Everybody in this comic is projecting like bullets. How do I know the two strangers are? Because that whole world functions on playing with projections. I’m not special. I played with them too, and had it done to me. And then, I can explain why, there becomes a sordid humor to it, I can’t really explain, but if the blonde weren’t “on” here, she’d probably admit she gets what I mean.
The lap dance places were an in-between nether-world, where the line was in the biggest danger of getting blurred. A lot are gone, at least the circuit I worked, but every now and then I realize they’re not forgotten. And that’s when I have to own that shit, own that I was part of it, and own myself in the here and now. When one of them turns up in public, and remembers, and wants you frozen forever in that time and place and costume, a dance of terse, passive-aggressive snide remarks at your work on the wall in a gallery. Confusing words meant to derail you, playfulness almost masking a viper’s hiss, looking to knock you off your feet and back onto your pole. I need to swallow a bigger compass, in the future.
Eric’s hand on my shoulder steadies me but before the kaleidoscope comes back into focus a noted rock album artist is asking to photograph us, then the publisher of an underground newspaper I’ve had work in, and the evening washes over me in a wave immersing me in this-is-what-you-wanted-now-learn-to-swim-in-it. And I will.