Design for the Costume of a Monster Green, stout, and limed with saltpeter, his snout the cornucopian snout of an anteater, he, like the mandrill, walks on all fours. He snores. He possesses luxuriant fur, and in his rhyming dictionary moss and horse are a legitimate pair—mawce and hawce— indicating he must hail from where other than some outer borough. He hailed a cab to get here; many passed him by. The sky opened before one turbaned driver took pity. “The city,” said monster, who goes by Orphee. And that is the way he arrived, driven like rain via Pakistani hack, who pitched a passable aria to the back instead of conversation, where our soaking fellow, meanwhile, was having a vision of revelers dancing the saltarello. Led by St. Francis and a small herd of geese, all of them wore the most orange beaks. A sign winked above them, neon pink: All God’s Performing & Creative Creatures, Inc. “A.G.P.C.C.,” mouthed Orphee in his stupor. “I know the place” said the cabbie, “with the ducks in the abbey.” And the rest, as they say, is a tall blonde double latte with wings. Soap operas, guest spots, gameshow hosting, a modestly grossing series of buddy pictures a la Hope & Crosby, Glover & Gibson. And life was good for Orphee and Mehmud, in both New York and Hollywood. Their fame survived the rumor (true) that they were amorous off-camera. It survived Orph’s tumor, successfully excised. But no one expressed surprise when they semi-retired. Mehmud hired a vocal coach. Orphee got edgier haircuts. Their residuals held steady, their investments rocked solid, and never was there anything monstrous or inclement in their lives again, but for the occasional bickering, sparked by boredom, doused in a flickering of hate. They questioned their lot then as aging men and monsters do: When youth turns the corner and coming toward you is fate, if there isn’t a cab there, do you walk or just wait? Design for the Costume of a Minor Divinity He shall be green. He shall boast a prominent nose. The offspring of his haberdashers shall attend expensive colleges. His French shirts wrinkle artfully; his trousers never lose their crease. He shall wear a sportcoat of cashmere the color of rotted lettuces. Though he drape it over the back of many a chair and forget it, it will always be returned to him on the arm of a simple girl. His cravat is every color of the sea. Some say he is a bird. Others compare him to the frog. He does drive a Fiat. He is often late. He was born, without fanfare, in St Louis. He was frequently chastised. Otherwise, his childhood was unremarkable. His feet are small for a man of his stature; therefore, his shoes are girlish. He snorts like a horse. His interjection is Ha, used to express wonder, triumph, puzzlement, or pique. Never surprise. He is never surprised. He can dance the habanera. His instrument is the horn. Hydrogen is his element. Narcissus, his emblem. His laurel wreath is a cowlick that sometimes comes loose and trails behind him. He is warden of the 8th hall of the 2nd heaven, the master of minor pronouncements, grass clippings, and some of the waters of life. He will eat a chestnut in any form. He may be summoned only when the invocant is facing south. A certain song from the 40s causes him to weep openly. He never remembers the tune’s effect until it is upon him, like his pince-nez, which he shall be searching for, although he is wearing them, because it is difficult, suddenly, singing along, to see. Darling, you slayed in your starling suit at midnight, the only goldfish in the castle. How aqueous backyards were back then, how silver the streets, like a bevel of thermometer still slick with your tongue. You bet you were fluent in exhale. You were just that gone. back |