Croc girl meets Florence of Arabia down at the Lavender Laboratory, where a girl can get pretentious coffee made from beans picked high in the hills by female fingers only--guaranteed.
Later, in bed, Croc Girl can't shut up, she's got a big mouth. "Bla bla bla bla bla," she says, eternally, "Bla bla bla," until the moment is lost and Florence of Arabia gets out of bed and starts waving her scimitar around. "Bla bla," continues Croc Girl, hating herself, but helpless.
The next morning, alone at the Lavender Laboratory, sipping some idiotic kind of tea and writing long, dreadfully sincere poetry, Croc Girl feels shitty and realizes her blood sugar is low. Ever seen a croc girl eat? Whole boxes of Debbie Cakes down the hatch at once. Croc Girl sits there, stomach rumbling, hating herself, but helpless.
O for the water. O for careless thirsty creatures whose names she doesn't know. O for croc moms who don't hover, bitching about everything. O for peanuts and Cracker Jack, blue skies and sun all afternoon.
Croc Girl goes down the block to the chain drug store, spending forever in the lotion section, mooning over Olay, Jergens, St. Ives and Burt's Bees until the tears come. "Hold me, I need love," she says, all the time. "GTFO," says everybody. In a low blood sugar rage, Croc Girl sweeps all the stupid lotions onto the floor-- you don't need boardinghouse reach for that.
The next day, down at the Lavender Laboratory, perched in a chair high enough for Seven Foot Billy, the old carnie freak, Croc Girl sits reading a lesfic novel. It's about Raven, or Madison, or Dakota, or some other heroine named after a creature or a place, who had a nasty break-up, moved back to Podunk, reconnected with Sally Silo, and did it 'til LBD set in, but that's not included in the edition she's got. "Bla bla bla bla," says Croc Girl under her breath, mocking the author's style.
Somewhere, there is mud enough for a thousand mud masks. Somewhere, a girl can float with just her eyes above the water line. Somewhere, a girl can wear a sleeveless dress without some bitch saying maybe she shouldn't, with a pointed glance. Somewhere, a girl can have a big bad-ass tail, long and wide enough to knock over the garbage bins. "Say something about it," she challenges, then realizes she has spoken out loud, making anorexic truants from the local high school turn and curl their lips. Something slips inside Croc Girl, like The Golden Key Card, and she blinks her eye in the weird way that only crocs can. The truants all falter, go back to their chai tea, made only with milk from happy Tibetan goats, guaranteed. Croc Girl slips down off her chair in one easy motion, grins her shit-eating open-mouthed grin, and says, "BLA BLA BLA!" They think she's crazy, but it sounds like pure poetry to her. ______
Doctor, what do you think about ghosts, carnies, Gypsies, actresses, the unstable, the under-represented, the unexamined among us?
Doctor, do you mind if we talk about it? Without academia, pretense, rancor, clothes, and completely off script, not to mention entre nous, in confidence, in bed, in your face, in extremis?
I'm sorry for the way I sometimes come off. I'm like an old wheel on a new car. One minute we're just talking and then, whoaaaaaaaaa. It's cute how you throw your arms up to protect your face when you feel a smile coming on, Herr Doktor.
Doctor, allow me to introduce myself. I am Starface, a foreign national, face-down in the donut sugar, charming but dangerous when crossed, quiet as a mouse in the back pew at Saint Sophia's, ephemeral as an angel, holding my cross. Does it surprise you? The sanctity? The symbology? Say hello to my leedle fren.
Doctor, listen here's what I think: There's books and lectures and all that happy hopscotch, but I'm wondering... Have you ever been with a Turkish woman? Mosques, museums, galleries, aren't you sick of all of it? Come home with me, tell your receptionist that you're leaving to join the circus. I will fix you grilled eggplant with yogurt, and show you what a Turkish woman can do before three in the afternoon.
After, Doctor, you won't be the same, you'll be sweetened, sated, fully rehabilitated. Doctor, what do you think about ghosts carnies, Gypsies? What is your prognosis about me, about this? Say hello, ahhahaha, my captive, my crusader, my little friend laid out on the bed like an Orthodox cross just wild to be kissed! ______
The hope here is that assholes in tin hats will stop being assholes, and that careless or caustic or even well-meaning assholes will stop breaking hearts, not to mention bones and buildings.
Give a girl a diving bell and she'll get the message that you think she walks on water, or dances on it, or some romantic fah-de-lah like that. There was whiskey on the wreck out by the sand bar and the barkeep went there in waders, then wondered how he'd get back to the tavern with all those bottles without drowning.
I said, hey ho, here I am, a girl who owns a net. There aren't a lot of us left-- not since that weird with a beard came around and everybody wandered off to do open mic about looking up, not back. Here's a confidence, Mr. Barkeep (I'll bet you hear a lot of them) I'm not forgiving those assholes.
Give a girl the time of day around here and she'll think you walk on water, or waltz across it, or some low self-esteem rigmarole like that. I'm not that way, but I'm willing to help you get the hooch. Alls you have to do is come around and fix what needs fixing,
Including the broken window, and my child who needs to hear a dopey joke. Do that, and I'll lend you my net, and all my old boyfriends, too, to help you stock your larder, as it were. (Like how I said that? "As it were.") So let's just be real, okie dokie artichokee? Fortune favors the bold, and I'd say it looks like I'm your lucky starfish, Captain, ain't I? _______
Image at top: scenes from "Dark Night of The Scarecrow", my favorite Halloween movie, in which Bubba the scarecrow comes back to get revenge on demented mailman Mr. Hazelrigg.
