Fables for Our Times

PISTOL AND THE CRONE

One fine summer morning, Pistol got dressed and ready to go out for the day, and, straightening her skirt in the mirror before she left, thought, Dag, this shit is DANGEROUS. She was pretty sure she was completely on top of her game.

On the street, her suspicions were confirmed. A fellow rolled his window down and turned “YEAH” into three syllables. A black man smiled dirtily and said, “Nice eyes,” or maybe it was “Nice ass.” High from some scaffolding, a construction worker whistled and called, “Sweet ink!” Which Pistol found commendable: an innovative catcall, that.

Later on, she met Lefty to go to a reading, and together they turned a gay boy straight. At least they had always assumed he was gay!

I’m on fucking fire, Pistol thought to herself.

On the way home, she decided to stop for a Coke. She was walking fast towards the deli, still feeling like the cat’s meow despite the empty streets, when she spotted a crone up ahead. Stooped and shrunken, the crone crept along, cane in hand. The sight of her grey bun and curved back creeped Pistol out, so she booked right past. HA!

But then when our heroine emerged from the deli, Coke in hand, there was the crone. She’d caught up. She looked right into Pistol’s face with her watery sad eyes, and Pistol shivered, even though it was summer, and warm.

The moral is: if one lives a long life, one will someday become wrinkled and barren and horrible to behold. And that is the best case scenario. SO DEPRESSING. Hence, be grateful for the feedback one gets from strangers on the street while one is still young and nubile.

Sigh.

WILLIAMSBURG WILL KILL A PERSON’S GAYDAR

On any given night at Youpers, boys with tote bags and skinny jeans are lined up at the bar, hoping to get laid. By girls. The mind boggles.

At St. Helen’s [WE WILL NEVER CALL YOU BY YOUR NEW NAME, ST. HELEN’S!!!--eds.], there are many gay boys with golden arms. O, what a sonnet one could write about their golden, veiny, tattooed arms! The St. Helen’s boys manage to turn their masculinity into something spooky and mesmerizing, so that Lefty and Pistol follow them with their eyes, like child molesters, and whisper disgusting things to one other.

Okay, not really a fable, but still, the moral is: straight hipsters are sometimes way gayer than gay hipsters. It’s weird!

P.S. The Malkmus-y waiter at St. Helen’s is NOT GAY. We heard him talking about a GIRL he likes. Guess he’s just a fag lad!

PISTOL AND THE CRACKHEAD

One morning, Pistol was on the 4 train, heading to a job interview. She was nervous. She had not worked in a year and a half due to a long convalescence. The world had embraced the gimpy Pistol, but how would it react, she wondered, to the hale and strong Pistol??? She put on Exile on Mainstreet super-loud and tried to relax.

Soon there was a small commotion nearby. A lady a couple of seats down was waving her hand to get Pistol’s attention. The lady pointed to another lady, who was sitting across the way. Lady #2 was a crackhead, but a nice-looking one. Miniskirt, toned legs, ghost of a pretty face. And she had something to say.

Pistol took off her headphones.

“Your lipstick,” the crackhead said. “It’s beautiful.”

“Oh! Thanks.”

“It’s perfect. It goes with your bag just right.”

“Wow. Thank you.”

“And the shoes! Those shoes! I haven’t seen shoes like that in ages.”

“Yeah,” Pistol said. “I got them on eBay.”

The crackhead beamed uncomprehendingly. Crackheads are generally not familiar with eBay. But still, her eyes were soft with love.

Pistol’s stop came, and she stood up.

“You look great,” the crackhead said. “Everything is great.”

Indeed, the interview went well.

The moral is: the world is like a crackhead, ruined and weirdly generous. And loves you. For what it’s worth.

by Pistol Whip | 3 October 2007 | cute | Comments