — deer, fox, wolf, rare bird. Fugitive encounters, fleeting visions that won’t last, because they aren’t supposed to. Things I don’t possess, can’t peruse at my wish. Beings who don’t belong, never will. I only meet them by chance, which is ungovernable and precious. Therefore I am in awe, bewildered by the wild.
I am ecstatic, right now, like when I spot a wild animal and some of its freedom befalls me, spilling over me as a contagion — alas very short-lived. My response is always the same, unmistakable: my chest seems to explode, ribs scattered everywhere. I envision a flock of small birds escaping like dynamite. I feel weightless, levitating, aerial. It doesn’t last— yet I try to take a snapshot of this state, just as my headlights captured the couple minutes ago. I will need it (this feeling) to brighten the Holidays. I will try to remember the scene, over and over.
***
They were sacred. That’s why my chest burst. “Separated” is what the word “sacred” means. Like “saint.” Both mean “sectus.” Cut.
They were not in this world. They knew nothing of their surroundings, couldn’t care less about it. Time had visibly stopped. They had annihilated the universe — enclosed in a magic circle of car lights, then swallowed by obscurity.
How long will it take for someone to call the police? Will anyone? On the hopeful side, the sight is too rapid, coinciding with a sharp turn into the exit lane, demanding careful attention. Also, surprise will delay reactions. Someone walking by might have the opportunity of being outraged, picking the phone and dialing. But folks walk to their car directly from the store, and the lot is almost unlit.
Still, how many cars will it take until someone will denounce obscenity in a public place? Maybe they will be done by then. Though I gathered the impression they might never. Again, I suspect they aren’t real. A film loop. A projection. Mirage.
***
And what does obscenity mean? “Out of sight.” Something that shouldn’t be seen, we are taught. But the “shouldn’t” part is nowhere. “Out of sight” is what the term signifies.
Something we don’t usually see because it stays hidden, in the wild. Or it is a nature portent, happening when and where nature pleases. Flowers blooming in the desert. A green ray at sunset. An anomalous ocean wave — unnoticed unless you happen to be there. Behave, then. Remember it’s private. It is secret. I mean sacred.
Behave. It’s a blessing. Show reverence. Do not call attention. If you do you’ll be accused of obscenity, for you would have seen what you weren’t supposed to. If you name it, you will spoil its innocence. And yours. Do as if you weren’t there.
***
They might be finished by now. Might have gone. Perhaps to the adjacent lot? Their homelessness was patent.
Will they wander from door to door, seeking shelter for the night?
***
She is about to deliver. Someone let them use the stable till dawn. What an uncanny place. The animals have already surrounded them. Curious, maybe suspicious. After all she has picked the manger for her filthy business. Look at that. Hear — she screams like a pig.
The animals are agitated, uneasy. They breathe anxiously — vapor coming out of their nostrils — nervously hitting the dirt with their hooves. The pungency of blood is exciting them.
Blood is everywhere. Uncaring of cleaning, she has wrapped the pink thing in her shawl. Now she is cold. But the animals are warming her up with their steam — clouds of stinky vapor. The stench is so strong it becomes comfortable, cozy, like medicine.
Her mate just fell asleep with his mouth wide open. She sticks her dripping nipple in the wailing thing’s mouth, while the animals keep hitting the dirt, lifting dust. Dust encloses them, protects them.
Outside, a shooting star pierces the sky like an indecent spotlight. It’s a comet. “Tchalai” — star of the Gypsies, a travelling aster. But who wants publicity in such mess? Please leave us alone. Sorry, Mary, there will be spectators, the scriptures said. Shepherds. Kings loaded with gifts. They’ll come by, driven by the star shine. They’ll stop by the door, perplexed, seized by a weird feeling of both discomfort and awe. They will not be so sure of what they just saw. What was it, again? They will resume the road.
Toti O’Brien is the Italian Accordionist with the Irish Last Name. She was born in Rome then moved to Los Angeles, where she makes a living as a self-employed artist, performing musician and professional dancer. Her work has most recently appeared in The Write Place At The Write Time, Sundog Lit, Aji Magazine, and Apt.
