The Perfume Burned His Eyes. Michael Imperioli
sight of two electric guitars that leaned against a wall. One guitar was red, the other black. The red one had holes in it, the black one did not. They looked like a happy couple.
There were lots of books piled on top of lots of big cardboard boxes bearing the name and logo of RCA electronics. Most of the books were paperbacks and were stacked outrageously high into towers that teetered on the verge of collapse. Tons of notebooks and yellow legal pads, scribbled-up sheets of paper, pens and pencils. Some of the cardboard crates had rows of empty bottles sitting on top, neatly arranged like chess pieces and segregated into wine, beer, and liquor sections.
Lo and behold. It was him. The blond man with the Iron Crossed head was crouching beside the low table, manning the tape deck.
Was he Jones?
His lady sat Indian style on an Oriental-looking cushion, her back to the door. I stood at the threshold holding their food. I could feel the heat slowly waning from the bacon as I waited for someone to notice me. For some reason I didn’t feel right knocking or clearing my throat or saying anything at all. I just continued to watch and wait.
There was no rug on the hardwood floor. I thought it looked like a cold surface to sit on even with a cushion. But the pair didn’t seem to mind. He hit a knob on the deck and the reels stopped spinning. The speakers went quiet. He hit another knob and the tape spun the opposite way. He replayed the droning guitar.
“That part, right there, that’s the part I’m talking about. Do you hear it?” He jotted something onto a coffee-stained legal pad. A cigarette burned in an ashtray on top of the same yellow page.
“Yes, I hear it.” Her voice was quiet and I couldn’t tell if she had an accent or not.
“That’s what I’m trying to do. That’s what the whole shot is about. It’s all there in that one riff.”
“You’ve done it.” She spoke soft and kind.
“Now what? . . . Now what, baby?” He said this as if he really wanted an answer from her, but this was definitely not the case.
“That’s always the question, isn’t it?” She did have an accent. Maybe Spanish or Portuguese.
He chuckled with a childlike pitch that surprised me. It took some of the edge off his menacing aura. Then, as his laughter subsided, he turned his head in my direction. “Hello.” He said it flatly but his eyes had the intensity of a brain surgeon staring down the tumor in a young boy’s head. “What are you, like fourteen? Jesus Christ! Tell Fernando he can’t send kids to my place! What, is he trying to get me fucking arrested?!”
He scared me. I didn’t know what the hell he was talking about or who Fernando was. I wanted to tell him that I lived downstairs but I thought that would confuse him even more so I just held up the bags of food.
“I have your delivery.” When I spoke, the woman
turned her head. She was exotic-looking with high cheekbones and dark eyes. Mexican or Indian or maybe from Spain. She glanced at me and then quickly looked down.
“What?!” He shouted it like he was expecting some kind violence to happen.
“He’s from the diner, Lou,” she said.
“Oh . . . oh yeah.” He relaxed a little. “Where’s the old man? Did you mug him or something?”
“No, ummm. I just started working there a few weeks ago . . . and I . . .”
“I’m kidding, man.” He chuckled again. “What’s the matter? Can’t you take a joke? How much I owe you?”
“Seven fifty-five.”
The moaning feedback echoed from the speakers. He stood up and started searching his pockets. I smelled the kerosene on him again. She looked back up at me. Her eyes were gentle but I was uncomfortable. I felt like she was waiting for me to do something or for something to happen. I didn’t know what that was, but I had a strong feeling that I had forgotten to do it or didn’t know how. I became very confused and disoriented.
Whatever specific energetic vibration they gave off as individuals was new to me—that I understood. But as a couple the voltage was magnified and amplified: a white-hot current looping between transponder towers. My heart began to race, I was nauseous and sweating. Maybe it wasn’t them, maybe it was the recording that upset my equilibrium. Everything became alien and dangerous. My knees started shaking. I wanted to run but my legs felt stiff and heavy.
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