A wet street steeped in wind. Champagne bubbles burst by the rain, snow, then a hailstorming of corks. Sirens split the freeze. Mel clangs his cowbell as if it’s enough to disperse them: the medics, fire, police; then unzips his fly, pisses into the sewer. An emergency artery of the highest importance, the way of first response, Eastern Parkway’s packed with observers, the curious and condemned both, in their new, newly looted clothes, in hats and wigs and jackets marked down, layawayed no longer with ten pairs of used women’s shoes in each pocket. And then into this disaster comes more, it attracts — comes his wife, or his ex, who can be sure: hundreds of them, a thousand or more drunk Misses Clauses, blind Mel’s never seen so many raw and soused wives of Ole Saint Nick in his life, never even conceived of such opportunity, missed, the squandering of sexual promise; grayhaired and tipsy, grannydresses dragging end of shift limp in muddied snow, they stagger forward in a heaving pack, talcumteeming, seething steam, a defeated army of gingerbread women gone hardened in the bitterest cold, the memory of plump, dashed hope of rosy, bonnets on their wigs on their perms, oversized purses in hand, nearing his standing gape reeking of toilet gin, peppermint, cloves, desperation. Mel elastics his fake beard down under his chin, tries to understand just from the lips of the reporter, the old Santa shtick when the beard’s on too tight you can’t hear: a bland man in a black suit and mourning tie, he’s saying something about death, the thrust of his petroleum tongue, death, licking the undersides of his front teeth, death, capped and burning, corpses and burnings…preemption of seasonal specials, the cancellation of the parades and the Passions, the manic animation of news without censor, unapproved; President Shade addressing the nation…desk, suit, flag and face; on a screen facing him, the prompter’s scrolling, snows of speech; he squints, face full with air fills up the screen, the screens, a balloon of condolence, its stem a thorn, as if to smash out the glass of the screens themselves, as if to smash out the eye; to fill the den, our mouths; our prayers are with you, he mouths…and across the nation lips are pursed to indicate gravity, quiet; volumes are raised unto the roof; shock; sofas are sat upon, chairs are brought back from the brink of recline — you really should have asked us first to sit down…from somewhere, from nowhere, a telephone rings, millions of them, Apocalypse holds the line; then, the newscaster along with his feminine clone, a doppelgänger blond and trying her best not to smile; half the stations cut to a location the other half will cut to in a moment…sixpointed star graphic: two triangles, superimposed, singeing, tattooing themselves on his pupils, Mel’s — fades, into evermore scenes of distress, then through a handful of more rapid cuts, loops of disaster, cut, cuts, scissoring fingers sliced across neck; kill it, we’re going unscripted and live onlocation…dizzying, reeling tickers, bars and charts; different stations with the same footage, different stations with different footage, grained real though all without sound, without the break of commercial. As he stands and stares, the Misseses approach; their nearing warmth sickening him, their menopaused steam and their smell. Mel reaches into the display amid a pile of those amputated, desecrated limbs, legs without feet, arms without hands, torsos without navels or nipples, and with a ragged nail he takes the screens off their mute, a flick, a flickering, raises their volumes to the sky, the very dial of the tuning moon; their blasts a coverage like light, weathernoise eruptive, as jagged and as sharp as the glass that once kept their peace, now emptying into the air, they’re sanctifying the sirens, purifying the street.
