Nixon Returns
Note: just before her autotuned single, "Stars are Blind," Paris Hilton owned a kinkajou named "Baby Luv."
He was blind, deaf, limp, and strangely warm. Life returned in pieces. Everything seemed cuddling and confusions. Blindness endured but soon his eyes opened and he could hang by his tail. He sifted through fogged recollections of zoos; someone called him “kinkajou.” The Queen of England slurped her soup; the Lincoln bedroom was not nearly as impressive as he’d hoped. A Marine with old-fashioned good looks saluted. They petted him. Greedily, he sucked a bottle. They carried him like a baby. Once they’d cheered, then booed: tapes, a helicopter. Flying frightened him; he shit his carrier.
He was handed to one woman, then another: a blonde. He’d had blondes, brunettes, redheads. This one cooed and stroked and called him “Baby Luv.” She shoved him in a shiny red purse rattling with lipstick and cigarettes, a purse like Pat would carry. He rode on her shoulder and stared at glittering people, L.A. people, he knew L.A. people when he saw them, yes he did, they couldn’t take that from him. In a Louis Vuitton, Christ he never had Louis Vuitton, all mirrors and noise and the blonde babbling about stars, stars are blind, he broke, clawed her face and bit. Tooth and flesh met; tanned skin tore like a memo. He held on. She screamed pure and long and white as bone. Cambodia, the piles of skulls. He held on.
Author Bio
Elizabeth Broadbent lives in the snarkiest city in the American South with her three sons, three large dogs, and very patient husband. She enjoys blue glitter and David Bowie; she has placed pieces in such places as The Washington Post, Wyldblood Press, and Tree and Stone.