Ellipsis (el-lip’-sis): Omission of a word or short phrase easily understood in context.
I woke up in a pool of blood. I did not know where I was. As I got up with my pants dripping blood on the floor, I thought “How could I sleep in a pool of blood? Gross! What an idiot.” I didn’t know what to do. I sat on the couch for awhile, it soaked up some of the blood. I decided to go outside and sit by what looked like a swimming pool and let the sunshine dry up the rest—to make it crusty and maroon-colored. After about a half-hour, I was dry. I decided to go to a laundromat. I called an Uber and told them I wanted to go to Doozy Duds laundromat. The driver took one look at me and said “What the fu*k happened to you?” I told him I worked in a slaughterhouse and its laundry facility was temporarily out of order. I told him it was my nephew’s birthday and I needed clean clothes to wear, and ironically, my home washing machine had broken down the day before. By the way, I was wearing all white from my job modeling hazmat suits. So, the driver bought my story. Who wouldn’t?
The Weehawken Doozy Duds was open 24-7. I loved the girl who worked there. She was skinny with big bags under her eyes, long black hair, flat chest and a butt like two watermelons resting side-by-side. I had vivid dreams about her butt, circling around my head, talking to me, jiggling, sitting on my lap. It was creepy and beautiful at the same time. It was . . . bliss. She called herself “Sudsy.” I thought that was really creative.
Here I was, outside Doozy Duds watching Sudsy through the window. I opened the door and went in. She gasped and said, “You’re covered with blood. We’ve got to get you cleaned up. I’ve got some stain remover that will do the trick. Take off your clothes. We have to soak them.” I tore off my clothes and threw them to Soapy. She told me to get in one of the zinc hand-washing tubs so she could bathe me. She locked up Doozy Duds.
We soaked my clothes for 2 hours, and then, washed them and dried them. We slept in a basket of laundry that night. It smelled sweaty and so did we. In the morning, Sudsy reopened Doozy Duds. My memory was coming back. I went to International House of Pancakes for breakfast. I ordered the ‘Double-Heeman Whaky Jacks.” When I picked up my knife I saw myself stabbing an elderly woman wearing lipstick, dressed in her underwear, and leaning on a walker. She was at least 80 years old. My god—I recognized her! It was my grandfather’s sister Bernice! I ran out of I-HOP. I was a murderer, a fugitive from justice. I had killed a personal blood relative—and I didn’t know why.
I picked up Sudsy on my motorcycle and we took off for the West Coast, tangled up in blue, riders on the storm, somewhere over the rainbow, way up high. Fugitives.
We ended up in San Francisco, California. Sudsy got a job in a joint called “Rear View.” She waited on tables with the rear cheeks of her pants cut out. The place catered to men who called themselves “ass men.” I got a job picking up trash in Golden Gate Park. I had one of the sticks with a nail on the end and a big orange canvas bag. We were relatively happy. However, I had stopped having dreams about Sudsy’s butt and was worried that my feelings for her were waning.
I came home from work one day, and the place was surrounded by police. Sudsy was sticking her ass out the window and yelling taunts at the police over her shoulder: “Come and get me pigs!” “Dirty coppers.” I asked the cop by me what was going on. He told me she was wanted in New Jersey for killing some old lady wearing lipstick in her underwear, and leaning on a walker.
I started crying and got on my motorcycle and rode away. I needed time—years—to figure this out. Time will heal. . .
Definitions courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu.
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