The Karl Marx Story
May. 4th, 2023 06:45 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
meanwrightA story in which Karl Marx makes no appearance.
One Tuesday in New Orleans, I wandered in to the local Coffee Hole for my usual 8 pm cup of neurosis. Black. On the way in, I didn't see any of the people I usually jabbered with sitting at one of the tables that, by 8 pm, were randomly strewn on the sidewalk, not R., not N., Not M. Not even the other R. For some reason I was in a jabbering mood, but as I always bring a sackful of activities I was happy enough to grab me a cup and sit me down and read and write and draw for a couple of hours. So, I unloaded my bag and got in line.* Not strangely, someone got in line behind me, and so the line propagated as lines do in their miserable Heraclitean way.
Like any good Hole, the shop was long, narrow, and dark. When you walked in there were ten small tables to your right, a nine in a cramped array and one in an alcove (the highest value seat). This area was just as wide as the coffee bar, traditionally wide enough for a sink against the wall, an espresso machine, and a narrow aisle for the offending barista. Today, it was the owner, D., a man with neither any control over his mouth nor, as rumored by both his mouth and his wife, his dick. On the left side were a narrow row of seats along the wall. The line ran through them and along the counter.
After I'd made my way past the pastry display, I though I saw R. through the window behind me, sitting at one of the street tables like a normal person, so I turned around, saw I was wrong, and started practicing my lines, "Could I get a large cup of coffee, please." I can't tell you how many times I've messed that one up.
It turns out, though, that I'd offended the guy behind me. "Hey, did you get in my space?" He looked like he'd stepped out of a mid-90's goth club. Long, straight hair. Black t-shirt over a black shirt. Not completely sure of his planet of origin. You may know the type. I'd seen him there a couple of times.
"Uhm, maybe." I really didn't know. I didn't think I was too close to him. "I'm sorry, I just thought I saw a friend through the window."
"You shouldn't get in someone's space! That's my space!"
"Sorry."
"You need to stay out of people's space!"
"Dude, I didn't even think I was close to you."
"Stay out of my space!"
Then he stormed off. D. looked at me and said, "Marilyn Manson wants to suck your cock."
R. came by later, and I told him this story, with some flavor commentary from D. (R & D were good friends from antediluvian days). It turns out R. knew this guy a little. R. lived in the attic of St. Vincent's Asylum,** the second most tolerant place in New Orleans. In those days, the lower St. Vincent's was the cheapest hotel in the city, and R. paid no formal rent for his awesome 4th floor apartment - he just fixed things as they broke. Like elevators and washing machines. Most of the people who worked there worked for lodging, but most weren't as conscientious or talented as R. Which is why St. Vincent's was a dump. In between the hotel and the apartments was the third floor dormitories. This is where the crazies lived.
"Man, I was on the porch at St. Vincent's a couple of days ago when he started to talk to me. Really creepy. He thinks everyone wants to sleep with him."
Or at least, he wanted to sleep with everybody.
A few months later, I was stuck at one of those nine cramped tables, and he was sitting behind me and to the left. It was getting reasonably near the test, and at the time I would draw pictures of famous physicists and get them printed on greeting cards for my students to use as crib sheets. I was drawing James Clerk Maxwell for the Electricity and Magnetism students. Apparently, he was watching me, because the next day he confronted me.
I was now in one of the seats on the lefthand side. He came up to me, leaned in, and said, "Hi, I'm Zara Lightslayer!" Or something. Starfarter, maybe? Who knows. It's probably changed by now.
"Uh, hi. I'm Jim."
"I saw you drawing Karl Marx yesterday. It was really good!"
"Apparently not. I was supposed to be James Clerk Maxwell." But to be fair, all old, bearded 19th century men look the same to goths.
"Well, you're a really talented artist."
"Thanks."
He leaned in and raised his voice a mite. "Would you like to come over and take pictures of me naked?" I think it took him this long to tell me he wanted some naked time with me. I may have extended the conversation out a bit.
"Um, I'm not really a photographer."
"In my experience, all artists take good pictures." This is false, as my wife can attest.(*3)
"I don't even have a camera."
"You can use my phone."
"I don't really think I'd like to do that."
"Well, I need them for later today. You just think about it and I'll be back."
I remember this conversation as being more cringey than this, so I might have to edit it later.(*4) I mean I know I was really creeped out by the end of it.
Unfortunately, there is no ending to the story, because Zara Lightstuffer was kicked out of St. Vincent's later that day, as reported by R. I don't know what he did to get kicked out or where he went afterwards, but I was saved from a conclusion and was free to live my life without naked goths chasing me around coffee shops trying to suck my dick.
For few months, at least.
* This makes the action seem much more deliberate than it was. This is all habit, something I did six or seven times a week.
** At this point, it was really called "St. Vincent's Guest House." Originally, St. Vincent's was an orphanage. Today, it's overpriced condominiums. But it will always be an asylum to me.
(*3) Assuming you can call me an artist, which I usually don't. But, we'll take his word for it.
(*4) I won't. Don't come back.
One Tuesday in New Orleans, I wandered in to the local Coffee Hole for my usual 8 pm cup of neurosis. Black. On the way in, I didn't see any of the people I usually jabbered with sitting at one of the tables that, by 8 pm, were randomly strewn on the sidewalk, not R., not N., Not M. Not even the other R. For some reason I was in a jabbering mood, but as I always bring a sackful of activities I was happy enough to grab me a cup and sit me down and read and write and draw for a couple of hours. So, I unloaded my bag and got in line.* Not strangely, someone got in line behind me, and so the line propagated as lines do in their miserable Heraclitean way.
Like any good Hole, the shop was long, narrow, and dark. When you walked in there were ten small tables to your right, a nine in a cramped array and one in an alcove (the highest value seat). This area was just as wide as the coffee bar, traditionally wide enough for a sink against the wall, an espresso machine, and a narrow aisle for the offending barista. Today, it was the owner, D., a man with neither any control over his mouth nor, as rumored by both his mouth and his wife, his dick. On the left side were a narrow row of seats along the wall. The line ran through them and along the counter.
After I'd made my way past the pastry display, I though I saw R. through the window behind me, sitting at one of the street tables like a normal person, so I turned around, saw I was wrong, and started practicing my lines, "Could I get a large cup of coffee, please." I can't tell you how many times I've messed that one up.
It turns out, though, that I'd offended the guy behind me. "Hey, did you get in my space?" He looked like he'd stepped out of a mid-90's goth club. Long, straight hair. Black t-shirt over a black shirt. Not completely sure of his planet of origin. You may know the type. I'd seen him there a couple of times.
"Uhm, maybe." I really didn't know. I didn't think I was too close to him. "I'm sorry, I just thought I saw a friend through the window."
"You shouldn't get in someone's space! That's my space!"
"Sorry."
"You need to stay out of people's space!"
"Dude, I didn't even think I was close to you."
"Stay out of my space!"
Then he stormed off. D. looked at me and said, "Marilyn Manson wants to suck your cock."
R. came by later, and I told him this story, with some flavor commentary from D. (R & D were good friends from antediluvian days). It turns out R. knew this guy a little. R. lived in the attic of St. Vincent's Asylum,** the second most tolerant place in New Orleans. In those days, the lower St. Vincent's was the cheapest hotel in the city, and R. paid no formal rent for his awesome 4th floor apartment - he just fixed things as they broke. Like elevators and washing machines. Most of the people who worked there worked for lodging, but most weren't as conscientious or talented as R. Which is why St. Vincent's was a dump. In between the hotel and the apartments was the third floor dormitories. This is where the crazies lived.
"Man, I was on the porch at St. Vincent's a couple of days ago when he started to talk to me. Really creepy. He thinks everyone wants to sleep with him."
Or at least, he wanted to sleep with everybody.
A few months later, I was stuck at one of those nine cramped tables, and he was sitting behind me and to the left. It was getting reasonably near the test, and at the time I would draw pictures of famous physicists and get them printed on greeting cards for my students to use as crib sheets. I was drawing James Clerk Maxwell for the Electricity and Magnetism students. Apparently, he was watching me, because the next day he confronted me.
I was now in one of the seats on the lefthand side. He came up to me, leaned in, and said, "Hi, I'm Zara Lightslayer!" Or something. Starfarter, maybe? Who knows. It's probably changed by now.
"Uh, hi. I'm Jim."
"I saw you drawing Karl Marx yesterday. It was really good!"
"Apparently not. I was supposed to be James Clerk Maxwell." But to be fair, all old, bearded 19th century men look the same to goths.
"Well, you're a really talented artist."
"Thanks."
He leaned in and raised his voice a mite. "Would you like to come over and take pictures of me naked?" I think it took him this long to tell me he wanted some naked time with me. I may have extended the conversation out a bit.
"Um, I'm not really a photographer."
"In my experience, all artists take good pictures." This is false, as my wife can attest.(*3)
"I don't even have a camera."
"You can use my phone."
"I don't really think I'd like to do that."
"Well, I need them for later today. You just think about it and I'll be back."
I remember this conversation as being more cringey than this, so I might have to edit it later.(*4) I mean I know I was really creeped out by the end of it.
Unfortunately, there is no ending to the story, because Zara Lightstuffer was kicked out of St. Vincent's later that day, as reported by R. I don't know what he did to get kicked out or where he went afterwards, but I was saved from a conclusion and was free to live my life without naked goths chasing me around coffee shops trying to suck my dick.
For few months, at least.
* This makes the action seem much more deliberate than it was. This is all habit, something I did six or seven times a week.
** At this point, it was really called "St. Vincent's Guest House." Originally, St. Vincent's was an orphanage. Today, it's overpriced condominiums. But it will always be an asylum to me.
(*3) Assuming you can call me an artist, which I usually don't. But, we'll take his word for it.
(*4) I won't. Don't come back.
