Fate's Power Animal
THE HAUL THROUGH HELL IS LONG AND HOT AND WINDING. Like following your fingerprint in a sauna. A stifling stroll through the world’s longest, tightest, twistiest boiler room.
Eventually I get to the staircase, pick up the six-pack of green bottles that have materialized at my feet, and lug my ass up the three flights of thirty-three steps each to the apartment door with a number on it. One digit, then three digits. It changes every time I blink.
I start to hear music from inside so I make sure to knock loudly. A knock-knock-pound-pound that gets the job done, but it still takes him a minute.
I get a flit of nervous just within that short time, unsure if I should even be here. The one bulb above my head seems more dim per second and a shiver goes over me as a wave of sweat breaks, but what the hell, I can’t go back now.
Two big footfalls then the bolt and there he is, the young brute in his prime. Our hair blowing back from the whoosh of fresh air followed closely by whiffs of dry oil and chicory coffee.
At last. Sir Lemmy Kilmister.
I hold up the sixer and grin out my practiced line: “Brought my best soldiers, mate. Get the pickelhaubes out of the freezer.”
A deep wet smoker’s laugh busts out from below his handlebar mustache and I’m trying not to lose my footing in the vision of his shirtless barrel chest. He steps back. “Right on time, bird. Gettin’ lonely in this particula’ corna’.”
His beard was a sly pet stretching over his face instead of his lap. He smoothed it with a gesture.
Just inside, he takes two out of the rack, bites them open and hands me one with a peck on the cheek. I get a waft of the scent in his hair like fried cloves and anise. I feel my scalp—tingle-burning hotter than it had in the tunnel while my clit throbbed simultaneously.
I straighten up and bang my bottle off his. “Skol,” I say and gulp fast. Lager suds slide down quick and break my fever. “I’m Scandinavian.” Another swig, “A couple generations removed.” Smile with unsure eyes. Composure, girl. Don’t break eye contact…
Christ, he’s tall. He slips a grip around my shoulder. His arm moving only a hint faster than the snake in Eden. “Cheers love. Thanks for makin’ the trek. You’ll be lovely ‘oliday comp’ny.” His mellow whiskey coo smoothing me toward the living room. The new sounds, sights and smells of the righteous ghost of nearly-Christmas present.
Out of the entryway and into the living space a huge, one might even say majestic, black leather couch along the right hand wall is flanked at the front by a massive coffee table top with tempered steel legs, the innards of which command the center of the room, glowing with a 3D depiction of some anonymous beachside paradise, sparkling sands and blue green ocean. The perfection in action was utterly mesmerizing.
As I slowly sat, my dogs thanking me for getting the fuck off of them for a minute, Lemmy said “Let’s have it festive, right?” He waved his hand moving the scene over to a snowy and golden twilit English Christmastide. Faintly and momentarily I thought I heard jingle bells. Still unbelieving, my glance sought out his striking facial moles as he relaxed back on the seat. It struck me how his earthbound rocker life both began and ended in the month of December. But I said nothing, opting for letting my eyes pull my head around, taking the place in.
Ensconced meanwhile on all sides up the sanguine walls amassed a seismic epic fuckton of cultural memorabilia. Oversized indigenous masks carved from rare redwoods slung up beside deactivated German lugers and grenades of every issue. Retired rusty microphones, pygmy skulls, framed tattooed pig skins, and shells of bass guitars that looked burnt. Things glisten and kind of vibrate. Lemmy is the high prince of a really metal tiki bar.
The only other thing definitely moving besides us both and the table: A red telephone standing on a rotating pedestal in the far corner of the room. Commanding an intense quiet power all its own, my eyes rest there, transfixed.
“Much as I’d love to have you just for me, that stubborn ringerbox is usually why I get a visitor.” After the final bolt of beer he says “They need the wire.”
“Oh?”
His beard is a sly pet stretching over his face instead of his lap. He smoothes it with a gesture.
”Yeah, they gotta have a chat see, with someone in another time maybe. Gotta get some information on what comes next. I don’t know myself, I just look after the place.”
The description was vague, but somehow I know exactly what he meant.
He tosses the bottle over his shoulder but there is no crash. The empty simply disappears. He continues:
“So, love. As you’re gathering, you’re due for new instructions.”
He nods toward the phone as a freshly lit cigarette materializes in his hand. “It won’t ring. You pick up when you’re ready, then you’ll hear the other line. Stay as long as you like. You’ll know when.”
He winks and takes a drag.
✶
MY PULVERIZED HEART SWIMMING LIKE A CLOUD OF CINNAMON STIRRED INTO HOT TEA. A holiday in purgatory and I never felt more at home. There might as well be a glazed ham getting ready to come out of the oven in the next room over. Or a fireplace around here, needing another log and a good poking.
Too perfect. I close my eyes and shake my head. Exhaling, I let the couch take my weight.
Is this what Limbo looks like? The cavern eternal. Like the whole world has once rotated through this room. The crimson season glowing at the place where ends meet beginnings…
A long time passes. The room cradled in even more warmth and my hand feeling cold. I am still holding a beer, and a heavy black soft and furry blanket is laid across my body up to my neck. Lemmy is smoking with his head tilted back staring absently at the ceiling. He knows I woke up and reads my mind, the phone glint flashing his eyes to red, saying:
“Not everyone gets this far and appreciates it. Stay as long as you like.”