By Kate Lynch 2015
ME GUSTA LEVANTAR EL PROHIBIDO...
Girth. The girth of this specimen, from behind, was not unlike Brutus, Popeye’s nemesis. It was the arms, showcased by the short sleeves, no coat in spite of the temperature, that silently made me quake. My eyes cascaded across the shoulders. And down onto the protrusion of gluteus fibers. And there I stopped.
“Excuse me, sir. Are you a bodybuilder?”
I was standing behind him, within range of easy conversation. He turned. We locked eyes.
“And, you? A waif model?” he answered.
And just like that, it was on.
Our facile meeting and hasty coupling was not to be the standard by which we lived, I came to find out over the course of that first year.
His pony, Reuben, went missing, for starters. That was the beginning of it. One Tuesday morning he woke me up, frantically.
“Goldie, Goldie get out of bed. Time to put on your boots, don’t want to be left for dead.”
His size cast a shadow on me, back-lit by the slow rise of the sun. I checked the clock's digital glow for perspective: 6:42 AM. What was he talking about?
I kept silent. I was tired of the dialogue we'd settled into. Of the desultory conversation we streamed live, daily, often revolving around the pony, the fence that was built forty years ago, the need to rebuild it, the notion of building a fence on top of a stonewall for aesthetics, going deaf from rock music, going deaf from train whistles, the sad relationship he had with his mother, the school teacher who mocked him for his lisp, how no woman had loved him the right way until me, and we would inevitably circle back to the pony, Reuben.
“Goldie, get up!" He opened a drawer and threw the gray sweats we referred to as 'prison pants' onto the bed. He turned back to the dresser and pulled one of his own hooded sweatshirts from within; olive drab with an Army insignia.
He was ranting a crescendo: “I sensed it. It woke me up. I just went to check on him. Barn unlocked, door flapping in the wind. Stall door, open. Pony, gone. Get up!!!” He put his oversized paw on my thigh and yanked me down the bed. We were outside within minutes and all that he said proved true. The animal had vanished.
_____
By 10 AM. I was sipping a latte with Joanie replaying Reuben’s disappearance.
“You mean to tell me that he thinks the pony was abducted?” She sucked hard on her e-cigarette, waving it around, allowing us to imagine delicate rings of smoke from a bygone era, encircling us, rings rising, falling, breaking apart.
“Reuben," I corrected her.
“Reuben.” She rolled her eyes. “For fuck’s sake, what kind of Viking names their pony some spic name. And who has a pony? This guy doesn’t add up.”
“I told you, he caught it himself. They’re feral creatures. It’s a manly thing. It’s not a Shetland. This is a Chincoteague, Joanie.”
“He’s a full on freak. I’m telling you like it is. That’s what friends are for," she said.
I rubbed my scalp to ease the tension. The session with Joanie wasn’t making life lighter. Silent minutes passed. We sipped our warm drinks.
“I have to run. I’m late for work. I’ll call you later.” I stood up. Walked to the cashier, paid our bill, waved to her. She pursed her lips in moral judgement and lifted her chin a notch acknowledging my departure.
I stepped outside into the air, found my car and got in. Turned the key and pumped the heat up to high. I wasn’t sure who to call. Or where to go. I hadn’t the mind to go to work. I flicked on my smart phone and checked movie times, ready to escape into another world.