A Lake of Lemon Grass

A Lake of Lemon Grass
By Pat A. Physics
Cottage cheese stucco walls framing a large potted oleander, an ornate, silver mirror, and pansies in a smiling, fake, plaster mouth were greeting my eyes with the same amount of subtlety provided by a high gloss magazine. Staring was preferable on a visit to this house. Rich, laconic people were barking at me in this ridiculous mansion. You could only catch the phrase, “how could you?” Every once and awhile, you handed the princess a lace handkerchief, but that was all.
Red liquids were the theme for dinner. Matching red meat fillets, equilateral beet cubes, cranberry sauce, red globe restaurant candles, red tortillas with red kidney beans, and everything from Hawaiian punch to fancy red syrup. The indentured servant, who had prepared this outlandish cuisine, was a world famous comedian. He often told the hostess that he was in the mood for tennis, and usually had his shoes untied. However, he was very worried to-day. He had just turned forty-six years old.
The man of the house took my hand and led me to the meditation service. He placed a goblet on a collapsible gurney and shouted the words: “Lemon grass lake,” and took off his shoe. From in between his big toe and his index toe, a fork pointed upward. If asked why he had a fork in his foot, he would then offer you a cigarette and point over to the other side of the court yard. There were six old butlers in black shirts holding up identical portraits of the princess. They were humming “lemon grass lake” in unison, in a three piece harmony.
Some of the house wanted to go to bed with you. They offered you money, they took your hand and put some of it in it, real money. One of them was even attractive, and the resources were undeniable. Look up and shake your head like an idiot. Shivering and twitching as your brain is accessed. Not much in there. No thought. Your right brain is piloting your body to the door. Reaching in your pocket you feel something new.
Sunny female counterparts to thoroughly dower male counterparts waltzing on tea kettle tile under feathery chandeliers. The fork guy hovering above a punch bowl in lemon grass ecstasy. My happiness is contained in a pivotal change in the music. Your hand will fall through our conversation with laughter filling our lungs, coughing spasms. We say goodnight with a loud cough and no eye contact. Paintings of common people, cozy couches everywhere, a glass bust of the mayor, wild mushroom jars, and the family shield are abruptly taken away from the staring eyes. Distant echoes of laughter follow while you examine your hand, your glowing new hand.