the life of richie


Posted in was by Rich on March 26, 2009

There was a boy Wesley who would borrow Richie’s toys and feed them to his dog. Wesley called Richie to snivel, sobbing, I’m sorry, but my dog ate the head off your He-man action figure. He was crying, and Richie was crying, saying, It doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter.

–I’m sorry.

–It doesn’t matter.

Wesley went to church (where there were priests) and prayed that Richie would still love him. And Richie still yuved him. But Wesley was a Catholic and Richie was a heavin’ Hea-then. He would hide under the table in his parents’ bedroom and play with his toys (the ones that still had heads on’em, that hadn’t been de-headed by Wesley’s doggy). Under the table he could construct his own worlds of imagination and Imagination would swell to surround him in its suckling succor (just imagine). Here was the antithetical firmament he sought. There were no words here yet. There were some scribbles he scribed, si. And later there would be words other than Richie and yuv and cat and dog. But he could not imagine later then. Then there was only now.

Eventually Megan went away like the man-Mommie, and she left, and Richie would never see her again ever. And he stopped going to Ayethia’s. And Wesley went off to private school, where the nuns would strike his hand if caught playing with his doggy was he (slap his icky, sticky hand that tasted like some bitter warm syrup-drink when lapped at with wagging tongue). And the boys who’d decorated Richie’s clubhouse with flowers were told not to (so) anymore. And the Richie-cat runned away. So Richie was removed from them (or were they rather removed from him?) and retreated under the bedroom table, alone

1.) A is for Alone

2.) A + lone

3.) All + one (and one is all)

For when he didn’t have toys to tinker with, when they were all eaten, he would play with words like the magnetic alphabits on the frigo. Because A-l-o-n-e was how you spelled Richie in the After-Eden. (But he would say it A-yone.)

But one day he went into his room when he was a little older and crossed his hands like he’d seen them do in that naked priest movie, and dramatically rested his wrists down upon his bed while sunstrokes streamed in beams through the dust-furried blinds. And he invoked god and then got a queer god-feeling like he was deity already and was burrowing his lips into his own peach to get at the pit, spit! spit! But he tried hard to forcefeed himself some panoptiopticonal warden, and said to mister god, Why me? –– and then, not waiting for an answer to the first, Why have you taken away all my friends? And distant master bleated as the skies farted like the yellow mustard, the fetal god kicking inside the heaven-womb. Richie warned, I will write my name all over you, and be a heathen, and use words to kill you dead! Because I’m a heathen and terrible and people are better and you are worse and my friends don’t really need you anyway and neither do I and neither do I do I

But then Richie cried, because he did want god, some god, ananny god, even if he didn’t need god so much. He wanted god to return with the man-Mommie all thin with long hair wrapped-up in a lovely fur coat. (And wanted that the man-Mommie be wearing a lovely fur coat too.) But the not-god just shrugged its shoulders, and the earth sh-sh-shakened, and then there was silence like Silence Itself was before the beginning. And Richie realized he’d never believed in god and was sad. Then he smiled and feigned relief. After all, there were still priests, he reasoned, even without the g-word. So he smiled.

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