The Iconoclast Says Goodbye, a short story
Dear Zarel:
It was 1977. You’d majored in filmmaking at the same expensive, private school Stephen Spielberg went to. You were 25, and stalled. For entertainment, you drew a cartoon strip, Fred and Edna — they were strange four-eyed aliens, and of course all the humor was sexual. You had another idea for a cartoon — pieces of meat talking to each other, perched on barstools. We met at Mr. Pip’s discotheque. I was 5’ 7” and weighed 130 pounds but thought I was fat. Everybody was skinny then.
All that cocaine; cutting edge. You asked me to dance, I forget whether you asked my friend first or me. I would have been slightly offended. I knocked your glasses off on the dance floor. It charmed you somehow. We were drinking, probably vodka gimlets, that was my idea. We went off in your car, you parked at the beach. You got my number and said you’d like it if you could be my first lover. You cooked dinner for me at your parent’s — they were away for the weekend. I was impressed with your cooking, the French antiques and the view of the bay.
We took a sauna in your parent’s bath. We went upstairs; I was only slightly spooked by the huge oil painting of your mother in full jewelry regalia on the landing. Out came your pack of Trojans; it was difficult, painful. I can’t say I enjoyed it much the first time. “It’s just… got… to open,” you kept saying. My muscles were clamped tight as a vise. You worked up such a sweat trying to impress me, later you revealed you’d slept with hundreds of women. Over time, things improved for me in bed, but the closer you came to me emotionally, the faster I started to retreat.
I always dreamed and schemed for love then got strangely revolted when it appeared. I thought you were too old because you were approaching thirty. I felt typecast, imported from the sticks. Your mother seethed, your father smiled benignly. Every Sunday morning, you brought my mom the finest nova and bagels — but my grandmother cast a dour eye on our trysts.
For fun, we drag-raced on I-95 — always a tie. You said I liked to dominate relationships — to me it didn’t feel like domination, only self-expression. I didn’t want to be owned. You weren’t romantic enough, and never romantic at the right time. It could have been worse, for my first affair. If only you’d given me a nicer present our first Christmas together, maybe we wouldn’t have broken up.
I just didn’t like the sugar dispenser. Then there was your plan for my prom — you were going to wear a T-shirt printed with a tuxedo. I was 17 — I wanted to be taken seriously. One night, lying on my mom’s couch we discussed marriage and children — you wanted to name our first Bozo — but the next morning I knew it was over. My heart was sheathed.
I liquefied in your arms, then dribbled away. You tried for months, told me how wonderful I was, how beautiful I was, but I didn’t believe you. You said you were too busy for friendship. It had to be all or nothing. After we broke up I saw men who reminded me of you everywhere, and every time my stomach lurched. I waffled, waffled, waffled. I bought a plane ticket to see you, then came an attack of conscience, or memory, or both. You wanted to be my alpha & omega. Nice dream, love love love.
Goodbye,
your Iconoclast
Latin Epidemics
Kimberly Townsend Palmer 