It all reminds me of Tony Franks. Tony is obsessed with his thinning hair. He wears baseball caps to work. He won’t sit under strong halogens fearing they’ll illuminate his pale scalp. He leaves meetings at the very minimum two to three times to check his hair. He looks in windows to catch his reflection. When he’s nervous about his hair, his heart beats more quickly than a gang of midgets running up the stairs. He can’t breathe when he thinks about his head. He uses special voluminous shampoo. He refuses to condition. Conditioner means grease. Grease means clumped hair. Clumped hair means easily perceptible scalp. Scalp means bald. Bald means no sex. He reads hair-replacement articles. He kisses male models in Rogaine advertisements. He uses his fingertips to place each piece of hair meticulously in an arranged pattern. He pushes his hair forward. He grows the sides long and sculpts them to cover his recession.
Tony is gay. Tony is short and gay. Tony is short, gay, and Polish, but thinks he is a minority because he is bald.
Tony’s boyfriend is a poet and a mailman. His ass is hairy and white. His loose skin is bruised and blanketed by sparse pubic hair. It dangles like a broken watch or a ripped cuticle. There’s a sagging crease at his upper thigh and a blue artery that runs around up to his hip. He’s thin, but his flesh looks dead and cold. His bones are revolting and protruding. His eyes are dark and he has a gastrointestinal problem.
Tony is an engineer. Engineers plan things. They engineer things. Things are important. Tony engineered The World Trade Center buildings. Bin Laden thought that they were important. Tony doesn‘t think Bin Laden is important, but at least he has hair.
Tony is rich. His New York abode is filled with extravagantly ornate gadgets with no true utility at all. He has furnished his apartment with cute trinkets, en vogue stylized commodities, and decorative designer goods. His kitchen is immaculately modern with novel white tiles that line the floor like an open palm holding a pewter refrigerator. There’s affluent culture in his apartment: a narrow glass table that rests under a sloping ceiling, crystal coffee pots, silverware too polished to be for eating, candles that have never been lit, French rugs, German industrialized marble shelves, Italian leathered seats, and a carefully crafted Turkish cedar cabinet filled with a fine selection of American condiments.
Tony’s boyfriend likes mayonnaise. He pronounces mayonnaise like mio-naze. "Tony, dear, would you be so kind so as to get me some mio-naze for my sandwich," his voice raspy like a woodcutter. Tony hates his boyfriend. But he thinks he is too bald to find someone else.
Tony took four years off after his freshman year of college. He worked as a waiter in a French restaurant. He made good tips and said things like Bonjour and Coma Sava. Someone told him once that he was a damned good server. Tony thought that that was sweet. Tony sexed his boss Michele in his back office. His back office is a double entendre. Michele had sexual romp sessions with all his employees. Except for Jamal. Jamal waited tables during the day and was an exotic dancer during the nights. He wore leather g-strings to work so as to save time getting dressed before his night shift. Jamal was a catholic. He wanted to go to Heaven. Jesus Christ hates copulation and so did Jamal.
The first time Tony's grandma bought him a dildo he was eight years old. It was a bulbous purple. The second time was this year, an anniversary gift for Tony and his boyfriend. Tony’s grandma is liberal. She is Hungarian and likes goulash.
Tony used to eat lots of goulash. Tony ate a cornbeef sandwich with swiss yesterday and went and played racquetball with his boyfriend. They kissed after every point and after every serving change. Tongue to tongue, wet and spongy. Tony got cramps. He felt like a woman. They played hard. They perspired and Tony's thinning hair was noticeable. He wore a frayed pink sweatband around his wrist. He liked how it felt when he rubbed it against his brow and softly against his lashes. Tony padded his boyfriend on his rump and rubbed his swollen fingers on the backs of his thighs. They kissed some more, and on the next point Tony served a beauty of an ace, had a heart attack, and died.
Only Tony’s boyfriend went to the wake. Tony’s father was too ashamed of his homosexual son to go; his mother couldn’t bear to see her son, so dead and so gay. Tony and his boyfriend were alone, and it was as if they were in hiding like a bulimic girl in Omaha, Nebraska. Tony’s boyfriend cried at their isolation, their loneliness. He rubbed Tony’s cool cheek and pet his round head that was too big for the pillow in the coffin. He kissed his stiff ear that protruded out leaving a shadow on his shoulder like an erect monument.
As the casket was being closed and removed, Tony’s
grandmother walked under the door’s arch and stood in the cool shadows.
Tony’s boyfriend heard her heels echo against the desolate tile. He wiped
away his tears and smiled innocently as he approached her. He hugged her
firmly, pulling her shoulders into his chest, and told her that Tony had
always loved her and that she had been the only person whom he could relate
to in the family. She nodded lovingly and humbly bowed her soft curly head
in gratitude and respect. She leaned in slowly as if to kiss Tony’s boyfriend
on the cheek and whispered, "Dear, I wanted to tell you something . . .
I need you to let me borrow those two dildos."
B R A V E S O U L S R E C E I V E
A Totally Revised Version Of
BRYSON NEWHART'S WINDOW MOUTH
Is Available Now, Although The Author Wouldn't Say
Totally Revised As Most Readers Won't Be Able
To Tell The Difference Without Both Texts
In Front of Them, And Also, The Author Believes
That This Annoucement Reveals His Obsessiveness
In A Way That Makes Him Feel Like A Compulsive, Neurotic, Self-Important Loser Who Doesn't Have
Any Friends, Which Basically Is True, But He Doesn't
Want To Encourage People To Realize This If
They Haven't Already Guessed It, & He's Only
Consented To This Long Announcement Because
It Was The Eyeshot Editor's Idea, Who Insisted,
Thinking It'd Be Worthwhile, & Now That It's Here,
The Author Just Doesn't Know What To Think About Anything Anymore, But He's Willing To Be Optimistic,
Though He's Currently Hugging Himself
In A Theoretical Straightjacket
An Unauthorized Compilation
Meta-tags Swiped From the
Source Codes of A Few Websites
B. Rooney Leshe