By Professor Arturo (Arthur Pfister)
(to Etheridge, the Black Knight)
He awoke and found himself, naked and unashamed, standing before two doors. A sign on one read:
UP
A sign on the other door said:
DOWN
He chose the door marked “UP,” opened it cautiously, peeked about at the darkness, and stepped inside. He found himself rising, ever rising towards what he thought was “skyward” on a tiny platform. He gazed into the blackness, fumbling feebly for some contraption to stop the rising, noiseless platform from its upward journey. He reached for a fixture–a handle, a switch, a button perhaps. Groping in the darkness, he discovered that his only fellowship inside the space in which he found himself was the jet-black midnight wind flowing through his hair, his flesh, and the fibers of his fingers as he flew through the air with the greatest unease. Then suddenly–
The thing stopped.
There was light…and two more doors. One door said:
MEN
The other door said:
WOMEN
Male chauvinist pig that he was, he chose the door labeled “MEN.” Squeezing his eyelids closed until the sockets were vacuum-tight, he reached for the doorknob and stepped inside. He opened his eyes. Inside a clinically spotless room there were, of course MEN. Manly men…Irish Springers and Dingalingers…singers, swingers and assorted Bada-bingers…Flim-flammers and shim-shammers…assorted players, soothsayers and BRUT-sprayers…buccaneers, bun warmers and Desert Stormers…BURLY MEN and girly men…camouflage-wearers and Sugar Bearers…clothed men…naked men…small men…BIG AND TALL men…short men…straights, crookeds…and gay comedians. There were musclemen and 89 ½-pound weaklings…Intellectuals and punch-drunk, beer-drinking slobs…grass-grazers and fraternity hazers…surfers, daytime drama doctors, fly-by-night attorneys and Native Americans…There were bronco-busters, Fruit-Of-The-Loomers, and B.V.D.-ers….There were John Does and Doe doze…homeless men and boneless men…football players, park rangers, politicians, printers and poets….There were clergymen and inmates…he-men and she-men…liberated men, male chauvinist pigsters, post-pubescent punks and precariously pensive pusillanimous pussyfooters…. They waved at him, smiling, greeting him, beckoning to him. There were “good-old boys,” bad young boys and Black nationalist militants…Hard-head Hip-Hoppas and super-cool Poppa Stoppas…There were Arab men, Jewish men, Creole men, and rednecked honkies–all shocked and pleasantly surprised in their collective yet separate solitudes at such a visitor’s unexpected presence. They gawked, staring at him….
“Howza ‘bout a game o’ ‘catch’?” asked a man dressed in full football gear.
“You into blue movies?” asked a porno star, offering him one of his latest in the “Midnight Blue Erotica Series.”
“Read any bad books lately?” interrogated an intellectual.
“Passing–or failing?” quizzed a professor.
“What y’all doin’ comin’ on ‘round this-here necka the swamp…boy?” asked a rednecked honky.
“Power to the peephole!” shouted a Black Nationalist militant peeping Tom.
“Pray, pray, pray–and keep one eye open,” advised a clergyman.
“Yeah–the red-eye!” joked a gay comedian.
At this, all of the men burst into fits of laughter, spasming, howling at him, working up a sopping, sweating, merry madness. He shirked, grinning, then noticed two more doors just beyond the laughing men and their furious, mocking merriment. He cautiously, carefully strode past the men. The gawkee was now the gawker. There was neither rhyme nor reason to the method of their madness….
He came to two more doors, wiped his now sweat-soaked brow with an anxious and edgy hand, trying to decide which door to enter. One door was marked:
CHURCH
The other said:
ORGY
Being the avowed fleshman that he was, he chose the “ORGY” door. He entered and smiled slickly, slyly, at what he saw: A man and a woman half-dressed in either sleeve of a tuxedo jacket said: “head…or tails–” as they flipped up the tails of the tux and exposed their pink rear ends to him. Bosoms and booties were shaking brazenly. Eyes were buried in thighs. Watches were up to their arms in crotches. A pulpy, white goop of a substance flew from a hodge-podge of naked, writhing bodies on the floor just to his left and splattered him on the nose. It sickened him. The heat of the glistening, moaning heaps of humanity became nauseating. Neanderthal grunts filled the room as the orgy-goers sucked and fucked furiously. Coke flowed….Tongues tickled…Lips smacked….titties tingled….Bellies bumped….Hard-ons humped….Balls bashed.
“Where’s the beef?” asked an elderly female orgier, tugging at his genitals.
“C’mon in–the juice is fine!” cried a voice from one of the floor’s fleshpiles.
“Have a drink!” slobbered a drunken reveler.
“Par-ar-ar-ar-artay!” shouted another.
“Come on do-ow-ow-ow-ow-ownnnnn!” a man invited with the beatific smile of a TV gameshow host, exhibiting a sparkling set of evangelistic 32’s.
He bent, half-smiling, politely refusing the well-intentioned invitations, and, turning to his right, noticed two more doors leading from this room. He soft-pedaled through the mass of bodies towards the doors….
When he finally reached the newly-discovered doors, the naked revelers stood, chanting in unison, pointing at him, their chanting voices one (er–) orgiastic rhythm:
“HANDA WANDA
YO’ MOM-MA…”
The chant invaded his head’s spaces and places as he stood, palms pressed tightly to his ears, trying to decide which of the two doors to choose.
One door said:
HIGH
On the other door was inscripted:
LOW
The noise grew to a deafening roar, as the orgy-goers teased:
“HANDA WANDA
YO’ MOM-MA…
HANDA WANDA
YO’ MOM-MA…”
He looked at the “HIGH” door, then at the “LOW” door. He chose the door marked “HIGH,” walked in, and fell into eternal darkness….
Just underneath the “HIGH” door’s sign, was a smaller sign, scribbled in No. 2 pencil, which said:
Do Not Disturb
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Professor ARTURO (Arthur Pfister), a poet and fiction writer from New Orleans, is a Spoken Word artist, educator, performer, editor and speechwriter. ARTURO, one of the original Broadside poets of the 1960s, has collaborated on a medley of projects with a melange of artists including painters, musicians, photographers, dancers, singers, fire eaters, waiters, cab drivers, and other members of the Great Miscellaneous. His work has appeared in such diverse publications as FAHARI, The American Poetry Review, Shooting Star Review, the Minnesota Review, The Gallery Mirror, EBONY, From a Bend in the River, Mesechabe, Word Up, The Chicory Review, New Laurel Review, The New Orleans Tribune, We Speak As Liberators, Black Spirits, A Broadside Treasury, and Swapping Stories: Folktales From Louisiana. Inquiries about the author’s availability for workshops, readings, collaborative projects, seminars, residencies, and publications may be directed to: Professor ARTURO, (203) 588-1127, (504) 975-6676, e-mail, website.
Professor ARTURO at the New Orleans Musicians Village site
