Do you want violence? Asks the towering lank in the red
suit.
Do you want violence? Do you want violence? Do you want
violence? Do you want domestic violence? Do you want domestic violence? Do you
want violence? Do you want domestic violence?
For most of the circular crowd in the square room, clustered
in parade formation, situated around flat tops, booth and chair arrays, this
outburst presents a comedic interruption, one that is both rude and the subject
of mockery, an archetype of oppression, relevant to discourse, until it
prolongs and then
another man says that’s enough and drives old cowboy towards
the door, with the help of the bartender, a man, and now another man, and as
far as the ushered is concerned, not without my hat!
OUT! OUT! OUT! OUT! OUT! OUT! OUT! GET OUT NOW!
Shrieks a person behind the podium, glaring by the light, a
secure five yard reach
OUT! OUT! OUT! OUT! OUT! OUT! OUT! GET OUT!
Later in the underground, holding onto the horizontal rail,
Kurt remarks the timing of these events. She didn’t start shouting until that
guy intervened.
The speaker, chestnut coiffure and fair skinned, relates to
the audience that within the past two months she’s been reading and public
speaking, and she’s been without fail interrupted by a white privileged male.
The conversation centers around the glass ceiling, praise goes to Sheryl Sandberg,
Marissa Mayer, Meg Whitman, Ina Drew. Female labor centers far from reach or
view of the ceiling, pressed against walls of the service industry and domestic
work, tip jars and caretake, employment sectors that remain unregulated and
exploited, no trumpeting or representation. How many times did you go to a
feminist reading, only to find that the readers were all similar beyond their
gender?
Henry, holding onto the vertical rail, poses a question to
Kurt, a question that Kurt finds most interesting, not because it surprises
him, or that its notion requires a significant justification, but because of
the manner in which Henry presents it, an aspect of absurd humor that is
beyond the events of the night and its setting, a faux saloon socialism, a
literary tradition of being a fucking drunk, or relating to drinking, the act
of being under the pretense of a prolonged ingestion of a supposedly fun thing
you do over and over again, guy and girl at the bottle, by the candlelight, up
one story, down one afternoon of salaried work, pop-eared and polite, something
like a riddle written by Kafka, to which Kurt knows the answer, knows the
relevance, understands the undertone of the proposition, and he thinks to
himself, again, fully aware of the answer, but before he gets to the answer his
mind wanders down the leak of his memory, a previous conversation of
self-awareness and self-consciousness, the difference between, a negative
connotation on one side, and then again back to the riddle.
Shoes are to women as _________ are to men.
The second speaker was some form of ethnic. The third came
from knifecrime island. The drunken cowboy an anecdote.
Henry would like to add, “as a side note*,” that this is yet
another bar in NYC where he orders a martini and the bartender asks him what
kind, vodka, gin? Gin. Olive? So, let us put this to rest, gin and dry
vermouth**, mixed with ice cubes, served straight up in a chilled glass with an
olive, or a twist of lemon if you prefist.
*imagine Henry gesticulating
**five-to-one
