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| Life is not for the Faint of Heart 50 x 50 cm mixed media on canvas |
THE LAST
LAUGH
You can pay all you want. Death’s in
no hurry.
Anon.
I take
vitamins, lots of them, and exercise
with a
devotion I can only call metaphysical.
I watch my
diet as if it were an addictive series.
A soap opera
about salt intake, blood pressure, fiber.
Every couple
of months when I was rich
someone who
called himself “Sergei Sharapova”—
obviously not
related to tennis player
Maria
Sharapova who used to emit
orgasmic
grunts, if you remember,
each time a
ball hit her racket
or smacked
against a long brown thigh—
would drop
by and we would knock back
a couple of
drinks, smoke from the peace pipe,
laugh recklessly,
confess guardedly, then I would
hand him a
check for a few thousand, a true moment of truth.
Without
fail he would say, “Later, dude,” then slip out
the back
door. A move he’s often made. With many.
Sometimes
he was a girl, with a filthy laugh. She didn’t play tennis.
