||[Jan. 30th, 2015|06:59 pm]
A sermonette on coordination sparking sparkling acclamation. Fifty-or-so sets of hands clapping. Candlight dying as the night grows up. One more quick galaxy before we carriage. Paperboys loiter impregnating the stage directions with disorienting tension. Torsion pops perverts’ hands from their wrists. Their night-toucher hands pyramid on the pavement as the weirdos wait for the pictureshow. The churchbells curse out a sanctimonious six o’clock. Cops talk about the Balkans and Croatia is quiet save mortar shell. The theater is selling Polaroids of mountain peaks and lush valleys and barren valleys. If you tell Romulo the secret word he’ll let you beyond the velvet rope. The secret word is welcome. So then a swelling of welcomings. To Romulo the perverts whisper, “welcome” and Romulo to the perverts welcomes with “welcome.” Once all the welcomes are over Romulo shuts and locks the door and with a guest appearance by a small flashlight, he seats the perverts for the performance. The lights will go up when they must, and the curtain will rise when the time’s just right. Those whose parents haven’t passed were invited and all but Treasure the failed tailor arrived from towns far and local hours early. Romulo’s burliness was configured by runs in the park and laps in the lake.|
A pervert in glasses asks another pervert in glasses if he has a good relationship with his mother. The asked pervert’s knee begins to bounce. Romulo silently mouths a few passages and puts the play down, stands, sits again, grabs the play and reads the lines again. Yet another pervert in glasses takes from his coat a steaming wrapped thing and the perverts to his left and right take notice of the steam and smell. Romulo puts the play away and mouths the lines knowing he hasn’t a chance, but will do his very best. An old orange bus creases onto the theater’s street and squeals as its movement ceases.
A fat pervert asks at no one in particular if someone can make it warmer where he is. A few perverts around him nod wishing the same. Romulo tugs at ropes behind the curtain, arranging things, mouthing his lines. The perverts are fairly docile considering their captivity. Romulo hopes none of them change their minds. He’s rehearsing his lines in his head. Good morning, boys. One strap of his overalls is caught on a lever and the curtain budges. Romulo can hear the perverts whispering and scratching at their flies. He peaks his head from stage left and finds that some of them have stood up. Some are ambling. Some sets of eyes are darting and he turns to dig through a prop-box.
The bus is leaving with one pockets-full driver and no passengers.
The travelers lug their suitcases, satchels, and grocery bags to the stage door and knock once each.
Romulo has most of the perverts back in their seats and is conducting a second go-round of The Wheels on the Bus with the half-filled air-horn. In his back pocket he keeps a rectractable measuring tape and hands it to a pervert he especially recognizes telling him–the pervert–is in charge until he returns. The pervert gestures to Romulo’s pack of cigarettes. It’s come a bit loose in his shirt pocket. Romulo wags a disapproving finger and the pervert throws drops the tape-measure.