Dear diary,
Perceptive readers will recall that, about one moment ago, I created my new best friend, Tolsteer-Yoshi, by using the fire of God to fuse together into a single deity my brothers Leo Tolstoy and Toshiro Mifune. And he is made of pure ruby glass.
Now, as I walk forward to greet my exemplary being, I trip over the power cord that is lying like a snake on the floor; so I fall and land on one of the metallic bed-slabs that were employed to make my masterwork; and the slab’s shackles and manacles, wholly by accident, close upon my extremities and latch themselves shut, while lightning from heaven happens to strike at precisely that instant, thus fusing me with my own latest creation. Now I myself am a flaming red dragon named “Mister Tolsteer-Yoshi by day, and Doctor Bryan the Wolfman by night”. Sort of like a Jekyll-and-Hyde type of thing.
So, since it’s currently daytime, I catch a train and board it as Tolsteer-Yoshi. I sit next to a middle-aged lawyer who is talking to an astrophysicist. And next to these folks is seated the 1941 Peter Lorre. Also in our cab is an old man wearing a top hat who claims he’s the president, and a former rock-&-roll icon who is now a U.S. mercenary.
Suddenly the moon shoots into the sky, and I become Doctor Bryan the Wolfman. I maul the lawyer and the astrophysicist and the president and the mercenary. Then the train stops; and all their guts and blood, which are the only things that remain of these useless characters (I ate all the bones) stand up and walk off the train, while making interesting conversation.
When the train begins to chug forward again, I notice that the moon has retired, thus allowing the sun to reclaim the vulgarity that we call atmosphere. Therefore, as Mister Tolsteer-Yoshi (made entirely of red ruby glass), I give a salute to the 1941 Peter Lorre.
Mister Lorre is chain-smoking cigarettes. He seems not to want to be bothered; for, every time that I salute, he pretends that he hasn’t seen me and immediately looks away. I keep catching his eye and saluting, quicker and more decisively — when all’s said and done, I end up saluting probably more than forty times — so that it becomes impossible for him to avoid acknowledging my presence. Eventually he returns my salute.
“I’m a chain-smoker too,” I say with a smile, genuinely elated that he finally requited my advance.
Having broken the ice, this troubled fellow opens up to me. He tells me the story of his life. He was a jealous man who married a beautiful woman. (“Ooh,” I say, “I like where this is going!”) And then he ended up driving his wife to suicide, because he couldn’t stand to see her playing flute in duets with the electronic percussionist who periodically visited their Hungarian mansion. (“Dang,” I pout, “too bad. She was so attractive, the way I imagined her.”) Now he is working on publishing a fourteen-volume set of books that lay out conclusive philosophical arguments against human procreation.
“Jesus! Are we the same exact person?” I remark, after hearing this. “I mean, we’re in accord about absolutely EVERYTHING.”
Then the moon comes up and I transmogrify into Doctor Bryan the Wolfman.
“Whoa!” exclaims the 1941 Peter Lorre.
“Sorry — I’m a hybrid,” I say, patting his lapels daintily and trying not to salivate. “You probably didn’t see me change forms when I mauled all our cab-mates earlier, because you were looking at your newspaper.”
“Ah. That’s OK,” sez Mr. Lorre; “I have an animalistic side, too.”
“Yes, you said so, in your story,” I nod and then howl.
“Oh that?” Mr. Lorre laughs for a long time. “No, if you think that any part of the tale that I told you, which accurately described my experience of married life, is what I meant when I referred just now to my ‘animalistic side’, then you’re dead wrong.”
“Well then what did you mean? I can’t imagine anything more ruthless than how you treated your poor wife. O! what a gorgeous, innocent maid I imagine she was!”
“Wait — did you actually attend to my tale, when I told you just now about how I drove my wife to abandon our aristocratic existence and seek the lethal sanctum of the Astapovo railway station?” asks Mr. Lorre sincerely.
“Yes,” I say, “of course! I love stories.”
“Oh, then never mind — that IS what I meant by my horrible, beastly nature. I just assumed that you weren’t listening; for, till now, no one has ever deigned to give ear when I deliver my autobiography, which I do after every wedding or funeral, and during cross-country train trips. You’re a sweet and generous Wolfman; I thank you from my soul. — Yes, but it’s true: I treated my sweetheart abysmally. I shouldn’t have done that.” Mr. Lorre weeps.
I drape my hairy arm around the poor sobbing fellow and try to calm him by whispering compliments about his storytelling abilities directly into his ear with my dogbreath.
“Stop! Stop!” the 1941 Peter Lorre coughs violently. “I just thought of something additional that entitles me to refer to myself as a ravening beast.”
“Do tell. I’m all ears,” I say, and the medium shot of my Wolfman face is held a little longer than the average moviegoer finds comfortable, so as to draw attention to the pointy canine-ears that the art department made for my costume and which now very subtly rotate.
“Well I was the star of a novel called Leo the Lion — I played the titular role. (That is, they zipped me into a suit, and I tried my best to sell the conceit.) The idea is that the famous author Tolstoy becomes a vicious jungle creature and roams all around the world having fanciful adventures.”
“You’re kidding!” I say. “So we both have Count Tolstoy in our blood! For, you may have noticed that, by day, I transmogrify into a divine being whose name is Tolsteer-Yoshi: he is (or, rather, I AM) a gentleman who is ½ Lev Nikolayevich and ½ Toshiro Mifune. Plus I starred in the novel Bryan the Tyger. What type of personality is Leo, by the way? I mean, why is he a lion?”
“Well, he’s the Lion of the Lord.”
“Ah, that makes perfect sense. — I’m the Tyger of the Devil.”
Mr. Lorre takes a lengthy drag on his cigarette and thinks for a while. Then he remarks: “So it looks like we do, after all, have something NOT in common.”
“Yes, but articulating dissimilarities is Science’s business. I’d rather focus on how we may relate — I side with the Poetic Genius.”
“Eh. What is Genius? What is Poetry? What is Art?” Mr. Lorre mutters, in the same vein as Pontius Pilate quipping to Christ in The Gospel of John (18:38) “What is Truth?”
“Do you really want me to write three essays for you, this moment?” I ask half-sincerely.
“Please don’t,” laughs the 1941 Peter Lorre while rising from his seat as the train comes to a halt. “This is my stop; I must get off.”
I look out the window and note that the sign reads:
“O my stars! I should get off here as well!” I remark to myself aloud, long after Peter Lorre has left and the train is beginning to chug forward again. “For I have much galivanting to do!” — Then I realize that the sun has arisen; it’s almost noon, in fact (we lost track of time, Mr. Lorre and I, just shooting the breeze); so I dutifully transmogrify back into Tolsteer-Yoshi, Gentleman; and I grope my ruby-red form thru the main aisle of the train, as it picks up speed, while my eyes adjust to the light.
Once the train is zooming down the track at full velocity again, I manage to leap out and crash thru one of the windows. I accomplish a rolling fall upon the ground at the side of the locomotive (I proudly perform all of my own stunt-acting); and one of the stewardesses is kind enough to toss my handbag out the window when she sees me leap.
“Thank you!” I wave.
No comments:
Post a Comment