Tag Archives: Joshua Ferris

Jing Continued to Pontificate about the Banality of Breasts

The late afternoon’s sun left the floorboards uninhabitable. I dragged a kiddie pool into my living room and filled it with ice, which melted almost instantly. I fortified myself with Jalisco’s worst and brought out a machete to trim my cuticles. Precision was key.

My focus was infinite or at least it was until I heard someone scream, “Show me Donald Trump’s birth certificate!” I gasped and looked around the room. Who was in my humble abode? I spied around the corner, but saw no one there. I found myself at my bathroom window. I peeked out and saw Gladys, my six-two pre-op transsexual neighbor. At her full height she looked like a bull on its hind legs. Gladys, God bless her, was handing a plastic container of leftovers to a man at her door. The bedraggled man wore neon pink reading glasses and a Carhartt jacket. “For all you do for me,” Gladys said. “You can come over here and shower anytime.”

I ducked below the window. Voyeurism begets voyeurism. I could spend all day watching Gladys’ human interactions and I still wouldn’t know who shouted that anti-Trump statement in my living room. I returned to my couch and it was there that I came to the very really possibility that I was hearing voices that might only exist inside of my head. Voices that I didn’t recall intentionally generating.

Eleven hours later I was dining with Hugo. Hugo was talking about approaching four girls who spoke a language, which neither of us understood[1]. Leave it to Hugo to think girls eating hamburgers at four a.m. were waiting to be whisked off their feet. I was about to iterate this when she sat down. Her name was Jing and she wanted to show me a picture.

I offered her an onion ring and she accepted. “Real men” Jing chomped and said, “don’t talk about breasts because all that really matters is the flower—the vagina.” Two things crossed my mind: 1.) Don’t laugh and 2.) She’s probably a courtesan[2]. I looked to Hugo expecting to share a glance that said, I don’t know what’s going on, but I like it. My eyes met with Hugo’s ear. He was in the throes of Jing’s poetry[3]. “Older men,” Jing continued, “never talk about breasts[4]. Older men also understand the importance of the ass.”

“Did you learn this in a focus group or—?” I asked. Jing said that I should stop trying to racialize everything. She had a half dozen henna freckles on her nose. I wondered if she’s was happa. Where else would she get these freckles? I took a bite of an onion ring, but the onion didn’t break—like an oyster on the half-shell I slurped it from its fried carcass.

A little Mexican man emerged from behind the counter with a cupcake and started singing happy birthday. We all joined in. I mean the whole fucking Astro Burger screamed “Happy Birthday” at the top of their lungs. I clapped furiously for the table of girls who spoke one or more of 6,700 recognized languages that I didn’t know.

Exhausted from the clapping, I closed my eyes. When I opened them her phone was in front of my face. “You don’t look like my friend,” Jing said. I nodded, I didn’t. “But my friends,” she pointed over her shoulder at a light-skinned African American girl and blond kid who couldn’t be older than twenty. “They think you look like his best friend.” He gave a furtive wave. He reminded me of Artur Lecomte from The Mysteries of Pittsburgh.

She showed me the picture again. It was a guy at the beach. I was a guy at Astro Burger. “Jing,” I said, my voice grew hoarse. There was so much I wanted to ask her. I wanted to know where she was from, how she developed this overt sexuality, why did her words remind me of the most vulvic Georgia O’Keeffe paintings? I wanted to know why she was talking in metaphors at Astro Burger at four in the morning.

Jing continued to pontificate about the banality of breasts. Things kept coming back to the flower. “It’s really all that matters,” she shrugged. Jing held all of the testicles of the world in a vice grip—disagree and she would crush your sense of masculinity, your sexuality. And yet Jing was just a nubile in a peach-colored top with a freckled nose. She seemed to know something I didn’t. She seemed to be on a drug that I hadn’t heard of. She also seemed like the type of girl who made posthumous headlines. I told her one of those “older men” might better suite her as a chaperone. She said she didn’t have a Daddy Complex. At this point, I didn’t know what to think.

Her friends told her that they were leaving. “You can stay if you want,” Arthur offered. I hoped she wouldn’t. She looked back and gave them a nod, which they did not understand. She looked at me and gave me a look that said ‘Let them wait’. Or maybe she said that. I really didn’t know. I thought I was listening.

Jing was at her best when there existed a divide between Jing and the audience. This was not a dialogue. When she said older men, I corrected her and said she meant “mature.” She seemed offended[5]. She thought I was trying to insert myself into the mature subset of flower appreciators and ass aficionados when in actuality I was looking for clarity. I had spent the day wondering who was talking and now that I had a talking person in front of me I wanted to understand what was being said.

Jing stood up and I stayed seated. She said goodbye and I felt myself growing sad at the prospect of reading in her obituary that she had died that same morning in an after-hours salsa club near MacArthur Park called “The Mild Enchilada.”

Jing and I had shared an onion ring. We’d talked abstractly about reproductive organs and sexuality. She said in one-way or another something incredibly crude to someone who preferred to bask in a daily coat of naiveté. In a way, it made me feel silly and her—the vagina poetess, a staunch realist.

Hugo was still to my left, though I couldn’t account for his last half hour. He was watching Jing leave. “Did you see that?” Hugo chuckled when she was out of earshot.

“See what?” I asked.

“She had no ass!”

I looked up and caught a quick glance before she walked into the pre-dawn morning. Hanging loosely below her waist, a deflated sack of denim trailed Jing out of Astro Burger.

“And what of the flower?” I heard what sounded like pre-op Gladys’ voice whisper into my ear.

-The Neapolitan Mastiff


[1] There are an estimated 6,700 recognized languages. This means these girls could’ve been speaking up to 6,699 different languages or possibly 6,700 with an accent we were unaccustomed to, like Glaswegian.

[2] Fresh from a jaunt to Vegas, I unjustly suspect all women who seek my conversation would like to be compensated for their time or at least their efforts. While Astro Burger might not look like a twenty-four hour cabaret, Jing and all this flower talk made me feel like I was engaging myself in a transaction of the human flesh.

[3] At this point, I’m convinced Jing peddles pleasure.

[4] Most of the older men I know only talk about breasts.

[5] At this point, I’m pretty sure she’s been over-served, under-supervised and not a hooker. Knowing this, I no longer fear that I will be clubbed over the head by her pimp in the parking lot for not paying for her “time” inside Astro Burger.

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Raccoon Tails? Nah Bruh!

All right my chicano hermanos: I know you dominate a certain amount of the plaid shirt, straight-billed Dodger hat, acid washed skinny jean, Creative Recreation sneaker market. I know this! I know you’ve lived up on Micheltorena with your Moms and your abuelita since forever. Ya lo sabía! You were there before the undercover aristocrats came with their canvas tote bags and masters degrees. You were living there way before all the Farmer’s Markets, gastropubs, boutiques specializing in vintage eyewear and wine bars. Christ, you took your first steps in the parking lot of the 99 Cent Store on Sunset. You’re totally on point.

So you wear that hardcore messenger bag on the train. It’s water-resistant, cost more than a month’s car payment on a Ford Focus and it’s ugly as hell. Sure, it was designed for PBR drinking Lance Armstrongs who make their living weaving through buses, beemers and tourists from the Financial District to the Sunset. So no, that messenger bag with your textbooks from LACC isn’t really for you. But do I care? Hell no! You’ve earned that sleek pink sleet-resistant sack. And you’ve earned that freshly painted fixed-gear that’s been sitting in your abuelas garage since spring 2005. By the way, your homeboy Nairobi really did hook it up with that all white everything except the pink taped handlebars paint job.

What I don’t get—what I’ll never understand, whether it’s a twelve year old Korean girl with it at the mall or some fiero with a Paper Magazine under one arm and Delorean blasting from his oversized headphones—is the raccoon tail. The foot long ball of fur that frankly looks like part of a mauled cat hanging from your pocket—serio guey? A big, ole bushy raccoon tail? There are no raccoons in Silver Lake. In the hills, you say? Nope. Not even in your abuelitas lifetime.

Now this is just my opinion. Don’t take it personally. Don’t lose sleep over it and certainly don’t try and put yourself out of your misery by jumping off the Sunset overpass at Glendale Boulevard because that shit isn’t high enough to accomplish anything, but a month catching up on reality tv and a rash under your arms from the crutches they’ll give you on your way out. (If you happen to have any vicodin left over (assuming you do jump) email me at exchangingpleasantries@gmail.com and I’ll tell you about a safe place where it can be disposed).

All I’m saying is you’re better than the raccoon tail, guey. Take that filthy, beady eyed, trash eating, furry extremity out of your pocket and throw it in the lake at MacArthur Park because that’s where all things not worth burying or reporting to the LAPD go to die.

The Neapolitan Mastiff

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