a pink inferno
we file off the Summerthing truck and go out behind the Hatch. Orchestra Luna outdoor gig on the Esplanade. someone is blocking the way. it takes a second to figure out who it is. uh oh. it’s him. Dante. Dante Povone, our former voice coach. (‘an ‘e’ is like a carrot!’ ‘lisa, try this: belt out Every- thing’s Coming Up Roses on an elevator full of people. it will get you past stage fright.’ she did. i was there.) we take turns embracing. he has tears in his eyes. he’s wearing glasses but the tears stain his cheeks. his beer belly is taut under a pullover blue valeur sport shirt. it pushes against me. a quick European peck on both cheeks, chubby hands grip my shoulders. he’s wearing sandals, thin white ankle socks and bermuda shorts. they have a tiny, light blue duck print. ’are these your underwear, Dante?’ (my weak joke.) ’not yet, baby, but they will be soon.’ (i never get his humor.) it is remarkable that he came to see us. he never goes out for this sort of thing. he has to be escorted everywhere. hand held. ’i cancelled four students. new ones. they’d been waiting months. but I said ’t hell with ‘em.’ i had to come. i had to be here. to hear you and it was lovely. a wonderful show.’ and then an aside: ’i noticed that 6, 5, 1 progression running through your music. da da daaa…lovely. a lovely motif. it’s there, isn’t it?’ ’oh yes,’ i lie, not knowing what the fuck he was talking about. he steps back to look at me. a long affectionate sincerity straight into my eyes. ’listen, baby. i’m sorry about what happened. it just wasn’t working out. the lessons. am I right? there was no point in going on. (we would wait in the ante chamber at his south end studio for hours to see him. the ‘lesson’ would would last an hour, most of which was consumed with his personal memoire. ‘Fellini’s ROMA’? jerking off in the car with your friends at night? the story of my life, baby…’ etc) ‘i think of you. i think of you often.’ ’we think of you too, Dante.’ ’do you?’ ’yes.’ ’goodbye baby. people are waiting for me.’
This is an excerpt from my book, The Paragraphs — Cutlass Press
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