“Looks like it's a night for theater, Vladimir, looks like it's a night for song.”

Twelve-year-old Vladimir Karlov faced himself in the mirror and combed his dark hair. It had been months since Vladimir had made time for the stage. He had been so bogged down with the luring and chasing of the female that he had almost forgotten his love of musicals.

“You've had enough Vladimir; you've had enough for ten men, you've had enough for ten men and more.” It had been years it seemed since Vladimir last gazed upon a bare set of d cups. So long in fact that it was not uncommon for him to be heard talking aloud to himself as if in a dream, “I'll take b's, I'll even take b's.” In one such daydream while walking near the docks, he said this aloud causing a man with a wool hat to stop him in place.

“What's that you say, Vlad?”

“Why I say nothing at all, Stranger.”

“Why yes you did, Vlad, you just said you'd settle for b cups, you just said you'd settle for b's.”

“I said nothing of the sort, Fisherman.”

“Why yes you did, Vlad, you just said you'd settle for b cups, you just said you'd settle for b's.”

Now red-eyed and awake, Vladimir lashed out at the man, tearing the wool hat from his head.

“Be gone, Stranger, you smell of fish and bile, you know nothing of what I want or need. You know nothing of me settling, for Vladimir Karlov does not settle.  Vladimir Karlov does not give in.”

He spat and threw the hat into the water, as the stranger, though twice Vladimir's size in both height and weight, turned quickly and scurried away.

“Vladimir Karlov will not settle for b's or even c's, Fisherman, Vladimir Karlov will never settle for them!”

Vladimir sighed aloud, knowing though not yet accepting that the fisherman was indeed right. He would settle for c's and even b's, and as he looked out to the floating wool hat in the water, as dark and gray as pollution, he whispered a cloud of breath into the salty air, “I'll even take a's. By god, I'll even take a's.”

His hair was still wet when he set out into the night, opting for pneumonia over wearing his usual bowler, knowing the pressing would crease his hair in ways unbecoming of the theater. He also remembered that he had never been a fan of the coat check man and the last thing he needed that evening was a scuffle. It was not yet a year since last he decked said coat check man for laying his long wool on a pile of cotton jackets. It was painfully obvious that his favorite theater was being tarnished with each passing year by such crude service workers, but he couldn't help but stay loyal.

At the age of seven, while attending a boat christening, the “Mademoiselle Isabel,” as it were, a young man by the name of Leroy who had covered for Vladimir and his gambling indiscretions at the horse races the previous year was in need of such loyalty. It seemed that Vladimir had purchased a horse under the guise of an older gentleman who spoke in several nondescript languages using accents hailing from both Eastern Europe and Southeast Asia. However, the horse did a great deal of biting prior to the race, causing several of the favored horses to refuse to leave the gates, and Vladimir's horse strolled away with an easy victory, setting a record for the slowest mile and an eighth the track had ever witnessed.

Months and several investigations later, Vladimir was found out, and if it weren't for Leroy's assistance in both make up and wig assembly, Vladimir would now be fertilizer. But as it were, Leroy was running full speed at a woman of ninety covered in pearls about to haplessly smash a bottle of champagne, champagne Leroy had never approved of, against the hull of an ocean liner his father had built. However, knowing that Leroy would not make it in time to stop the woman's downward motion, his exhausted jog not helping matters, Vladimir had to act quickly. So, with one step over and a quick jerk of the wrist, the cruise liner was released and it slipped away from the dock in a rush of waves, followed closely by the woman in pearls, who swung and missed and couldn't stop her momentum. Leroy's pride had been spared and the cheap champagne never scarred his father's “Mademoiselle Isabel.”

Vladimir arrived at the theater with hands in pockets and chin in jacket. The snow wasn't falling and there were leaves on the trees, but the chill was still biting and the wind still stinging. He stepped into the warmth of the lobby, a classic number with golden coffers and chandelier after chandelier of hanging crystal. The light became red in the port colored carpet and all around there were black suits and black gowns walking without seeing. He stopped and inhaled the years that had passed in that lobby. Over and over again he breathed in the columns and staircases. The widest staircases he had ever seen. A hundred women could fit across them. Two hundred breasts all lined up in a row, perking one after the other on the top step, three hundred lined up at the bottom. D's, every one.

“Enough, Vladimir, enough. Smell not the traffic of breasts, past and present. Smell not the traffic of women. Smell the ceiling and the light. Smell the curtains and the stage, the chairs, the paint and the aisles.” But before he could smell any of it, all he could smell was the bar.

“Haven't seen you in a while, Henry, but why don't you get me the usual all the same.”

“Sure enough, Vlad, the usual it is.”

“And make it heavy, it's a long show and my legs will grow too weak to revisit.”

“You said the usual didn't you, Vlad?”

“Touché Henry, touché.”

A full glass was placed before Vladimir who took in the drink as if breathing.

“What's kept you away, Vlad, what's kept you away from here?”

“Well Henry, it's simple really, though I'd like to blame it on the coat check man, I know it's much more than that.”

“Never been a fan of the coat check man myself, Vlad.”

“I figured as much, Henry, knowing a man like you like I think I do, I figured you wouldn't respect a man like that.”

“Can't respect a man who mixes the wools with cottons, Vlad, can't respect a man who mixes the two.”

Vladimir spins the liquid around in the glass.

“Excited about the show, Vlad, excited about the stage?”

“I'm excited as I'll ever be, as excited as I can be.”

The lights start flashing and Vladimir finishes off the scotch.

“I hear it's a love story, Henry, you seen this one yet?”

“I've heard the songs time and time again, they play when I sleep and they play when I wake, and every one a story of love.”

“And do you sleep well, Henry?  And do you wake just the same?”

“I sleep with voices that sing to me, but when I wake they don't know my name.”

The lights stop flashing and the ushers are closing the doors.

“They'll know your name tonight, Henry.”

“They'll know your name as well.”

Vladimir leaves the bar and slides in before the usher shuts him out.

Inside everything is dark. The stage is black and Vladimir can hardly see his hand when he places it before him. Fearing he will trip and become the buffoon he has always despised, he doesn't move. Long breaths pass and the theater stays quiet, but Vladimir doesn't make a move. 

Finally a light comes on.  A single spot of soft blue angled on a woman in white. She stands at center stage and looks at him; she stands at center stage and sings.

There are no instruments, for the pit sleeps quietly in their cave. Every note washes Vladimir from himself and he no longer knows he is standing. He no longer knows anything at all. All that is left is a girl in blue dust, singing in octaves he had never heard and words he will never learn.

And she continues to sing.

And he continues to stand.

And the blue light continues to burn.

It continues to burn on her pale gown and black hair, her pink lips and pink ears. Her eyes, her teeth, her tongue.

Then the light goes out and the dust is no longer blue. It becomes red and green and yellow, orange and pink and white.  It becomes all the colors but blue, all the colors but water, as Vladimir stands awash, listening to her again. Again and again and again.

The lights come on and the crowd moves passed, bumping him and cursing, racing to race in cars. They all saw the same thing, but none of them saw Vladimir.  None of them saw him see her. None of them saw either at all.

“For only I really saw her. Only Vladimir saw her at all. Go run and rush and race, you zombies, run and rush and race. You phantoms, you ghouls, you ghosts. Here and gone, and here and gone again. Missing her in blue, missing my lady in blue.”

They didn't pay him attention and the theater went empty and dark.

Vladimir leaves the black and enters the noisy red of the lobby.

He sidles up to the bar, which has a drink waiting for him to stir.

“I've not drank from these glasses in so long, Henry.”

“Where you been, Vlad?”

“I've been out there. Out there in the endless cold, out there in the season-less weather.”

“Always cold, Vlad?”

“Always cold, Henry.”

“Why you always cold, Vlad?”

“No breasts to warm me, Henry, no breasts to warm me at all. Big or small, small or big, they're not to be found. I see them and dream them, but it's been ages since they've pressed against my back, my chest, my hands, my face.”

“Why they're all around, Vlad, they're everywhere you look.”

Vladimir looks up from his glass, but none of them are blue.

“None of them are blue, Henry, they all dress in black."

“They're black in this light alone, Vlad, but in darkness they're as blue as you like.”

And Vladimir drinks down the scotch and Vladimir drinks it down again.

And as the scotch gets darker, the dresses get light.

Henry is right, Henry is always right.

Blue dresses are all around and Vladimir leans back and watches.

“I see them, Henry.”

“Go and get them, Vlad.”

“I see them, Henry.”

“Then go and get.”

“I need another to stand, I need another to move.”

“She's full again and she's ready for you to drink.”

“And I am ready for her, Henry, I am ready to meet my girl.”

Vladimir leaves the glass filled with ice and moves to the silk filled with skin.

“You there, you there in the blue.”

A woman turns and another after her.

“You too, the both of you.”

The taller woman moves away while the other one comes close.

“I see you're wearing blue.”

“I never wear blue,” she says.

“I see you're wearing heels.”

“I never wear heels,” she says.

“And there I see your breasts, your breasts are just right for me.”

“My breasts are here, my breasts are high, and my breasts are right for me.”

“And I shall kiss them, and I shall hold them, and I shall sleep on them tonight.”

“You shall wish and you shall dream and you shall drink until there's light.”

Vladimir moves in and places his face between her breasts. They are soft and strong and hold his drunken weight.

“Forget this show and come home with me.”

“I can not, Vladimir, for my breasts are but a B.”

“I'll settle for a B, I'll settle for a B.”

“But I'll not settle for you, Vlad, I'll not settle for you.”

And she turns from the stranger whose name she knew.

And he turns to the bartender whose name he knew.

And he drank down the ice and filled it again ‘til the dark turned light and the light turned dark again.

Looking at the stage, twelve-year-old Vladimir Karlov felt the need to penetrate.

It had been some time, four days to be exact, since the overwhelming desire to take a woman had struck him with such force.  But standing there, gazing upon a stage of teenage thoroughbreds, he could do nothing to control himself. He tried biting his hand and closing his eyes, hoping it would take him away from such a place, to a library perhaps, with books and shelves and dust; but with the turning of each page appeared another girl and another bust, and he had to open his eyes before his bitten hand began working away at things less than acceptable for public display. Still, he thought, those thoroughbreds were doing nothing to ease the tension growing below his linen slacks, and he cursed himself over and over for having ever thought silk boxers were stylish.

The saleslady was a tall number with thick glasses. Her hair, a ponytail.  Her shoulders, slender. Vladimir Karlov was never one for thick glasses, but the way she took them off when she approached him, he couldn't help but assume she screwed on instinct alone -- a Himalayan monster, a Moorish beast.  Sight was nothing but a hindrance. He let her speak. He let her sell. Under her blouse was an interesting movement that occurred when she laughed, so Vladimir Karlov made her laugh and laugh. She laughed until Vladimir could hide his smile no more and had to be escorted from the property. Though unhappy with the purchase, he couldn't help but respect the woman for processing his credit card while his hands were held behind his back and his pants at his ankles.   

“Wool underwear and wool pants from here on out, Vladimir, no matter the heat, this bulge must be stifled,” he yelled aloud to the shock of a Mexican husband and wife who stared the same as Vladimir did at the stage, but without any protruding members below either of their waists.

The girls of Sacred Heart Catholic High School were on stage pulsating sexual with every scream of every horn and every slam of every drum. The music was louder than ever and so were those hips. Sure the husband and wife were watching without arousal, their daughter was probably on stage now, puffing out her chest in her Spanish dress, cut just low enough to see a birthmark at the beginning of her breast. Oh how Vladimir wished to kiss that mark, but not without permission of course, no, never without permission. She was a traditional girl, raised in a traditional house and those were traditional breasts and traditional hips. Of course he'll ask first. He'll say to the man holding his wife, “Senor, I know I am but a stranger, just another in a long line of men with the desire to court your daughter; but believe me when I say that only I, Vladimir Karlov, will pleasure your daughter the way such a daughter should be pleasured. Yes Senor, only I have the everlasting desire to kiss that mark, that dark brown mark, just atop her still blossoming breasts, and forever satisfy her every need. I know she is young, but Senor, is not the world also young?  Is not the world also blossoming? Do not hold back what is meant to be, Senor, do not hold back what is meant to be for Vladimir Karlov.”

He will curse.

He will yell.

He will stomp and strut and stare, but in the end he will calm. He, Senor, father of the girl with the mark atop her breast, will finally calm and understand, knowing all to well the truth that is spoken when Vladimir Karlov speaks.

“Thank you, Senor, your daughter Olvera Maria Marquez will bleed happy forever more.”

Vladimir Karlov stares as the dancing speeds up.

Looking at his wardrobe, Vladimir feels amiss, for nothing about him projects his love for the Mexican people, and nothing is further from the truth, with their dark eyes and dark hair, their wide hips and full lips, their skin as soft as skin, their ankles and wrists and necks, so slender so guided so pure.

Near the stage, Vladimir spots a vendor, so he races to him and purchases what he can. Money is exchanged in haste and Vladimir soon has a red, white, and green shirt, a large sombrero, a votive candle of the Virgin Mary, and a mini Mexican flag. He tears his shirt off and throws it to the ground, replacing it with the much larger colored cotton, then, with a slight adjustment of his hair; places the sombrero atop his head before racing back to his place below the stage. There, waving his flag and holding his un-lit Virgin, he watches the Mexican high school girls dance and dance, forgetting completely about his bulge that grows and grows. 

Steps he doesn't know. Steps he could never know. Seduction he can only hope to witness one on one, for in a group, it was alluring, but equally heartbreaking. There before him are the Sacred Heart Catholic High School girls. There before him is all he could ever desire. There before him is Olvera, and Grisela, and Gabriela, pounding and pushing, but not for him, never for him. They are doing it for their parents, for their prom dates, for their Jesus, while Vladimir stands there doing it for no one.

Vladimir drinks from his flask, but the taste of scotch makes him ill.

“No Vladimir Karlov, you will drink scotch no more!”

He runs back to the vendor and purchases a bottle of tequila, pouring out the scotch and cleansing the flask with its newest denizen. Never before had any other form of alcohol crossed Vladimir Karlov's lips, but he drinks it down all the same. What was left in the bottle he gives to the vendor and they drink swig after swig together.

“I don't drink tequila, Henry.”

“I know you don't, Vlad.”

“I just don't drink tequila, Henry.”

“I know you don't, Vlad.”

“So when will the girls love me, Henry, when will the girls care?”

“Soon enough, Vlad, soon enough.”

“And what of my shirt and hat, Henry, what of my candle and flag?”

“The girl's will love it all, Vlad, the girl's will love it all.”

And the two drink down the alcohol while Vladimir suppresses it from coming up.

“It goes down smooth, Henry, smoother than I'd like.”

“It goes down nice, Vlad, it goes down just right.”

Another and another.

“You're the expert, Henry, and I'm just a man, a man in love with your people. Now for Olvera Maria Marquez, which one is she?”

“The one in the Spanish dress, Vlad."

“Oh, but perhaps she's much too young, Henry. Perhaps I should let her grow. Her body is ready, but her mind's of a child, who am I to corrupt it with such pleasure.”

Vladimir is yelling and Henry is smiling.   

“She's not too young, Vlad, her age is just right.”

“This drink is too smooth, Henry, smoother than I'd like.”

“The drink is just right, Vlad, just like I like.” Vladimir drinks until the flask is empty and wipes his mouth with his arm.

“I'm moving in on her, Henry.”

“Let me light your candle, Vlad, and then she's all yours.”

Vladimir walks back to the stage, the Virgin Mary on fire. 

“Look to me, Olvera, look to me down here. I can not dance, I can not spin, but boy can I kiss, boy oh boy can I kiss.”

The Mexican husband and wife watch as Vladimir speaks aloud to the girls on the stage, waving his candle and waving his flag, waving his bulge around. 

“I'm here, Olvera, I'm here. I'm here to kiss your mark.”

Their dresses spin and swirl, a rainbow of red calves, white wrists, and green necks.  Mexico is alive and all the world needs to know. The girls stomp with the power only a high school girl can know, only a high school girl can yield. So much to care about, so much to cry about, and Vladimir wants them to cry no more.

“You there, all of you. All of you can be with me and never again will you cry. I will take you and pleasure you and never again will you cry, for I am Vladimir Karlov, I am Vladimir Karlov.”

But they stomped into the night and spun into the day and Vladimir watched alone, holding a flag that finally went still and a candle that finally went dark.

© 2006 Tyke Johnson