This could have all been Avoided if he had Slapped a Flag on the Top
“No no Sport – you’ve made them
lopsided” Cohen said.
Cissy paused where she was. Cissy slumped the flaccid bLock
against another. Cohen chewed on his lip, a sure sign that he was either
disapproving or about to excuse himself for creative buildup {sharting till he
clogged the unisex park restroom}
Either way,
Cissy took her hands off of her hips and panted {efforts of block hauling} with
perfect posture. Cohen brought his fingers up to square off his creation {being
neither painter, photographer, nor filmer, this did little but make him seem
more artistic}
“I’m
telling you, Sport, you’ve upset the whole thing.” He said, megaphone raised.
“Its perfectly
even—we’ve counted the number: 874,600,042 gassed, 874,600,042 exploded.” She
said.
“Then how
come the right side is so much shorter?” he said.
Cissy’s
focus snapped to her feet, where her new Vidorci pumps sank into the bLock. She
adjusted to the balls of her feet to keep the bLock from being punctured and
spurting up her ankles. She could not afford new designer leggings if she
already had to by new Vidorcis.
“You did
account for limbs, right?” she said.
“You did
account for limbs, right?” he said.
“I mean it,
sir.” She said.
“With the
state of things, the limbs would make a net loss of about six inches.” He said.
He had forgotten to bark at her through the megaphone and stood, his arms
crossed and squinting past the lumpy forms of the bLocks raised in two towers.
“We don’t
have to make it taller, sir” she said.
“Flibber
flapjacks.” He said.
Cissy exhaled through her nose. The scent of stale barbeque
and mustard made her swoon a little from where she stood, 554.5 feet in the
air.
“We could
extend it out, make it like a wall” {like with the Vietnam} she said.
“No one
cares about a monument’s length! They only want to know about its height! How
tall can man erect a memorial, so they can remember! It pokes the sky – poking
is a stimulus, it triggers memory. Walls don’t remember – walls make people
wonder, and wonder leads to thinking. Walls are barriers and barriers are
failures” {like with the Vietnam} he said.
Cissy only
half listened to the rest, as he described the beauty in erecting monuments,
their completion, the parties, and the tourism it developed and had always
developed and eventually how, in Cohen’s early childhood, he had gone through
his biggest life developments in front of proud pinnacles of accomplishment in
marble. His stint in the army began there, he’d smoked his first bowl there,
he’d first fingered a girl {behind Lincoln’s very back} for gosh’s sake.
“So go and
get some!” Cohen finished.
“Some
what?” Cissy started.
“Some
limbs, you ninny!” he said.
“Oh. We
don’t have them.” She said.
“Why not?!”
he said.
“Vaporized.”
She said.
He frowned
{this made her smile} She pretended to itch her nose with the mid-finger on her
left hand and then chewed on the nail of her thumb {she got some red on her nose}
“We told
them it would be taller than the Washington monument.” His voiced crackled
through the megaphone.
Cissy
looked between the right cylinder and the left {six inches castrated} —how they
spiraled up in a staircase of preserved bLocks.
“Who is
going to check, sir?” she said.
“The
people! When they wish to remember the war and our triumph! And read on her
steps, and play and climb {and finger girls} and gaze across the street wishing
they were {fingering each other} at the inferior but taller Washington!”
Cissy
scuffed her shoe on {the lapel of} the block beneath her. He had a point.
“Where
should I get the limbs?” she said.
Cohen waved his hands around, fluidly, as if performing a
spell upon all the earth like a {hair thinned, jewel toned} wizard.
Cissy hated
getting donors. Her pump was still sinking dangerously into the fleshy bLock.
She sat down to swing her snakeskin-clad legs off the side of the column. Her
feet were tired.
“You know,
sir, if we dug a trench an’ simply lowered the pillar of gassed bLocks into the
ground, people could walk down into it – we could line the walls with the
bodies—“ Cissy was fast to correct herself {but not fast enough for the
narrowed eyes and puckered lips of Cohen} “—bLocks.”
“And what
might that accomplish?” he said.
“Well, sir,
it would humanize the struggle” she said.
“Humanize
the Enemy?” he said. She could hear him capitalize on the word enemy.
Cissy’s
legs wandered in figure eights in the air below her {her butt was falling
asleep} On a back swing, one of her heels stuck on a bLock and when she plucked
the stiletto out, she had a morsel skewered to it. The morsel started at her
with a dilated cloud of pupil. She scraped it off on some blonde hair below her
and brought her feet to her knees {her stomach grumbled}
“I thought
it could be interactive, like Vietnam” {Cohen psh’d}
“You want
the people to interact? Then find me some donors.” He said.
Cissy sat
next to the man, who was neither old {nor young}, handsome {nor ugly}, dark
haired {nor fair}. He smelled a bit and had days old stubble, but his smile was
bright and his lips only slightly chapped when she sat down {just a little too}
close to him. He did not seem surprised at her solicitation, and offered both
his left arm and his right leg, citing that he would like his dominant sides
for racket-ball practice this afternoon. The sawing process Cissy found clean
and simple and when she left he smiled and waved {with his right hand} They
were bulky, in her arms, the arm and the leg, but most park goers she passed
held only mild curiosity; everyone knew about the new monument. A few
volunteered to give what they could, even if she did not ask first. Some felt
obligated, and some wanted to be able to point out to their friends where they
were a part of the new installation. In the end, Cissy, with a few of the park
patrons {too stingy to give anything but their time} carried the bundle to
where Cohen stood, tapping his foot, holding his megaphone and rubbing the war
medal on his lapel {erotically}
As Cissy
lay out the haul:
“Patrons,
this is artiste and drone division colonel Cohen.” She said.
Some of the
veterans in the group shook his hand. The bolder ones compared hit counts on
their own badge’s LCD screen. Cohen {between pleasant teeth bearing and trading
slaps on the rear} barked at Cissy through the megaphone.
“Count the
new load,” he said.
Cissy
counted the new load. Four arms, mostly left. Three legs. A teenager had given
a portion of her mid-finger, and her curly haired friend {rolling her eyes} had
given her entire big toe. {It could be enough} Cissy thought. She told Cohen
the number, reaching for a glass of champagne {Cohen swatted her hand with
sharp force} When she went to place the new bLocks atop the crown of the explosion
pillar, Cohen {popping the champagne for the unveiling a week early} megaphoned
that she should intersperse them artistically {and not like a prude}
“What about
the height issue?” she said.
“I planned
something perfect while you were out, sport.” he said.
Cohen raised a glass to her and when she turned around
tossed it, crystal glass and all, into the rhododendrons. The crystal cried in
an infinite loop as it tinkled glitter.
Cissy was not dressed at all for
the weather but at least she’d had her pumps prepared. Honestly, she thought
they looked a little silly paired with the Colossus Jersey she slept in, but
when she approached Cohen pacing around the dewy grass, he smiled appreciatively
at their little pointed toes.
“You called me, sir?”
“Yes, yes, of course. Yes.”
“Yes?”
“Yes?”
“Yes.”
“Which one of us is talking? I
cannot tell.”
Cissy tried again.
“You called me, sir?” She said,
making sure to say she said.
“It’s not tall enough.” He said.
His hand was pointed heavenwards at the top of the cylinder. Cissy was a bit
surprised he had donated it. His other hand lay on the ground, next to the
bundles of clothes, which had been worn, earlier, by the patrons and veterans
drinking champagne. She was less surprised to see the patrons gracing the top
of the explosion column, underneath Cohen’s hand.
“Don’t you think people will notice
that those bLocks are not POWs?” she said.
“No one looks that closely at those
represented in memorials.” He said.
“They do at the Vietnam.” She said.
{Cohen’s lip quivered} Cissy sighed and picked up his left arm.
“Where did you want this?” she
said, rubbing her thumb soothingly over his palm. He blushed {he had an itch on
the back of his head he could not reach}
“The top of the gassed tower. It’s
short by six inches.” He said through his megaphone. Cissy stooped to pick up
Cohen’s arm. At the base of the tower she turned to catch Cohen’s eyes. They
shined like lucid crystal and the line of his mouth softened at he gazed up at
his creation. Balancing her feet in her shoes, Cissy settled on the first step.
The sooner Cissy finished erecting the monument,
the sooner she could go home, take out her brain, and go back to sleep.
©2014 Lex Vex
