Rent-Free Hell

Yesterday on the C train between Hoyt-Schmmerhorn and Lafayette Street a young man was preaching about the wrath of his lord.

"God loves his flock, but hates a sinner. All you sinners will have a special place of torment in Hell." He glared about the subway car like Josef Mengele, the SS Angel of Death at Auschwitz-Birkenau. I met his stare with cold blue eyes, but smiled as I asked, "Are those places rent-free?"

Most of the passengers were immune from his rant. Their headphones and earplugs filled their head with song. A few were free of any device and they laughed at my quip. The preacher was not amused and pointed a finger in my direction.

"The end is coming soon."

"Not soon enough for me, if it means you'll be taken to your holy heaven and I don't have to listen to you anymore."

The train stopped at Lafayette and I stepped onto the platform, half-expecting the preacher man to follow my exit. He stood at the door of the subway shaking the Bible at me.

"You're lost." The preacher scowled without joy. There are no jokes in hell for the Christians.

"Not lost, but found in the beauty of humanity and the glory of love."

"Damnation."

"And I couldn't be happier."

The subway doors closed and the preacher was dragged deeper into Brooklyn.

I exited from the train station to enjoy the cool evening air thinking about the Jesus-lover celebrating Bunny Day with an egg hunt. No humor was one thing, but no fun was another, then again stranger things have happened to the faithful.

Even to those without a sense of humor.

I'll be laughing my head off in Hell.

Rent-free of course.

Dreams of Sex

Death and Sex are the two prime drives of life according to Freudians.

At my age death seemed closer than sex, although later next month I'll be flying west to the East . My wife will meet me at Bangkok airport with my son Fenway. I'll give him a big kiss and her a hug. Nothing more since my one year-old boy was very jealous son.

Same as his father.

"Do you dream of me?" Mem asked over the phone last night.

"Sometimes." It was a lie. She had never appeared to me in a dream, although I wished she would, since she was the only woman in my life for almost a decade.

"Do you dream about other women?" This was a trick question.

Like Fenway Mem was a jealous woman. "You can tell me."

"No, I don't dream about other women. I only dream about you."

"Ko-Hok." She knew men well enough to hear a lie for what it was. "You make love to naked lady on computer. I know you."

"That not same as a dream."

"Not dream. Not not dream too. You butterfly same all men."

I wanted to tell her that I was true, but my computer history would show that I'd been with thousands of women in her absence. Some of them even had names.

"I'm true to you. I haven't touched another woman."

"You touch yourself thinking your hand belong to someone else."

"No, only think my hand is your hand." And this was true. "I only wish I had films of you, then I not have to look at another lady."

"Never. I not do this." She was a good girl now. I was Doctor Doolittle. She was Eliza. Our story was MY FAIR LADY in Thai. I couldn't remember if the movie had a happy ending and hung up the phone, then went to my favorite porno site. www.lolastube.com.

I clicked on skinny Asians. None of them looked like Mem. Not even close.

It didn't matter, because Mem was right.

I am a butterfly.