“A Stranger Named Plague” by Stephanie Dickinson
Above: “Three Horses Tended by Men” by Umberto Boccioni
Stone Pavement
1981, Houston
&
You _arrive_in the _time of _azaleas _and heat wave. _Hungry_ for the
high _yellow _of _a _Gulf _Coast _scorcher,_ you _eat on _Texas _Street
where oil _drum _cookers, _blackened _in orange _grease, _sizzle ribs.
Armed _with _some _college, you’ve _come _to taste _again what _you
felt when _your physics _professor _kissed the _back of _your neck. A
strange heat entered your bloodstream. _You find a _rundown bunga-
low _in the _Montrose _district _to share _with two men. _Houston_ is
crazed _with _growth, _a zoneless_ developer’s_ paradise. _Even _you,
fresh from Detroit, a lean male, _blond, _and androgynous, find work
on a _plumbing truck. _Angling pipe into _clay and _laying sewer lines
in fields soon to push up houses.
&
We meet in _sunlight in _the Heights _where _sidewalks disappear in
the oddest _places and _you walk _into plume grass. _Through _Cleve-
land Park I _follow _the creek, _wishing_ I could _escape my own shy-
ness. _I sit watching the zooming dragonflies, _their lacy _wings flash-
ing turquoise _and silver, as they _capture their _prey. _You must _like
them too; _you say in your _voice tranquil _as the shade under the wil-
lows. _Their _head _is _all eyes. _Their _wings _move _separately _so they
can _fly __straight _up _and _down. _They _terrorize __the _insect _world.
I laugh, _and_ then _look up. _You call yourself _a Heinz 57 American.
Your _wheat-colored _hair and _blue eyes, _your height _and smile en-
tice, but your gentleness seduces. _Weekends, you _carry a guitar like
a troubadour.
&
The heat _walks with us _along _with _sounds _of the _overpass—the
traffic high on the _girders splashing through _the 102 degrees. _Mag-
nolia leaves _brittle into _splintered fans. _The salt cedars wilt. I wear
jean cutoffs _and a halter, my body _rivering sweat. _A _recent North-
erner import, _like you I talk _with you for hours. _Ancestors, _potato
famine _Irish, __indentured _servitude. _Priests _armed _with crosses
burning the _meeting places_ of Moravian _unbelievers. _Dragonflies.
Predators _without _equal. _Lions of their realm. _A kill ratio _of 95%.
Music your enigmatic passion. _I listen while _you strum your guitar.
My bare apricot thigh grazes your jean leg.
&
We become friends and then lovers. _We explore _the streets _named
after _dead _presidents _that _collect _fists of _day-labor _men—Mexi-
cans, _Guatemalans, _Colombians—in _Stop-n-Go __parking _lots. _Ro-
bust and strong. _River Oaks _where afternoon _trees pool _like thick
syrup—live oaks, _cypress, jute _trees. _Nights _we stroll _through the
Montrose. _Leather bars _and _drag bars, _Chances _and Mary’s. _The
flounce _of those magnolias, _how dare_ they open _like _Satan’s pale
brides, white fire that vomits perfume. All drench and drown.
&
Houston’s _heat wave_ goes on and _midnights _seethe _under a papri-
ka-red moon. _You tell me _about pool parties, _hundreds _of men and
all _of them _gay. _Except _for me, _you say, _unaware_ I know _you like
men _and women. _This is _the past _when _there’s _danger _in _liking
both. _The craving. Houston breathes out earth—musky _and dumped
in holes where _bees cluster. Sex becomes_ the trance the heat _brings
on.
&
At _Mary’s _we _listen_ to _Johnny _Winter __playing_ _his _guitar. _The
breath _of _“Rock n Roll _Hootchie Koo” _suspends _his hair _above the
stage, _and _flails his _thin _arms_ inked _with _asteroid _belts. _You’ve
brought us here _to worship at the altar _of his guitar. _When _he faces
us he’s _the Angel _of Death _in _black hat _and _leather vest. The taste
of rabbit heart_ inside the owl. _His _blues guitar_ is_the one solid thing
in his _nocturnal life, _the rest _revolves on _its turret,_ a seahorse _tan-
go.
&
Your father,_ a man’s man _and a _union welder, _expected you to join
him on the _assembly line, _and _then_ it all _stopped. _He _helped dis-
mantle_ the equipment_ bound_ for _China. _For _two weeks _after the
plant closed _he was the father _you _always wanted. _You talked _and
laughed,_ he listened. _You walked _in the _woods, mushrooming. _The
forest light was _yellowish and _your father _showed you_ mushrooms
sheltered _by silver_ leaves, _thriving in _rotting _logs—white, _flushed
pink _gills _under _elf caps. _There_ were_ mushrooms _on _your plate
when_ he got _up from _the dinner table, _told your _mother _that was
some of her_ best cooking, _and went _to his _bedroom. _Minutes later
you heard the shot.
&
7-11 __parking _lots __welcome _the_ _exquisite __newcomers—moths
of vapor and flame swimming off _into the night. _The deepest part of
the _dark thick _with verdant wings. _Your roommate, _Marc, has been
sick with the flu_ since May. _You have a car and _drive him _back and
forth to _Ben Taub’s ER. _He bares the purple _seahorse on his calf. _A
Kaposi Sarcoma, _his doctor _says, _perplexed. _KS_ is _usually _seen in
elderly _Mediterranean men. _Empty sidewalks _stretch _past the nurs-
ing colleges and medical centers. _Cathedrals, _blue-white _in the sun,
their sharp edges, scalpels. _Marc has _phoned _his father for the first
time since _graduating _high _school _in Lubbock. _Faggot, _his father
calls him, _and once again _casts him out of _the family. _You sit _with
him, sometimes playing your guitar.
&
Captivated isn’t strong enough_ a word to describe_ your pull _on me.
I am _besotted. _You hint that _your _roommate, _Brandon, _the older
one, lean and handsome, _has become your lover. _I spend _the night
on your bed surrounded by _white lace curtains. _Brandon makes the
three of us _breakfast. _Over strong _Jamaican coffee _he talks _about
his father who _fought with the _Marines on Anzio. _The old man had
seen enough _rotting bodies _of young men; _he didn’t give two hoots
what breathing being, male or female, his son loved.
&
Candles _flickering, _your _two _roommates_ talk about a_ friend with
pneumonia who_ has lost _so much _weight _his _glasses _fall off _his
face. _No one _suspects yet _the Plague _has come._ The breath of the
outside drifting through_ the open _window carries_ the scent of _ba-
nana trees. _Eating banana petals, _those chewy _skin-like delicacies,
Plague arrives_ in black _fishnet tank top _and snake skin boots, _the
left zipper clasped together by a ladder _of safety pins._ The Houston
sky is still _wearing _its blaze _of hot blue smile._ No chills, _no vomit-
ing, no breathlessness, no skeleton men.
&
Plague _puts _on_ black_ tuxedo_ slacks _rummaged_ from _New Or-
leans’ garbage cans. Plague’s first name, Gay KS.
&
A parade of _cloudless _sulfur moths_ is _killing _itself on _the wind-
shield of _your car. _We’re on a _pilgrimage to _Janis Joplin’s _home-
town. _Port _Arthur, _Texas. _We reach_ the most humid _city in the
Northern _Hemisphere—92% _most _mornings._ The _town’s_ given
over_ to _the _refineries_ birthing _their _brood_ of _holding _tanks,
spheroids, _and_ cooling _towers. _You _tell _me _only _Port _Arthur
could _midwife__ that _kind of _raw _talent. _Her _low _moans, _her
howls, _and her_ whimpers. _Imagine _Janis’ lips _against the micro-
phone. _Her singing _coming _from_ this _city—from _these _fumes
spouting _into the oil-colored _sky._ Janis taunted _by football _play-
ers _and __goalposts. _Dog. _Freak. _Creep. _Her _town’s _a _floating
apocalypse _raining _warning_signs: _LIGHT _HYDROCARBON_ PIPE-
LINE. _HEAVY GAS. _I picture her _backstage when the _show’s over.
Tearing _apart _chocolate bars, _wolfing down _Snickers, _then guz-
zling _Southern _Comfort. _The _sugar _alcohol _hitting _her _blood
stream feels like _a hurricane. _A blue satin._ A comforter made _of
silkworms. _A tree _splitting _in a _torrent _of wind. _She cups_ her
hands _at the _stopped-up sink,_ rinses _her mouth _with _whiskey,
spits. _This is how it feels _when you bring _an audience _to its feet
and then to its knees.
&
Forebodings _of white _blood _cell _counts _and an _orphaned _Chi-
huahua who keeps tapping its toenails wanting in. Visions of lovers
shrieking, _you killed Paul. _You killed Paul. _Plague _chasing couples
through scorched pampas grass. Plague’s odor—rotting weeds.
&
We get tickets to Fitzgerald’s weekly Stevie Ray Vaughan gig. _We’re
front _row for_ “Tin Pan Alley” and_ “The Sky is Crying.” _For _Stevie
Ray to bend the _heavy strings. _His face rains sweat as _his playing
smolders across the stage. _This is before his fame, before he can af-
ford daily quarter ounces of cocaine, before he destroys his septum
and stirs cocaine into Royal Crown. That too is what it takes for him
to play mesas of clay and sagebrush. The red landscape blazes from
his guitar, _the ice-age lake. _His riffs the distance _pulling us into it.
No trees, _just lonesome stretches, _trucks going eighty, ninety mph.
Stevie’s guitar is crying out for salvation. Static-washed, singing in a
Texas _haunted by giant _armadillos and _dire wolves. _Fly-by-night
death—the dirt you can’t escape from. _No blue bonnet wildflowers
stampeding down _the median’s middle, _his gold-plated guitar has
mastery over the air, his chords daring what is out there—rock, grit,
and rattlesnakes, daring the heat to melt the flesh from his fingers.
&
Marc lies _curled in _the fetal position, _a 27-year-old man, _his ribs
tented _by skin. _The angles of his _bones protrude. _The soup your
spoon feeds him dribbles from the corners of his mouth. He dies at
dawn.
&
It is a _wet Plague day. The stranger’s footsteps on _the stairs don’t
hesitate. _I hear keys and _perhaps he lives _close by or his key un-
locks all the doors. _I listen to the heavy silence _of someone stand-
ing just outside.
&
Houston magnified under the unrelenting sky. You climb into mud
holes always in danger of caving, you thread the copper pipe. _You
tell me _you’ve decided _to go home _to Detroit. _Brandon is riding
with you and I’m welcome to come along.
&
I stay behind.
&
Interstate spaghetti bowls hold _the longest _midnight. _High beams
and low beams skirmish _in the river of traffic. _I stare _into the bald
eye of _a dying _street light. _In my mouth _last _night’s hair _tangles
like thorn hyacinth. _Cobwebs caress old _insect death. It has a name
now. _AIDS. _Plague trees explode. _Under the _overpasses the smell
of lovers._ During the heat wave, _remember the time_ I sailor dived
into a _shallow pool _and cut _my nose? _The way _you touched _my
face and said, _You’re bleeding, baby, _and wiped _the blood with the
ball of _your thumb. _The night _the magnolias _seemed _to stagger
from their limbs. The last summer before the disease spread.
*
Stephanie Dickinson lives in New York City with the poet Rob Cook and their senior feline, Vallejo. Her novels Half Girl and Lust Series are published by Spuyten Duyvil, as is her feminist noir Love Highway. Other books include Heat: An Interview with Jean Seberg (New Michigan Press), Flashlight Girls Run (New Meridian Arts Press), The Emily Fables (ELJ), Girl Behind the Door (Rain Mountain Press), and her just-released Big-Headed Anna Imagines Herself (Alien Buddha). Her stories have been reprinted in New Stories from the South, New Stories from the Midwest, and Best American Nonrequired Reading. At present she’s finishing a collection of essays entitled Maximum Compound based on her longtime correspondence with inmates at the Edna Mahan Correctional Facility for Women in Clinton, New Jersey.
© LIT Magazine Issue #33, 2020
