moby rich
Unknown Men by Unknown Photographer
Sitting at the Gutter Bar at the annual Indian Larry Street party, I approached a group of silver-backed men. A bee drawn to some blooming buds. A racehorse with blinkers galloping down the final stretch. I narrow in on them, a sniper, lining up the rifle scope, ready to shoot and wound, maybe catch but not kill. I stretch out my hand toward the biggest silverback. His soft uncalloused hand envelopes my paw. My hand has been fed to a whale, his palm the tongue of the sea beast. My hand plankton, willing itself into a new realm, swimming deep into the underbelly of the man. My palm sits on the sea beasts tongue as he says "Rich". "I'm Rich, this is Rich and this is Tom". A movie trailer plays in my mind, the font reads. MOBY RICH. I think about what bike he might ride, and that surely he must wear gloves regardless of the weather. To have such unmarked uncalloused hands was new to me. The man I'm seeing, Duck, has hard hards. Hands that wore the uniform of the grit that comes with a bike, stained black most of the time, his short fingernails holding dark thin lines at their tips, so perfectly placed, as on the eyes of a geisha. Duck wore rings on all his fingers but his thumbs. I guess those two fingers felt different from the rest, unembellished. Thumbs were truly too important to be dressed up, they didn't need to peacock, they required no accouterments. They were superior to the less sophisticated fellas, the pointer, ring, middle and pinky. He would put each finger into his mouth, coating it with saliva, loosening its grip on his skin, as he would peel them off. It looked painful. The rhythmics of them landing on my glass coffee table one by one, anchors diving into water in some synchronized swimming competition. The sound alone was enough for me to grow goosebumps down one side of my body.
I spoke to Moby Rich about bikes and a mouse tattoo on a vagina he'd seen at a bar. He told me they'd spotted my hair as I sat on a bollard watching a band, they were delighted that I had narrowed in on them at the bar. You see I love humans, I love to watch them, really look at them, watch their eyes and see what they roll over, what they rest on and wonder why.
We cheers'd every time a new topic was brought up, it felt like a new ritual that the four of us were partaking in. Do something three times and it becomes a tradition. That would mean I guess most things are tradition. Cut your nails three times, tradition. Kiss someone three times, tradition. Eat the same meal thrice, it's tradition. More shit was shot, Tom was quiet. I wonder why. Perhaps he felt left out not being named Richard. He was no Dick. He rarely said anything, but when he did it was poignant. I questioned if Tom had someone to love at home. It felt nice to imagine what might make Tom tick. Sudoku, a warm cup of coffee with some creamer, the smell of freshly mown grass, sweeping autumn leaves off his porch, and watching what he believed to be the same fireflies return each night for their ritual pre-dinner beer. Tom loved a woman once I imagine, but she was stolen by a louder-mouthed man, who sold her the world, but in the end, the loudest men are rarely the ones you want to hold you in the night, the ones who pull your hair back just to clear the field, to place seedlings of kisses on your neck before wishing you sweet dreams. I felt for Tom and hoped that when he returned to Long Island it may not be too late for him to greet those fireflies for their nightly reunion. I wonder if he would mention me and my curly hair, sitting on the bollard.
I straddle Duck and the chopper and my body is crouched as my cuban heels hold steady on the pegs, I look like a crouching tiger. Only I knew there was a hidden dragon. We hurtle along the Williamsburg Bridge, the wind is the perfect temperature to hold your eyes open, take no blink. The bright lights of Manhattan wooing and cooing at us to come inside, back to the beast. I hear motors roaring behind us married with "Mollllyyyyy". I turn around and who is it but Moby Rich, Rich and Tom. Like synchronized jets they surround us and I feel these are the moments I live for. Unwritten moments, not even god could script. Moments I want to remember forever. Those of chance, kismet, and feelings of sympatico all balled together. They say they are lost, but there is no way Moby Rich, Rich, and Tom could be lost. They'd made it this far, they were on the home stretch.
