THE SKY IS FALLING
It's the day after Joey's counsel with Professor
That next morning as I begin to open my eyes, the Professor’s words reverberate in that murky semi-conscious zone, which bridges the dream world and the so-called lucid reality.
“Play that horn, man.” I whisper into the ether, suddenly sitting up in my bed, and shedding the comforter that embraces my body.
My voice is hoarse, that mucusy type of voice you have when you just wake up. But I’m instantly charged up now with a vivid sense of clarity. Of purpose. I lurch to my closet, pull out the new purple ensemble, puff up my hair, and blast out of the house like a fucking nuclear warhead.
Outside, the sky is striking. Blows me away. It’s as if God just commanded the angels to break out that shipment of cosmic ultra-ultra- blue we just got in, and spray paint the entire kingdom. Every crumbling brown leaf that remains shivering on the withered branches, just sparkles in contrast. The bus rolls into putrid downtown Elizabeth…even Kleins, that gloomy, archaic department store on the corner of Broad Street, with the E missing from its storefront block lettering, appears downright luminous.
I bound into Tijeras de Oro, which is pulsating with its usual blend of laughter, salsa, and gossip. This time though, I sniff out something new and pleasant - the aroma of freshly brewed morning coffee. It’s now competing with the assorted nasal palette of ammonia, hair spray, and perfume.
Huh, apparently somebody acquired a Mr. Coffee.
I slither my way through the throng of chattering, Café Bustelo drinking ladies, over to Esperanza’s chair. She’s working on some fake blond middle-aged woman, and that’s where this fiesta of the senses - crashes. Abruptly. Damnit! That look. Again. Hazy. Out of it.
For the first time since I had initially met Esperanza, I seriously allow myself the conviction that maybe, this isn’t going to go away any time soon. Maybe she has a real problem. Pity for her overcomes me - which is weird to feel for somebody you worship.
“Hi,” she smiles, through subdued droopy eyelids. Well, at least, it’s not as bad as last time, I tell myself hopefully. At least she recognizes me.
“Hi,” I respond.
“Oooh, I like that purple on you honey, it’s gorgeous.”
Yeah, I bet you do, I bet you like purple, I brood to myself, spitefully.
The fake blond says something to her in Spanish, a somewhat irritated tone ringing in her voice, as she points to her hair. Esperanza responds soothingly in Spanish, focusing all her attention on her.
I’m again struck by the contrast in Esperanza’s lacklustre demeanor compared to her usual larger-than-life vivaciousness. It’s kinda the difference between like, James Brown performing on stage, and say, James Taylor