Beyond the Ferris Wheel

Waternova

Swerving, honking, swerving out of this suffocating storm the yellowblack taxi van speeds up Central Park West and recklessly hangs a louie by powersliding across a patch of muddy ice—four tires spinning, four tires kicking up snow and shit and catapulting the taxi van onto West 77th Street—the van hurtling down a slumbering gully of beatnik prosperity and Ivy League liberalism, a strip of family-oriented wealth flanked by Notre Dame-like museums, doggy daycares, nanny academies, nouveau riche condominiums, Orthodox pubs, retro bookshops, magic theaters, bon vivant private schools and philharmonic playgrounds which whine and grumble, whine and grumble in their sleep as the van emphatically skids to a full stop.

After a credit card swipe and a quickie, the rear passenger door slides open. 

With their coats pulled over their heads two or three shapes leap out of the van and scramble across the uneven sidewalk—leapfrogging over snow angels, leapfrogging over gingerbread nativity scenes, menorah latkes, Christmas caroling vagrants . . .

After a sneeze and another sneeze, one of the shapes yanks open the superheavy doors.

From deep within the beer-thick shadows a gargoyle lifts his atrophied brain out of his glowing smartphone. Tugs an unclipped thumb out of his steroid-inflated nose.

After a shiver and a wardrobe adjustment, the two or three shapes glide into the hypnotic blue glow.

“Wel-wel-welcome, back, Miss, Stru-Stru-Strudel,” the bodybuilder bouncer trying to move his jaw. “Good, to see—you,” wiping a greenblack booger on his ketchup-spotted wifebeater.

“Thank you, Edgar. Has it started already?”

“No, Miss, Strudel. But-but-but it be, heating, up, fast.”

Sophie nods and kisses Edgar on his stone-cold cheek, then grabs Giacomo by his superclammy paw and leads him into the beer-thick shadows . . .

Gropping their way through the dark. Gropping their way through the fermented smells until a mannequin on a spit melts this all away . . . 

Above the alabaster mantelpiece, an oval mirror captures and distorts our favorite superhero’s reflection as he stomps up to the fireplace and reads the words etched into the flame-licked mirror . . . THE DRUNKEN CLINAMEN—FOR MATRYRS ONLY—PRICE OF ADMISSION, ONE EGO . . . Chimera eyes blinking away from what sure as fuck looks to be Helvetica font Giacomo peers down the two or three hazy hallways behind the fireplace. He shakes all of his hydra heads and grunts—“Which fucking way is it? I don’t remember any of this shit.”

Sophie laughs and squeezes his paw. “Yea, you were pretty out of it last time. I still can’t believe they kicked us out of the restaurant. Don’t worry though, we can go either way. They join up eventually. You choose.”

Giacomo grunts and remembers what his pops used to always say about being on the right side of history. Giacomo remembers and grunts left. 

Greengold lamb eyes flaked with layers of laughter Sophie Strudel gives our favorite superhero a peck on his prickly muzzle, adjusts her fur cap, then leads the way . . .

Bone-and-rag torches swishing overhead, the hallway zigzagging, the hallway zigzagging, really tall red doors gleaming on each side, Persian rugs giving way underfoot, giving way to the chemicals conspiring and closing in with the walls, with the walls, a fever microwaving the air . . . 

“Where the fuck is the bar?” Giacomo growling as he looks down and watches his black combat boots leave extra-large craters in the handwoven floor.

“Just a little bit further,” Sophie pulling him down or up the sloping hall. Minutes sliding into memories. Sliding into . . .

Sophie smiles to a stop. “Here we are.” She tap-a-taps on one of the really tall red doors, Giacomo standing behind her and reading the plaque on the wall—THE JOB IS THE VACATION.