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Cincinnati
native Mark Flanigan has been writing and performing
for over 14 years....Works from his collections Wrong-Way
Poems For One-Way Streets, Not Necessarily God Stories
and Next to Nothing have appeared in a variety of independent
publications and, along with his performances, have garnered
critical acclaim. He has also co-written a screenplay
(“Midway,” with Brian Keizer), edited a literary
publication (omnibscure) and worked to develop, produce
and curate various gallery shows and performance readings
-- notably, VOLK/c.s.p.i. and Intermedia Series readings
at the Contemporary Arts Center and the Weston art gallery.
Flanigan’s monthly column, “Exiled on Main
Street,” appeared for over three years, first in
x-ray, and upon his resignation there, at semantikon.com.
Performances of his can be found on “the Volk/c.s.p.i.
spoken word series CD (2001),” which he co-produced,
and on the CD “One Night Only" (2002). To
learn more about his work, read his blog, review some
of the works mentioned above, and listen to additional
audio tracks:
Visit markflanigan.com
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October
2007: The Dance
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| June
2007: Cake |
| May
2007: Special
Edition "Light Travel" Mark Flanigan and
Steve Proctor |
| April
2007: Zero Hour |
| March
2007: Prelude to a Kiss-Off |
| Jan
2007: State Of The Disunion Address |
| Nov
2006: Youngblood |
| Oct
2006: How I Spent My Summer Vacation |
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Exiled
from Main Street 4: Aiming To Please
“Here we are,” the cabbie announced.
This while I looked up at the
building that contained, somewhere within it, the offices of
Chilton, Allen & Associates—the one firm in forty
that showed interest in representing me—and thought that
it, the building, was somewhat unassuming. At least when compared
to the mini-skyscrapers on each side of it, anyway.
That’ll be thirty-four dollars,”
he said. I fumbled for my money, tipping heavily, in hope that
karma could be built on a dime. The man didn’t bother
thanking me, though, merely wishing me “Good luck”
instead.
The door closed and no sooner
had he sped away. And there I was, left alone and on the sidewalk,
with my one bag in hand. On the sidewalk with the fitful traffic
of Broadway behind me. Looking up, at first. Then, down at my
watch. I was twelve minutes early.
Look man, I remained
outside, just be yourself. If you have any chance at all,
any niche, that’s it. Not much different from when you’re
writing, mate. Stick to your guns.
A doorman, spying me, opened the
door and kind of gestured in such a way as if to say, you
gonna come in or what? “I’m here for an interview,”
I told him, for no reason.
Made my way, then, towards the
elevators. Waited for one to open, saying “Twenty-three”
once it did. Felt the elevator catapult upwards faster than
I wanted it to. Breathed deep as the doors opened and I walked
down the hallway past suite after suite. Found the one I was
looking for, went in, and introduced myself to the pretty curly-headed
receptionist as calmly as I could....“I’m a little
early,” I explained.
“That’s quite alright,”
she said as I stood there holding my bag. A bag that contained
in it a laptop, exactly one change of clothes, and some chapters
of the novel that I had, of late, picked up again. It was the
latter I was thinking about as the girl alerted my interviewer
that I had arrived. I was thinking, suddenly, that maybe I hadn’t
sat on it long enough, that perhaps it was in my best interest
not to mention it at all?
“Mr. Hunt will see you now,”
the receptionist stood and led the way....Through two glass
doors and down a long corridor that had a pair of doors every
ten yards or so. We kept walking as I tried not to hyperventilate,
the receptionist stopping abruptly to open one of the doors.
“Mr. Hunt,” she announced while holding it open
for me to enter, “this is Mark Flanigan.” I only
heard the door close behind me as I waltzed across the room
with one arm extended. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Hunt,”
I said while smiling in what must have been an awkward manner.
Hunt remained seated behind his
desk. “Likewise,” he said, looking me up and down
while we shook hands, “call me Michael.” He pointed
to a chair for me to sit in.
The whole thing was happening
much to fast for my taste. There was nothing but window behind
his desk, and despite knowing that I should be concentrating
completely on the man before me, I found myself nonetheless
distracted by the view.
“Pretty amazing, isn’t
it?” Hunt remarked. “Yeah,” I answered. And
then:
“It reminds me of something.
A few years back, some friends and I were opening an art gallery,
and the venue we had our hearts set on was managed by some place
downtown that was in a building not unlike this. An amazing
view, right there on the Ohio. I mean, we had just come from
cashing in our coins to pay for the first month’s rent
and there we were, sitting inside a building I had been driving
past all my life without ever noticing. And, for some reason,
being confronted by that awesome view just made me question
why we were there at all....”
Alright, I thought, at least I’m
being myself. The guy hadn’t said ten words yet, but that
was normal with me. “So,” I continued, “I
guess being there just made me realize that you never know how
high you are until you look down.”
At this Hunt furrowed his brow.
“Best not do that, then,” he said dryly.
He held the end of a pencil in
each hand. I sat up straight as I watched him twirl it in silence.
Not sure where to start, really....
“Well,” I said finally,
“I assume you’ve read some of the things I sent?”
“Yes, of course. I’ve
spent a considerable amount of time with your work. Enjoyed
quite a bit of it, I’ll have you know.”
“I’m glad,”
was all I could think of by way of reply. “Any thoughts
then?”
Here he dropped the pencil and
leaned back into his chair. Sighed. “Well, you know I’ve
seen a great number of people in a similar situation as yourself.
And by that, I mean this: no one’s going to argue that
you’re not talented, Mark. But, by the same token, you
yourself can’t argue that you’ve so much as scratched
your potential. Really, if you think about it, most of what
I’ve read of yours could be viewed as a simple documentation,
or lamentation maybe, of that very fact.”
“That’s fair,”
I couldn’t help but concede.
“Which leads me to my point:
none of that even matters. What does is that you realize
and come to terms with what’s expected from you as
a writer. Sure,” Hunt smiled I think for the first time
since my arrival, “stories revolving around race and dead
dogs make for some decent literature, no doubt. But now, more
than ever maybe, the simple fact remains that, basically—well,
you’ve probably heard it before but here it is again:
you need to lighten’ up. Lighten’ up and realize
that most people want merely to be entertained. Nothing more,
nothing less.”
My instinct, of course, was to
puke. I couldn’t believe I had traveled all this way to
be rejected. All the same, though, I wasn’t certain I
could argue any differently, not with any amount of success,
anyway.
“Look,” Hunt stood
up and walked around his desk, leaning up against the front
of it. “I’m not arguing that this is the best thing
for society,” he explained while I looked him over for
the first time. Hunt was a large man from the chest down, I
noticed. That, the pin stripes in his pant legs, and his impeccably
shined shoes. “What I am arguing, however, is
that such thoughts are immaterial. You’ve come to me for
help in making you a commodity and I know what sells and what
doesn’t. I can help, if you let me. And that’s
the good news here.”
My countenance must have betrayed
my thoughts. There was an awkward moment in which we took turns
looking at each other and then looking away. Not long after
that I said, “Well, I’m of the belief that there
is nothing more entertaining on earth than provocation.
And this I know from the only thing I have going for me: my
experience.”
Well so much for that, I thought.
It was nice knowing you, Chilton, Allen & Associates! I
sat there expecting the receptionist to barge in at any moment
and usher me out....
But Hunt just remained where he
was, leaning up against his desk with his arms crossed, close
enough to me that I could reach out and touch him if I wanted
to. “Listen,” he spoke with a softer tone than that
which preceded it, “I’m not saying we can’t
do something here. Maybe Exiled, maybe the stories
and poems, who knows? Either way that’s just the beginning.”
“As is?”
“We’ll have to see,”
he said. “But what I’m really excited about, with
regards to the work I’ve read anyway, is the screenplay.”
“It’s pretty good,
isn’t it? Entertaining at times, too.”
Here Hunt sat further back on
his desk, his feet I noticed no longer touching the ground.
He unfolded his arms and let them fall to his lap, his right
hand gesturing towards it. “You have no idea how excited
I am about your screenplay,” he said.
“That’s good,”
I said.
“Really,” the fingers
of his right hand pointed with each syllable. “You have
no idea how excited.”
My eyes followed his hand to the
large bulge in his pants. I laughed, “Is this a joke?”
“No, no joke. You scared?”
“Appalled is more like it.”
“You do realize,”
he unzipped his pants and pulled it out, “it is customary
sometimes.” He started, then, to stroke his rather massive
penis, stopping only to ask, “Mind if I draw the curtains?
I know it’s a beautiful view but I want to show you something
else.”
With a remote control, he closed
the blinds and dimmed the lights. Shortly after that, a projection
screen filtered down the ceiling, to my left. With one eye I
watched Hunt hit play, while the other viewed the images on
the screen. It was of a young boy; his arms in a stockade, his
ankles in shackles, with a wooden support beneath him. And through
the hole that had been drilled in the support a cock thrusting
violently into his ass, the boy howling in what seemed like
earnest pain....
“Does it turn you on?”
“Not really.”
Hunt dropped off the desk and
moved towards me, his cock and the hand stroking it the only
thing in view, no more than a foot or two away. “Don’t
you realize,” he whispered, “that we both want the
same thing?”
“What is it I want then?”
“Mark, listen....You really
see yourself toiling in that warehouse the rest of your life?
Doing something you really don’t want to do, almost every
day of your life; making just enough to give yourself
the illusion that you’re getting somewhere? Is that what
you want? What you see for yourself?”
I closed my eyes and thought about
everything I had gone through the night before, in order to
be sitting there in that office in New York. I had almost missed
my plane, believe it or not. That evening, unbeknownst to me,
it had started snowing. Heavily. The phone started
ringing about ten o’clock at night, some drivers wanting
to know whether or not the trucks were running, others saying
they couldn’t get out of their driveways or up the hills.
Rumors circulated that interstates were being shut down, that
a Level 3 snow emergency had been issued.
Before long, it was pandemonium.
Half of the drivers refused to come in, while the other half
weren’t allowed to leave once there. My flight was departing
at 7:00 in the morning, but my new job suddenly was to make
sense of this mess. As such, night having slipped into early
morning, I quietly resigned myself to perhaps missing my appointment.
That is, until one very brave
driver offered to the test the water. Finding out in time that
yes, the highways were treacherous indeed but open all the same.
The rest followed suit, then, albeit more begrudgingly. Which
allowed me to leave, too. Theoretically, at least.
If I could get my car out of the
lot, I mean. The snow was so high my car wouldn’t move.
I was shoveling in vain when one of the drivers, Jerry, suggested
that he just take me to the airport himself, seeing as he was
going right past there.
I grabbed my one bag and threw
it into the tractor and before long we were on the road, despite
the fact that it looked more like a supermarket parking lot.
Dodging traffic at a snail’s pace, we were. Most of the
trip spent staring at the clock, wondering if we were going
to make it in time. It was after four, I actually had a couple
of hours to get there, but our progress was slow enough to make
me doubt that I would. So much so that I started rehearsing
my call to Hunt in my head: Goddamn acts of God, I’d say,
conveniently forgetting that I didn’t believe in him....
Two hours later, we had traveled
less than thirty miles. Most of it in silence. But, at one point,
we both simultaneously spied a sign that appeared to read ‘Airport,’
and as such, I breathed a deep sigh of relief and gave Jerry
my sincere thanks.
“No problem,” he said.
“I’m just happy to have helped out. I really respect
what you’re trying to do, even if I don’t understand
it.”
I thanked him again.
“Yeah, you know, quitting
a pretty good job to do what you truly want to do....I say,
good for you. Sometimes,” he paused for a moment, “I
ask myself why I don’t do something similar....”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, but then I think
of my wife and kids. And realize that they’re enough.
That they’re, you know, my art.”
“Well, Jerry,” I said,
“We have at least that much in common then....Both of
us practice a dying art.”
I arrived at the airport with
all of forty minutes to spare, on no sleep, to find that my
flight had been delayed indefinitely....Of course.
“Answer me something,”
Hunt said while I stared at his engorged cock. “How many
agencies did you reach out to?”
“I don’t know, about
forty.”
“And how many showed an
interest?”
I said nothing as I glanced at
the bag at my feet and thought again about my novel. Then, I
bent forward and took his penis in my hand. I had seen enough
porn in my day to know what to do: Spit, stroke, spit, suck,
suck, suck, stroke, spit....His cock more full than large, I
struggled to take it all in my mouth, despite his wishes.
“That’s it,”
he cooed, saying more than asking “You done this before?”
as he pushed it deep enough to cause me to gag. And, while I
composed myself, he took the opportunity to move the chair behind
me, pointing it towards the video screen and patting the back
of it afterwards.
I put my knees on the seat and
my elbows on the back. Then, I watched the video of the young
boy as Hunt inserted his cock into my ass. Tried to pretend
that the boy was a woman, that I was woman even, as he worked
it in and out, out and in and then back in. He did as much quietly,
no moaning no uttering, and I thought to grind my hips but couldn’t
because of the pain.
I remained still as possible,
then, as Hunt went about his business. On and on like this,
interminably, so much so both the pain and the reality of it
dissipated to some degree, and after what seemed like the first
hour, I even found myself thinking about other things....What
I might do later that night, for instance. And, at one point,
I realized that if I was in fact enjoying this, he’d probably
would have already shot his load. Which caused me to laugh aloud.
Hunt responded by thrusting hard
enough to cause my thighs to collapse into the chair, and then
even harder. In quick succession.
Suddenly, there was a knock at
the door. An urgent, unfriendly knock. One, I sensed, that came
from somebody merely wanting in as opposed to helping out. Hunt
simply ignored it, even when whoever it was tested the door
by shaking frantically on its doorknob.
“Who is that?”
I asked.
“Ignore it, they’ll
go away.” Which they did, Hunt pulling out and clearing
off his desk. He gestured for me to lay down on my back, raised
and spread my legs, then mounted me....Like that, his face not
far from mine. And, feeling his every breath, I stared into
his eyes and watched them as he plowed into me.
Closer and closer it came, that
face. His lips just grazing my own. “Kiss me,” he
breathed.
“No,” I said. “First
off, you’d have to shave. Second, you’ve been fucking
me for two hours now, won’tyou just get it over
with and come? Please?”
Hunt answered by pulling out and
standing up straight at one side of his desk, then grabbing
and pulling my legs towards him and onto the floor. There he
continued to stroke himself over my waistline, his face a strained
red. Stroke after labored stroke until I felt something warm
and liquidy fall onto my body. Something too liquidy.
I looked closer and realized it
wasn’t come at all, but urine. And I think it was that
moment, watching my epiphany and shock in real time, which finally
drew him over the edge and allowed him to orgasm. It sat there,
his jism, congealed on top of his piss, there on top of my belly....
“You should have told me
you were going to pee on me,” I said, “I would have
had you do it on my face.”
“Really? You would have
liked that?”
“No,” I stood up off
the table, “but I had an inkling you might.” I walked
to the spot on the floor where the chair was initially, to my
clothes.
Hunt stood there wiping the sweat
from his brow. “Well, I must say,” he smirked, “I
think you’ve got the role. I’m glad we were able
to help each other out, you know? And it’s refreshing,
really, to meet a writer that understands sometimes it’s
more important to listen than it is to talk.”
I sat on the floor in order to
put my socks back on.
“What are you doing?”
Hunt asked.
“What’s it look like?”
I answered.
He came over, grabbed my elbow
and hoisted me back up off the floor. “Don’t bother,
“ he said. “Let me show you something.”
He held my arm and led me towards
the other side of the room. To a door that I had yet to even
notice. I stood there, my clothes bunched in my arms, and watched
as he opened it. A sudden burst of light overcame my eyes, a
soft but overwhelming light like bright clouds. I blinked and
waited for them to adjust, and as they did, I saw bodies, naked
bodies, a platoon of them, one by one they broke through the
light and came into view: women, men, breasts, penises, asses
and eyes, necks and elbows and hands that beckoned to me slowly,
gingerly even, but beckoned nonetheless.
I looked to Hunt, who patted my
shoulder and nodded his head as if to say, go on, you know
what to do....
I dropped to all fours, then,
and thought about how long a day this would be, too.
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