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Message-ID: <43208asstr$1057201804@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: "Sean Farragher" <sfarragher@nj.rr.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} TxM6: Eddie Robert Meyers -- Introduction  M/war/f
Date: Wed,  2 Jul 2003 23:10:04 -0400
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(c) 2003 Sean Farragher
For more taxi murders:

http://www.seanfarragher.com
http://www.seanfarragher.com/taximurdersbook
http://www.seanfarragher.com/hyperfiction


Eddie Robert Meyers Introduction (revised)
1989

We know Eddie Meyer's love story, not just the bullshit that taxi drivers
patty-cake, leaning near the fenders outside the cab, dress right wrong in a
gaudy posture that portends a fucked up lie.

Taxi drivers are bullshit artists. Eddie Meyer got a blow job and expired.
Right. Who knows. That's the sum of the conversation, if you can call it
that, on the stand waiting for the next fucken call.

"Why the fuck are we here, Jack," a short, greedy driver shouts.

"fucking make money asshole, Denis laughs. Elderly woman gets into cab.
Denis looks at her, makes the jerk off sign behind her back

Bang. Soda can misses the trash. Dennis missed the parting shot.

"Hey bozo, talking to J

"Shit, you are fucked up today," Dennis laughs. speaks louder than the rest.
Many of the taxi men on this summer day drink canned soda, wishing they were
on the road, at least making money. Not these men. Shit, they can't run the
air conditioner on the taxi stand. They sit in the
sun in their cut off jeans.

Beer bellies, soft, inside, and we few now have dark forms, although some
have strong arms, muscles from some old ball team, long ago, when they were
heroes of the hill, and the stories they broadcast had hope, and some
authority, at least some kernel of truth, and now there is the swill, the
bargain basement was caught, and the summer we sacrificed like all heat was
taken, used, and then brought home as the liars' fabric, the merchants mist,
and the new theology.

Back in the world, and this seemed ironic, brutality has a seem, a place
where the first cut bends the steely seed, and lets it sway, until the idea
like the tides, resumed its cast, watching the eye stop.

Wait for shouts we have sacrifice at our margins, and now and when, at the
black heroic wall, where you and I have discovered silence, where we have
flagellated ourselves to death and let the ocean disguise grass from
sprouts, from crow, from sparrows and then there was a silent battle to
withhold nourishment from the those whom we deem, by our stilted
digression, lost

You know Eddie's story: lies presented as some truth, curved into strips
with some death, predicting for us or him where and if he could have lived
without a final bill folded into smaller and smaller squares in his cigar
box reliquary.

We do carry the myths. We market them with Eddie. We beat them less honestly
because we fool ourselves with truth, and loose homilies we have sacrificed
one cheap thrill for the beatitudes or a dark but righteous H bomb mass. No
more threat. Easy to kill. Along the road, against each fare or driver you
pass, when you search around the corner for the heavier cars, and the
anticipated steps, I look for all of Eddie. I have many names to carve on
the black wall that are now also dead. Is there a place for them?

I have wandered with them, waiting for the thin hands to stop the action,
but I know my brain has stalled like a taxi, sometimes, at the worst
passable places.

It seems only taxi drivers over forty remember Vietnam. The younger ones
knew only the war movies, or cryptic allusions and vague conversations.

Actually, no one cared but other Vets. Perhaps Vietnam has had its fifteen
minutes of Warhol fame.






XXX

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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