♠ ♥ DM XL ♦ ♣
Steven Gulvezan
Seven Virgins
It was the wee small hours of a Sunday morning and the tavern was deserted but for Johnny the substitute bartender and seven old male virgins who sat in a row weeping in their beers. At least that’s what Johnny called them, “virgins”, because Johnny could not imagine these seven bloodless vessels ever entertaining the possibility of passionate love.
The virgins were the antithesis of Johnny’s beloved Angelique – twisted and ugly and ruined where Angelique was perfect and bright and beautiful, hopeless where Angelique was brimming with endless possibilities. Besides, on a dead night like this, if the seven old virgins vanished who would know if Johnny closed the bar early and went home to the warm embrace of his Angelique?
Johnny fixed himself a scotch and soda.
He sipped it, gazing absently at the expressionless face of one of the old virgins and seeing Angelique’s perfect ass.
Inside his head Johnny was kissing that ass when Bill, the old virgin at the end of the bar, stirred to life and spoke.
“You, Johnny,” Bill, the most loquacious of the seven old virgins, said.
Johnny looked at Bill.
Bill laboriously placed a thin fold of dirty singles onto the bar counter.
“Got any more of that stale popcorn?”
Johnny took one of Bill’s singles and scooped a bag of the popcorn out of the popper.
“You got any of that Wonder Bread left?”
Johnny flopped the loaf onto the bar counter.
“Where’s the ketchup?”
This was the most life any of the virgins had shown all that long night. “What sort of a stupid old man’s game are you playing now?” Johnny felt like saying. “Have you been on the bum so long, you senile fool, that you believe popcorn and bread and ketchup will sustain your miserable life?”
And while Johnny watched with disinterest, sipping his drink and thinking dark thoughts, and the other six old virgins stared at their ghostly reflections made holy by the thin string of multi-colored Christmas bulbs hung around the bar mirror, Bill made a sandwich.
Carefully Bill put a layer of popcorn on a slice of Wonder Bread, covered the popcorn with a generous layer of ketchup and put another slice of Wonder Bread on top of it and closed the sandwich.
When he was done he sat looking at the sandwich.
“Did you want a paper plate for that?” Johnny said. Christ, Johnny thought, this guy is disgusting; he’s going to eat that right off of the filthy bar counter of a decrepit joint like this.
Bill shook his head, no.
“Be careful you don’t break a tooth,” Johnny said, trying to gauge from the distance across the bar if Bill had any teeth left in his mouth. Johnny decided that he did not.
Instead of eating the sandwich, Bill slid it to the virgin sitting next to him at the bar. “Hey,” Johnny said, surprised. The old virgin next to Bill, name unknown to Johnny, looked dully at the sandwich.
“You’re not going to eat that?” Johnny said to Bill.
Instead of answering, Bill took two more slices of bread out of the loaf and began making another sandwich.
“I’m going to have to charge you extra for that,” Johnny said.
Bill raised a hand, slowly, and indicated his fold of singles.
“I’m not giving away free sandwiches here,” Johnny said. “This is a place of business, not a soup kitchen.”
Johnny looked down the row of virgins. It seemed as though none of them had touched their beers in a long time. “Anybody want another drink?” Johnny said. They remained silent. “No, well, then maybe it’s time to move along. You can’t just hang around here all night without buying anything.”
There was movement to the left of Johnny. Bill was indicating the two uneaten sandwiches. “Yeah, yeah, you two eat your sandwiches and get going. This place closes up in an hour.”
These old virgins made Johnny nervous. He fixed himself another scotch and soda. He looked at himself in the mirror. He looked tired. He didn’t need shit like this on this stupid bartending gig. If only he didn’t have to put bread on the table for his beautiful Angelique…
When he turned around Johnny saw that the old virgin next to Bill had slid his sandwich over to the third old virgin in line at the bar and that Bill had slid the second sandwich to him. Bill was making a third popcorn and ketchup sandwich.
“This is going to cost you,” Johnny said.
Johnny watched as Bill made seven sandwiches, one for each old virgin, and slid them down until all seven old virgins had a popcorn and ketchup sandwich sitting on the bar in front of them.
All seven sat there, looking at the sandwiches.
“What the hell’s going on? Eat,” Johnny said.
Bill began preparing an eighth sandwich. Johnny quickly glanced down the line of old virgins to see if an eighth old virgin had slipped in when he wasn’t watching. No, it was just the seven, sitting there, dully gazing at their stupid sandwiches.
“Who’s that for?” Johnny said.
Bill slid it towards Johnny.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” Johnny said.
Bill shook his head, no.
“I don’t want that shit,” Johnny said.
Bill raised his hands, as if in a sign of resignation, and when he brought them down again it was to pick up his sandwich and take a bite out of it. Following his lead, the other six old virgins did likewise.
All seven old virgins gummed the soft white bread, the popcorn, and the ketchup with their toothless jaws.
“You guys are insane,” Johnny said. “I need another drink,” he said, turning to the Scotch bottle.
The seven old virgins sat chewing, gazing mournfully at their reflections in the multi-colored bar mirror.
Maybe I should telephone Angelique, Johnny thought. Maybe I should tell her about the bullshit night I’m having.
Occasionally a popping or crunching sound could be heard, or the sound of one or the other of the old virgins swallowing hard.
Johnny couldn’t help staring at them and then, when they were swallowing the last bite of their sandwiches, he couldn’t take his eyes off what he saw reflected in the barroom mirror.
“For Christ’s sake…” Johnny said, backing away from the seven old virgins and his own uneaten sandwich.
* * * * *
Two Poems
At the Corrida in Valencia
“This is how it is,” the old man said,
Sitting and sweating upon the stool,
Taking a nip from the bottle,
Peeking up over the edge
Of the barrier to watch the action in the ring—
“When my time comes,
And it will come
Sooner than I expect,
I’d like to be dispatched
With a touch of grace—
I’d like to go out, recibiendo—
Do you know what that means?”
There was a roar from the crowd.
He looked into the ring.
“See that last pass? The final pass?
The ‘end of the game’ pass?” he said,
Meaning what the matador did with his cape
And the bull,
“That’s not recibiendo—
I haven’t seen recibiendo since—
Maybe since Scott fell in the ring…
He fought to the bitter end…
Perhaps he was a better man
Then I gave him credit for…”
The old man sighed.
“I have seen them come
And I have seen them go.”
He ran his big hand over his face.
“I guess it’s time,” he finally said.
Hand on the barrier, the old man
Rose heavily, and, erect, lowered his great
Head and rocked it back and forward,
Displaying his battered horns.
He looked at me with a touch of arrogance—
With a touch of amusement in his eyes.
“To me, the word means, ‘with great facility’.
Only a very good bull deserves it.
Did I do well enough?
Only time will tell…
As for you, young man, remember this—
Along with youth goes
Certainty…”
He shrugged and turned
And slowly made his way
Down the chute to meet his matador.
Consolation and Five O'Clock Vodka on the Back Stoop of the Golden Arms Hotel
Your life is but a dream…
A foolish game…
The rent, forget it…
The next horse may have your name on it…
The linen writing paper you ordered over the phone
When you were wasted on pills
Has your pedigree embossed so boldly
In cryptic script
On each and every leaf of it…
Why waste it?
Send a letter –
Your life story –
To your old alma mater
Asking for money…
Oh how you miss it,
The school of three wishes…
Don’t worry there’s always washing the dishes
At the Bluebird Diner
If the position has not yet been filled…
Here, in the alley,
Try rearranging the garbage
To make it appear more aesthetically pleasing…
Is there anything good to eat in it?
Don’t worry…
Your life is but a reel of cinema verite
Discarded upon the floor
Or a TV reality show
Or something silly like that…
Perhaps your good fortune
Was mated to a rabbit –
A mage’s wild pet
Who escaped from his net –
That lighted on top of your head…
Wear your luck like a hat
But don’t count on that bunny
He’s just a big dummy
A warm muff when you sleep
A friend to devour when he’s fat