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Subject: {ASSM} From TxM6 Death by BJ of Eddie Meyers
Date: Wed, 6 Sep 2000 08:10:05 -0400
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From TxM6 Taxi Murders Sextet Hyperfiction Novel
http://www.taximurders.com/ (updated August 28, 2000)
mirror site: http://www.txm6.com
TxM6 is entirely a work of fiction for adults only.
Copyright (c) 2000 Sean Farragher.
TxM6: Henry Whitman Review
January 31, 1989, 07:01:23
Death of Eddie Meyers:
Ghost Bridge Over Great River, Called Hudson.
In 1609, Heinrich Hutson, and his mate John Colman,
set sail on goodly ship far away the pristine cataract
where blind sand and simple Ocean parted as one age
passed by its nature to another.
Like passing time on the taxi stand. Here we are
at Another Chinese New Year: Is it the Year of
the Snake again?
I am again, another New Year night, another blessed
night waiting for the black clock to automatically
change my daily year closer to millennium: its one
step past twelve and thy will be done. Herein,
the instants opened, then closed and pitched
beyond equator and that partial eclipse of the sun.
Or is there sleep without life, although I am not dying.
Can I live and not live, be and not be aware of dreams I
conjured in Nam? Forget the impossibility of that physics.
Forget the grunts. Forget the nasty delusion of life
as great sailing ships caressed North River right
before my eyes as I passed before the bridge. Enough
of this crap about experimental history and riding the
human spirit inside a man or woman to know them as they
become in the next breath. Imagine if that were possible.
Woody Allen my favorite non-ped created that idea in
Sleeper.
I love driving the cab too slow, too fast, I know the
divided traffic lane spoke when my taxis forced the
ancient truck through unopened doors.
What a crash! No place to go and no sanctuary until
my yellow cab exits off through the tunnels into
gray lane of New York and London, suddenly to merge
in a Technicolor dream, lost in mornings after midnight
when the taxis rolled out fiery as material sun-ray
clouds. Does this dream of death reflect into my ass,
or am I too high in the cab, stoned as a great sun
wheel and broken down in Apache Sand paintings drunken
sot. Dear Jackson Pollack killed many a girl with his
dear automobile. He was a great painter, and a lesser
man if you believe the mysterious books where
it was written down: his recipe for fame starts where
"being part of the process of that spray of color mimics
the whole body as the dry brush." Pollack was so intensely
a part of the color when he was not painting he had to
be insane and drunk.
Dear Jackson, we are all part of that Ancient Game of
Chance: the Sailing ship at flood. Here the unkempt
wooden ships. Dip yellow main sail and easily cover
steel frames and glass with a bare thin canvas haze.
Can we reverse time, or did we? Easy does it. No
fucking in the Garden of Eden. Stand by Jerusalem.
We carry the lights to instant photograph of all the
dear names etched in Black Marble at DC Vietnam
Memorial. Can I dream again and live, or is combat
death too soft and well hidden when I hide in some
dead women's skin, covering in the dream, as if
necrophilia were a status symbol for old dead grunts
carrying home ten years after dying humping the last
fucken hill before their tour was up.
Smoking good shit and laughing jabbing the air,
ten thousand violent taxi drivers lean against
cab fender and gaze beyond the arch of aluminum
bridges, and take in their mouth the great neon
spirit tit and expire inside an aluminum cunt.
Eddie Meyers Buys the Perfect Blowjob!
February 19, 1991
It was thundering cold, blustery, raining snow and ice
the day former lifeguard and US Marine Staff Sgt.
Eddie Meyer's walked his last taxi driving tour.
Sgt. Eddie courted death, snorting coke, fucking dime
whores, doing anything in his power to die early. He
insisted on risk multiplied by risk. And that frozen
day, getting, what he called the perfect blowjob
Eddie's heart quit as he shot into the child's mouth.
Henry heard the story of the "blow by blow" directly
from the girl. A week after Eddie died; he picked Judy
up on a whim as she hitched across the GW Bridge.
All of us knew about Judy. On the street runaway at
14, shooting coke at 15. She had a kid last year at
16; her parents' back in Ohio raised little girl. Judy
couldn't take it so she returned to the streets two
months later.
She told the driver Fat Frank that she loved Eddie and
only went back on the game, using her favorite British
slang, when she lost her fast food job. "I would fuck
Eddie just because," she said. I am sad he died. He
always made me laugh. Others said that Judy was full
of shit and that her pimp fucked with Eddie's drugs
when Eddie got too close to Judy. Others, and there
are always fifty stories for one truth say Judy fucked
Eddie up when he refused to take her in his cab to
cop.
Truth is always fragile.
Laurie seemed sad when Henry told the story to Aaron
and Angela later that night. Sure, Judy could be
lying, Laurie said, but I have been there, and I know
the kind of shits that Eddie Meyers can become
when he stoned and can't cum.
Then again, all I gave her was a free ride to
the city. I didn't even wait, Henry said. I didn't
get or ask for a BJ. Laurie is this you? I know
you are not fucken jealous.
Judy got out, and looking almost dead herself, pushed
her head back into the cab, through my open window,
and asked me if I would wait while she copped. Said
told me, smiling, kissing me on the cheek; that "if I
waited she would give me what she had given Eddie." I
laughed at her, and sped off, and I could see she was
laughing as well. I wondered why I let her kiss me on
the cheek.
Henry loved his stories called them his shadows. He
saw the good Sgt. of the movie Platoon as the perfect
ghost. He was dead before he lived; Henry thought when
he learned how Eddie had died.
Saying that, they he remembered how they shared war stories,
and the war itself. Yes, I believed what Eddie said. If he
lost some of the details what the fuck.
Eddie would slap Henry's back after each story, and
carefully ask Henry why the fuck he drove a cab. Eddie
would add, finally, yea I know you got fired for
fucking some underage student, but what's the other
reason.
Man, you're out of place here, but hen again, being
out of place, fits. We're all out of place, so you
might as well enjoy it, and he would offer Henry a
hit, or a line and Henry would carefully accept the
joint and refuse the coke.
The last thing Henry remembered. That New Year, just
before Midnight, on the taxi stand, three cabs behind
Eddie on the stand.
Eddie was looking at his box of photos. He kept them
with his cash in the cab. They were the usual ones.
Pictures of Eddie as a lifeguard, in Nam, in uniform.
Eddie would always say, look how handsome I was then,
as he fingered his past. Here's my son. Wasn't he
great? I miss him, he would add. Why did he die? Why
did I buy him that fast car so he could kill him self.
I told him not to race that fucken car.
Eddie rambled like this all the time. Most of the
drivers ignored him. Henry couldn't, but when Eddie,
called the taxi stand "His patient rest before that
moral hour soon to come." Henry saw Eddie the poet and
he remembered how he also called the GW Bridge, his
righteous black ocean to "Never-never land." Just like
Tinker bell, he said, and he would snap his fingers,
and laugh, letting his body shiver. If I could only
twinkle, he said, how I could get laid. And the other
drivers, Henry included, would laugh at the show,
waiting like Eddie, for their last call, caressing the
bridge, called it their righteous ocean. So Myths are
born.
Two hours after death Eddie was more than a drunken
ghost riding the bridge? I never saw him, but some
did. Sure, I believe them.
One driver protested the claims saying how cans a
ghost get stoned and drunk. How can a ghost get blown,
and you know, the man said, if Eddie were really a
ghost he would have a circle of whores to service him.
Would be free, the man, would protest, right.
I remember Eddie that one summer night. He was in back
of a broken down cab with a Spanish hooker. She was
fucking him. The girl looked about 20 but was probably
14. Eddie was banging her not caring if I watched, and
the bitch, was spread out on the back seat, half
stoned, almost asleep, oblivious to the grunts and
groans, as Eddie pushed his body into her furiously
trying to keep himself hard after he came. I know I am
a sicko but I watched the whole thing. Eddie said
later that the girl asked if I would be next. I told
her No, that you were a queer, and she said, laughing
back, that her brother would do him for twenty.
Somehow, Eddie was never off course. He raged for the
coke and pussy. He died having his dick sucked, and
Henry added, telling Aaron the story, you know if I
have to die, why not in the saddle.
Aaron, always the comic, retorted, bet you fucked the
girl too. Don't bullshit me Henry; I know you never
turn any ass down.
Reprise
Simple setting: a taxi man and a cold silver bridge.
Commentary will not mitigate delusions. I shared
Eddie's steps, if not his choices as we complete each
passage between the spans.
As we travel we examine our listening and speaking. We
notice the pauses and inflection of speech; compare it
to the pauses in the flood below where the river
changes. We not the distance we would fall if there
were no bridge. We watch the dark collect us, and then
as we ride, always-in fear and trembling as one
philosopher said. When we ride that bridge between
tower and glory (or failure) we find that common
incidence of pleasure and pain.
-------
Comments appreciated
seanfarragher@msn.com
More American Adventures in erotica and other works by Sean Farragher:
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Sean_Farragher/
Sean Farragher
Poetry Site: http://www.farragher.com (updated 9/4/2000)
TxM6 Sites:
http://www.taximurders.com
http://www.taximurders.com/enfer
http://www.taximurders.com/lcfallon
--
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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