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DEBORAH PRUMEssays, Stories, Thoughts on Writing, Book and Movie Reviews Author: DEBORAH PRUM
Welcome to First Kiss and Other Cautionary Tales, a podcast where you can listen to observations on the quirkiness of life, hear short fiction read by a short person, and listen to book and movie reviews. Language: en-us Genres: Comedy Fiction, Fiction, TV & Film, TV Reviews Contact email: Get it Feed URL: Get it iTunes ID: Get it |
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PODCAST-SLOW WALKING OUT OF BABYLON
Friday, 20 June, 2025
PODCAST-SLOW WALKING OUT OF BABYLON *This originally appeared in Literally Stories, an international literary journal. One day, I meet Beelzebub standing ahead of me in line at the To God Be the Glory Soup Kitchen. Bathed in the glare of the fluorescent lights that flicker above us, the man glistens. Shards of hard white light reflect off his glimmering jacket, obscuring my view. But that one glimpse gives me the shivers. Our line inches closer to the table and away from the dazzle-splattering tubes. I notice the expanse of him, almost seven feet stretching toward the ceiling. Tuxedo jacket with wide lapels, crisp white shirt with tiny black buttons, tux pants with a satin stripe and the crease ironed in, patent leather shoes. Pretty glamorous for a soup kitchen. Looking closer, I notice the too shiny jacket, frayed shirtsleeves, a missing onyx cufflink, highwater pants, and significant lifts on the heels of his shoes. I hear a familiar whisper. “Run, child!” It’s the same voice I sense when I attend a Sing Loud and Pray Hard meeting at the soup kitchen. My heart, that duplicitous muscle, quivers. Shall I run? If so, in which direction? Toward or away? I lean my ear toward God’s lips, waiting for instruction. But the man steps between me and God, catching my eye. He sparkles in my direction, reeling me in. I lower my gaze. Why? Am I flirting or terrified? Inches between us now. I inhale. I smell sulfur and bug spray with notes of Old Spice and cookies baking. You wouldn’t know it now, but I used to be a sommelier of men, not that I ever had the willpower to heed warnings. I don’t lift my head. He turns back to the full table. After he piles food onto his plate, the glittery guy whips around. With a warm smile, or maybe a hot leer, he says, “Join me for lunch.” A command more than an invitation. I freeze. I gasp. Usually, when people get a full look at my face, they turn away in horror. I realize that he’s not repulsed. I barely tip my chin in assent. Beelzebub beams and bows. Like a magnificent prince of darkness, he takes my elbow. He leads me, his damaged princess to a rickety card table onto which he slides his paper plate. With a flourish, he pulls out the folding chair, “For you, my lady.” Of late, I’ve been called Whatever Your Name Is, Hey You, and Girlie plenty of times, but never anything like, “my lady.” At least not since the beginning of my ending. Now, hand on my shoulder, he guides me into the seat. At his light touch, the hair on my neck bristles. He removes his jacket, rolls his sleeves and tucks into his heaping plate. We talk. Specifically, he talks. Beelzebub comes at me all end times and Armageddon and the beauty of a Texas cactus and swing dancing in a barn, the benefits of ivermectin and the perils of vaccines. Now and then, he lures me into his word tornado with an alluring image, like the sweet taste of that first ear of summer corn, especially when you pick it straight from the stalk then toss it into boiling water. He spouts paragraphs without taking a breath. All the while he’s inching his arm along the back of my chair, until the flesh of his arm rests heavy on the flesh of my neck. I feel hard muscles, icy knots. At first, I edge away from his intrusion. But then the rush of his words beguiles me, entices me into his world. I re-frame my experience. I give new labels to these feelings I’m not even sure I’m feeling. I relax into his protection, enjoy being surrounded by his strength. We dine on juicy franks, dripping with mustard, ketchup and relish, heaps of sugary brown beans, crisp Doritos that cover our fingers with orange dust, and a dessert of Mott’s Applesauce in a foil cup. He proposes a cranberry juice toast. We raise our plastic ups, touch rims. He declares, “You are special, my dear. Let no man, no misplaced morals, no selfless thoughts impede your path to the pursuit of pleasure, no matter who or what must be set on fire along the way.”
