Our lady of Vladimir

Published in Interrupture

Late night.  A spartan apartment.  VLADIMIR sits atop a table.  He's middle-aged, dressed in a concert t-shirt and pajama bottoms.  Next to him is a birdcage, draped in red.  The floor is covered with light bulbs.  Every 5 seconds—the shatter of a single bulb.

Vladimir: My neighborhood.  (Pause.)  A report by Vladimir.  (Pause.)  I look out my window and see Abraham leading Isaac to slaughter practice.  It must be 3.  You can set your watch by those two.  I envy them; I never did much with my old man.  By the time he got home from the rubber plant, he was beat.  He'd go up to the roof and drink root beer and teach his parrot fun facts to repeat to Martians or God in case mankind went Poof.  (Pause.)  The waiters from the Indian joint are having a smoke in the alley their restaurant shares with the dry cleaner.  When I was a boy I wanted to become the kind of man who takes his Arrow shirts to the laundromat and carries them home in cardboard boxes.  Instead I'm a lug that stuffs his tandoori-stained tees in the trash compactor, rather than wash them. (Pause.)  Lucas, the pawnshop owner, tapes a sign to his door: Back in 30.  He totes a violin to the park and hands it to its former owner, a man so pale I once mistook him for a pillar of fog.  He'll play, mostly Schumann, until Lucas whistles and the fiddle flies back to its shelf.  (Pause.)  I have this dream: I buy the instrument and convert it into a boat that I sail over the swan pond, tooting my horn at the pale man.  (Pause.)  I know, so cruel—but we can't overcome our dreams.  (Pause.)  Why not?  (Pause.)  Isaac's listening to "Cradlesong," and licking a Creamsicle.  I prefer choco tacos.  Abe's on the cell, getting an earful from God.  But then he smiles and tussles his kid' s hair.  All's forgiven.  Once again.  Ibid, ibid.  Though, the sky looks unpromising—like hard rain.  (He rubs his head against the covered birdcage.)  The parrot settles on my shoulder and squawks: "A Rhode Island Red that was to be a farmer's chicken salad lived 17 years with its head cut off."  (Pause.)  So don't complain.  (Pause.)  No guff.  (Pause.)  Not one word.

The shattering quickens.  



last updated Monday, January 31, 2011 @ 9:36 AM