I had been typing in the park all day. I was working on my next book, a factual retelling of The Bible. I had everything I needed to write set on the dusty orange-wood picnic table: my typewriter, my gin and my ice. The lone table was perched upon a sparsely wooded embankment with a view of clay tennis courts; I watched girls in short skirts hurry to and fro, crying passionately as they swung for the ball.
As the day got on the world grew stiff and tired; the blazing sun beat down and I broke into a torrid salty sweat. The girls walked to the edge of the court with flushed faces, sipping from plastic water bottles and smiling congenially. Then they disappeared. The whole park dried up from exhaustion as people sought refuge from the thickening sky. But I remained posted, religiously, tap-tapping in a mad poetic fervor.
The sun went down but the temperature didn't. I had drunk a fifth of Gordon's Extra Dry Gin and had begun to feel slightly sloppy and rather out-of-my-mind dehydrated. Finally, upon the horrific apparition of an oversized overhead-bird, I thought I'd had enough and shoved off for the evening.
I strolled to the house where I sleep and keep my things. I had let Consuela, my cook and concubine, spend the weekend with her fast-dying husband and it was just as well: I was a better cook than her anyway. I ate linguine, fresh mussels and asparagus and sipped delicately from a glass of Andy Sauvignon. Then I summoned the courage to review the day's work. I was pleased and thought I had earned a whimsical respite. I extracted two pills of ecstasy from my underwear drawer and left the house in a cotton t-shirt and swim-trunks.
I knew of a house with a backyard pool even better than my own. It was an appreciable walk from my place, but well worth it; the air had cooled slightly, I was well-fed and contented. But as I wound my way up the twisting smooth-cement driveway, before the impressive facade, every-light-aglow, I couldn't help but think: there are people in that house that love each other—and suddenly I felt most alone.
I was not alone in the pool. I had disrobed and entered the dark shimmering water slowly, gently, so as to not disrupt its cool, perfect mystery. I quietly splashed water first over my forearms, then my shoulders, chest and neck—I heard a girl's short stifled laughter. I surveyed my rich verdant surroundings with a sharp, staring-gaze and caught a rustling fly-trap and a flash of bare skin. Then she revealed herself to me: a slender gold fox with a quiver in her smile and a fire in her eyes.
She carried her naked body as if it made no difference—as if she had been born naked. In her I saw an exploding vitality absent in Consuela and a sparkling adroitness missing from the girls at the park; prismatic rays of effervescent heat shot between us at pulse-quickening speeds and I knew I had to fuck her.
“Hello” I said coolly. “Is this your house?”
“No,” with a coy smile, “but I live here.”
Her ambiguous answer spoiled my nonchalant countenance; she smiled wider and gestured me toward her. I half-swam, half-trudged toward her ethereal form; she turned calmly toward the pool’s edge, found it in three graceful strokes, and deftly hoisted herself from the water. I followed her wordlessly.
Marigold hair clung dripping all the way to her backside, which was mindboggling in both its shape and movement. I stared lustfully as I stepped closer and, for a moment, there was nothing in the world but that bulbous piece of flesh. Her entire body was uniformly bronzed. She stepped without apparent purpose and brushed branches aside as naturally as anything; she didn’t have to try—she was purpose; she didn’t have to live—she was life. I loved her then.
She stopped and pivoted toward me, cocking her head to the left to indicate direction. What I saw was the most resplendent picture, as eye-evoking as the phantom herself—a jungly makeshift mattress of dirt, sticks, leaves and ferns.
“You live here,” I echoed dumbly. She nodded.
We made love in her bed. The setting, the circumstance, and her astonishing sexual technique kindled in me a primeval fire; our delirious cries pierced the vespertine silence. We were like Adam and Eve fucking around in a capitalist Eden
I had forgotten about the ecstasy but now I excused myself to retrieve it from my swim-trunks. When I returned I was alarmed to find my lover standing beside the pool stroking the feathers of the phantasmal pheasant from hours before. It had not been hallucinatory: the pheasant was nine feet tall and appeared fully capable of killing us. I stood stock-still and terrified, but Marigold laughed. Cautiously I extended a hand to pet the overgrown bird and it cooed its appreciation. Then Marigold took my hand assertively and we climbed dripping and naked onto the pheasant’s back.
“Can pheasants fly well?” I asked.
“Khalil can.” She said.
I had ridden on planes, trains, and hot air balloons, but never a giant pheasant. Its wings beat mightily as we elevated, whooshing freely into the clear black overhead. I saw the radiant house below and now I felt sorry for its dwellers. They had more money than me but I rode beside a golden fox; I saw the world sprawling before me limitless and wonderful, everything an adventure to be had. I held Marigold closer as the pheasant increased its speed.
We swallowed the ecstasy and soared southward. We leaned precariously from the bird’s back, staring in wonderment at the murky blue fields below. I mark that as the night I learned everything is better from the back of a pheasant. I felt the joy coming up my throat, choking me gladly, and I howled at the silver moon.
We saw city lights. I watched as Marigold gently rubbed Khalil’s back and, kissing him sweetly, plucked an elephantine golden-brown feather from the base of his neck. “Thank you, Khalil” I said cordially, and my love and I clutched the feather and slid lightly from our friend.
We descended slowly on the wind toward streets below. We were dry now, and rather chilly, so we made mid-air love to stay warm. We were headed directly for two persons kissing each other on a street corner—a stout girl and a gangly boy—and by the time they saw us it was too late. The girl managed to take three steps out of the way but we flattened the boy to the sidewalk.
“WHAT THE FUCK—WHAT THE FUCK” the stout girl screamed.
