Once upon a moonlit ferry my anxious lover man Gustav Schwartz entertained me with tales from his life on the outskirts of the town of Mayhem. You see, Gustav was born there, the final screaming installment of his mother Beatricia’s struggle to bear a family of fourteen and a half, the half being his half brother Anguish, who was sired one rainy November night by the tarot card reader’s husband Oberon. Oberon lived on the other side of the river known as the big brown puddle but every once in a while, when the wind blew in to Oberon’s part of the Resting Valley from Gustav’s part of town, the old geezer could smell the odor of vexation that his spirit left hanging in the air like the scent of old pine needles from Christmas trees that were never lit but burned down just the same. For hours he would pace back and forth in front of the river, rubbing eucalyptus oil on his lips, trying his best to jangle loose the increasingly pungent smell but he knew this activity would bear no edible fruit and that his inside reference points could only be altered and scored by Beatricia the scorned sister of the two faced Pariah. So, without going into the gory details of this fauxmance, he did what any red blooded fable man could do and oh how well he did it too! Nine months later he was cured of his very annoying vexation, his permanent recovery as certain as a dart in a bull’s eye after his wife the tarot card reader told him if he wasn’t careful she might draw the death card. Thus, life for poor Gustav’s half brother Anguish began in earnest, working with Gustav day after lonely day milling the blackmail seeds into dross and gossip for the consumption of the slaves. One day, while cleaning the mill wheel, Gustav looked at Anguish and was repelled by what he saw as his rock solid future. Right then and there he pledged to himself alone that it was time to take a stand, to do that for which he was born: Leave. He promptly went home, kissed his mother on the ear lobe and packed his diligence into a small bag (because to be honest he didn’t possess much diligence) and walked out of town on his hands, only standing upright to say farewell by spitting on the bottoms of both his feet to clear away the corrupting dirt that clung to his soulless shoes.
Once he was out of the town of Mayhem, the world opened up and was his clam, his oyster, his immovable feast. Such was the luck of this recalcitrant young man that he happened upon me one day, working the fodder in the grist mill. Yes, yet another mill but this one was not nearly as jaded as the blackmail mill of his past in Mayhem. Soon we were fast friends and frenzied lovers, making promises and plans and redefining our inadequacies until one fine sunny morning he up and left me for a tart in the sweetie pie factory up the road. In his wake he left a note for me, pinned to the inside of my down the drain box of ideas and I must confess here and now, that after much reading and contemplation his expression more or less explained his departure to the satisfaction of my all too cynical heart:
It has come to my attention that I am incapable of loving just one person because I must love every person at least once. You see dear Moxy, it’s not you, it’s me so don’t go getting all droopy and wearing your sad paisley shirt like you did that time you found me making fodder with the underbelly’s daughter. Trust me, the tart means nothing to me, not really, but then neither do you so there is no loss of love when there is no love to lose. I’ve left the best of my intentions for you to keep, they are behind the ever present shadow of my guilt edged mirror. Thanks for the gaffs kid and remember, always look over your shoulder for passing fancies and those in a dabbling mood.
Well, there you have it, the entire fiasco from some sort of start out of the garden gate to one final haphazard conclusion. Do I miss him? Well, let me put it this way, I find it impossible to entertain the supposition of longing because now I work in the mockery which is directly across from the sweetie pie factory and all day long I toil joyfully, making fun of Gustav and the tart with no love.