miércoles, 29 de septiembre de 2010

Rehearsal (the last time I saw her face).

I met Daisy when I was still in college - she was dating a guy I had known for a few months. I first heard of him when he was getting out on parole and wrote to me, asking me so politely, so naively, to teach him about Faulkner and Whitman, and the Howl of Ginsberg and Fitzgerald’s Roaring 20’s. The guy was called Jack Parks, and he found out he was fond of poetry within his spare time on the Inside. Having a particular weakness for mad people – that is, most of the time, mad about life - I told him to come by when he was a free man again.
He eventually came to my place and then we hung around - after a while he introduced me to her. So the three of us spent some weeks in town; going to the beatest joints, listening to the beatest songs there - and smoking others' cigarette butts.
One day Parks got the nerve. Something big and ugly blew upon his neck, and he told us there was nothing he could do about it. Holding sway over his recently re-earned free will, he fled to Frisco. Of course Daisy was devastated... she needed a shoulder to lean on and cry over, and I lent her mine.
She was a mad girl, too. Soon we began to spend all night out,
all nights. I guess we weren’t made of the same paste - when I got tired, she kept going. One night she called from a crossroads motel eighty miles from town, and I had to take my father's old '47 Houston to pick her up – what if not. When I arrived she was pretty wasted, poorly dancing the night away among a bunch of dust-sailors that were surrounding her, looking for and easy hook beneath the starred country sky. It almost cost me an eye to get her out – for predators never give up easily an easy prey.
I woke up an unexpected morning some days after, and she was already packing her things into an old, worn out suitcase. I looked at her and said nothing while she was working. I went for a steak to put over my bruised eye – the pain was worse in the mornings – and then I lit a cigarette. I don't think she felt my
sadness – nor really did I, for the matter. She picked her pack and walked straight to the door – stopping just there.
'Are you leaving without a single good-by?' I gently asked.
'I’m sorry Joe, I have to go now', said scornfully.
Then she gave me her last
look with those robin-eggs blue, moon-gazing eyes, and left for San Francisco too. The door was left ajar. And that was the last time I saw her face.


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