King Handlebars  

King Handlebars beside you,
blissfully unaware of the pit stains in his
‘Free Moustache Rides’ t-shirt and
you just know that the tacky facial hair was
grown to compliment his shirt
as is the umlaut he probably uses
when he signs his name
(probably doesn’t even know what an umlaut really is,
just that it’s a heavy metal staple).
As is shit-eating grin that he musters up
for the nurse who passes by
each time she leads a patient into the back.
As is magazine cover he picks his teeth with.
As is the belt buckle with the chrome silhouette of
a curvaceous naked woman reclining.
As is the festering cold sore that dominates his upper lip.

You’re probably catching
gonorrhea of the eye
just looking at him.

One time he even looks back as if to say:
It was all worth it.
I’d do them all over again in a heartbeat.

You almost want him to do that thing
where he inverts the peace symbol and
flicks his tongue furiously at the crotch
between his two fingers
just to complete the picture you have of this man and
his lifestyle, his choice of lady friends,
the poor genetic material he tosses around hazmat haphazardly
(some on the face, some in the hair, some on the belly,
stories for beers-with-the-guys when it gets on her chest,
high fives for stories of mushroom stamping
or getting a girl so completely out of his league drunk enough to fuck him).

You’ve found the black hole in our solar system,
slowly the planets being sucked into this caricature of a man,
his long greasy hair, dark in curtains of almost spaghetti,
his too-tight acid washed blue jeans,
his seeming baths in imitation Obsession For Men,
his black panther tattoo dripping tattoo red down his forearm.

It was all worth it.
I’d do them all over again in a heartbeat.
Call me what you will,
but I’ve lived my life exactly to my specifications,
victim of nothing but my own design.

And draw this train of thought out.
King Handlebars isn’t you.
He sits forward and starts to roll a cigarette
just to pass the time.
He isn’t going to smoke it here.
At least you don’t think he will.
No one man can be that stupid, can he?
Either way,
he isn’t you.
And that’s your source of pride right now.
He takes his roll-you-own zig-zagged and
tucks it behind his ear.
You just know he has a skull-and-crossboned zippo lighter
lined up for it.

Just then
the nurse comes to lead you into the back.
As you pass by
King Handlebars gives the nurse that smile and
you’re shot that last look at:

It was all worth it.
I’d do them all over again in a heartbeat.
Call me whatever you want to call me,
but I’m here because I’ve lived exactly how I wanted to live.

And walking out afterward
you almost kind of hope to see King Handlebars
sitting on his throne
just the way you left him when you went in.
Maybe just to apologize for tearing him down with your eyes before.
Maybe just to get to actually know the man behind the shirt
behind the moustache,
behind the cold sore and the shit-eating grin.
And maybe just because
knowing what you know about your condition now,
what you didn’t know then,
you’d give anything to trade places
with the king without a crown.

It was all worth it.
I’d do them all over again in a heartbeat.
Call me what you will,
but I’ve lived my life exactly to my specifications,
victim of nothing but my own design.
And while you’re subject to your hardened nodes,
lumpy mortality, and chemo appointments,
I just keep living on my own terms.

© 2006 Michael Appleby