Sis worked as a waitress at a gourmet restaurant. It had two Michelin stars, but technically it didn’t because they were earned three years and two chefs ago.
Staff meal was always lime Jarritos and fish head soup, but every once in a while the waitresses snuck a taste of something off the menu. One day Sis tried the pistachio butter, and it was rich and good, the kind of food that’d give you gout if you had it all the time. She wanted to duplicate the experience at home.
At Key Foods she bought pistachios, a carton of heavy cream, and four sticks of salted butter. She cooked and blended them together, like the chef did at work, though she didn’t have his fancy whisk and big-ticket ingredients.
I said, “That’s a lot of butter.”
Sis said, “That’s how it’s made.”
When she’d finished, she sat down on the couch, swallowed a spoonful of the stuff, and groaned.
“How is it?” I asked.
“Uhhhh,” said Sis.
“Is it good?”
She nodded. “I need a minute,” she said.
I took a bite. A pressure rose in my chest and my jugular vein began to throb. “That’s rich,” I said.
“Uhhhh,” said Sis, and she collapsed on the couch.
I had another bite because there was nothing else to do. Then I checked for career opportunities on craigslist.
Fifteen minutes later, Sis sat up and ate one last spoonful.
“My bones hurt,” she said.
He rolled out of a dream, alone, and with the irrepressible urge to hold a creature with a pulse. He drove to the Bonanza of Bargains, open 24/7, and described his plight to the greeter, who flatly pointed him toward the seafood counter. A few stragglers remained in the lobster tank, drifting in cloudy water, handcuffed by thick bands of blue rubber. He asked the counter lady if lobsters had a pulse. She didn't know for sure but thought an oyster might, so, one in each hand, fingers probing rocky shells, he desperately squeezed the two oysters and felt nothing.
I ran into a priest outside this Dungeon in Midtown West, and I said, lemme run something by you, Padre: I think Jesus Christ was the ultimate switch, that’s really what I think. He said, I don’t see what you mean, my son. So I said, listen, when He was alive, He was a total sub: foot worshipping, having all his cheeks slapped, letting the lepers rub their sores on him, all that jazz. At least until Calvary, when Pontius Pilate takes the edgeplay too far. Then, after He’s resurrected—–total shocker—–He becomes an utter dom, bossing His people around and telling them how to live their lives and founding a high protocol Scene full of these monks who flagellate themselves in little dirty rooms and think about Him 24/7, fingering rosaries and muttering safe words all the while. He’s the ultimate switch, really.
The priest said I’m making good sense, I am, but he’s not really a priest, it’s just a costume. He took off his neckband to prove his point and I said, nice try, Padre, but don’t even get me started on those collars.
About the author:
Sean Gill is a writer and underground filmmaker who has studied with Werner Herzog and Juan Luis Buñuel, documented public defenders for National Geographic, and was an artist-in-residence at the Bowery Poetry Club from 2011-2012. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in McSweeney's, Pacifica Literary Review, decomP, Clackamas Literary Review, and Eclectica Magazine.