Wednesday, November 10, 2010

The Book of Sarah

Poor, little Annie. Her true, human psyche will need a lot of work. There, there, don't cry little girl. It will not help you. So don't even bother. Close your eyes and imagine happy things... if you can remember any. It is I, the will -o-the-wisp, the disembodied spirit. I feel for the tiny bundle of meat and bones.  That second rate puny spirit holding her hostage has her locked in a seldom used storage closet tucked away in a dark corridor down in the second basement of University Museum on thirty fourth street. Her only company a quartet of partially unwrapped, low status, dusty Egyptian mummies. And as we all know, some of those preserved, dead Egyptians can be very, very dull. The pathetic ragamuffin has managed to push them back a bit in order to carve out a beach head for herself. She sits curled into a fetal position, rocking back and forth in the darkness, as salty tears roll down her cheeks. Once every day or two the door opens and someone (I don't know who) throws in a sack of horrible, flat, dried up 'burgers' from some dollar menu. The mummies would make a better meal. There's also a case of Snapple juice drinks that gets replenished from time to time. At least that's made from the good stuff. Her toilet? A bucket. I haven't seen the like since  death trains ferried martyrs to the test  in the Europe of the nineteen thirties and forties. He's holding her. He's keeping her stored away. Oh, he will use her again. And she will be grateful for even that illusion of freedom. But for now she waits, chained to a rock just outside the entrance to the caverns of hell. Tomas and Sarah moved. They have a new place now, another tiny, secluded, jewel-box of a townhouse set up by one of his lawyer familiars. The lawyer's wife decorated it. She got a fat commission check too. Thinks it's for a 'dedicated' relocating pediatric surgeon from France. Since it was a rush job, everything had to be bought right off the floor. No special orders. So it looks a little like a high priced suite in some faux Federalist boutique hotel. But Tomas says he's willing  to put up with that, since he (and Sarah too, I guess) can always make things right in the future. Tomas culled a victim (some brutal pimp) behind one of the massive, gray stone towers supporting the Ben Franklin  Bridge. I'm telling you, the name and image of old Ben is all over this place. He's like Snow White in Disneyland. I guess that's what Donald Trump will be like for New York. Sarah has been running into some of the elves and cherubs. I think Albion has a thing for her. She doesn't know that much about them, but they seem to be drawn to her. I don't remember. Did Tomas ever take her to meet them or did he just talk about it? Perhaps I will search the asashic records. But right now I feel lazy. Maybe I'll drift into The Forrest Theatre and take in a performance of Jersey Boys, or slip under the security gates at the municipal prison (you know... where L'il Kim lived) and watch the dumb thugs in the holding pens knife each other. Either way, it should be quite a good show.

No comments: