Kurt Eisenlohr

by Horror Sleaze Trash on August 22, 2012

Kurt Eisenlohr is the author of the novel Meat Won’t Pay My Light Bill (Future Tense Books.) He lives miles from where he works and occasionally writes on the train to and fro. Most often, he reads. Sometimes he just sits there, staring at you. This takes place in Portland, Oregon.


Run It

“Hey, it’s Leticia, wake up!”

Leticia: the grindingly gorgeous twenty-six year old Greek junkie girl I had the hots for but was too afraid to fuck for fear of AIDS.

Here, there…now, then.

Time ain’t money, it’s a train full of ghosts.

I’m on my living room floor, fully clothed; sun searing my eyes, head exploding. I rise like a cheap plastic Christ—cracked, bone white, made in Hong Kong—hobble toward phone. The answering machine is recording the incoming call. I stare at it.

“Hey, Mister, it’s me!”

I approach, hesitate, back away, advance, pick up. The receiver lets out a high pitched barrage of shrieking feedback.



“What time is it?”

“I don’t know. It’s hot out.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m here.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m right outside your door.”

“Why didn’t you knock?”

“You always tell me to call before I come over.”

“Right…you coming in or what?”

“Yeah, I think I wanna come in.”

I move to the couch, slump there—a heap of dead leaves. “It’s unlocked,” I tell her.

She opens the door and dumps her purse onto the floor. She has her whole professional life in there: red high heels, black and silver and gold high heels, nipple clamps, glitter, PVC skirt, nurse uniform, Catholic school girl number. Dancers and their giant purses, always prepared. They’re like  Scouts that way. She grabs an armful of outfits and a shoe box with a red ribbon tied around it, goes into my kitchen.

“GROSS! Your kitchen is disgusting!”

“I had to let my house boy go.”

“Really, you need to clean that up. You’re going to catch something.”

“I know.”

She walks to the bathroom before I can warn her.


“I know! I know!”

She pokes her head back into the living room, laughing. “Your bathroom looks like a Tool video.”

“That’s good.”  I open a blank-book, write it down. Dive bar graffiti. I’ll scrawl it in oil stick above the urinal trough at Cal-Sport while pissing into the ice.





“Close your eyes,” she says. “I’ll be right back.”

I close my eyes—hungover, two paychecks away from homelessness, approaching forty, feeling it. I hear water spilling onto the floor. “What are you doing?”

“Just keep your eyes closed.”


“I’m almost done. Fuck!”

“Done with what?”

“Wait a second!”

I hear the click of her heels as she walks back into the living room. She stops a few feet short of the couch. I feel her standing there. I have a hard-on.

“Okay,” she says, “open your eyes.”

I do that…left eye first, then the right. She’s wearing an electric yellow bikini and Clark Kent corrective lenses. She’s all legs and eyes and long shiny hair as dark as my dreams. Perky tits, tight ass, beautiful nose, beautiful mouth, beautiful everything—all of it balancing atop a pair of platform boots, transparent and filled with water. In the water there are four Siamese fighting fish, two per shoe, stylishly dying, at war with one another.

“Sweet God of Thunder, how many fish have to die during the making of this movie?”

“Cool, huh?”

“They’re insane. Hey, I just thought of one: Cloning Christ for the New Rome. What do you think of that?”

“I like it.”

“It’s a bumper sticker. Write it down. Let’s run it.”

“You write it down. If I move I’ll fall over. Help me out of these shoes!”

I grab her around the waist, all one hundred and ten pounds of her, pick her up and out of the Rumble Fish shoes. She’s a vaguely balanced five foot five again. My cats move closer, staring at the shoes, the fish inside.

“Thanks,” she says. “Nice boner you poked me with.”

“It was out of my hands, love.”

“You’re really weird. How come you never try to fuck me?”

“I’m not right in the head.”

“Put some music on, will you?”

She sits on the couch, crosses her legs.

I press play and Kurt Cobain starts screaming.

“Are you into auto-erotic asphyxiation?”

“Not yet,” I say.

“I like to be choked sometimes. And I like to be flogged. I like to give them, too. A flogging is a way more intimate thing than, say, giving a guy a blowjob or whatever.”

“I see your point.”

“Do you?”

“Sure.” I look at her arms. “Do you ever share needles with people?”

“Not if I can help it. Sometimes I don’t have a choice.”

Her new shoes are standing in the middle of the room. My cats are flattened against the floor, ready to pounce. The fish are trying to kill each other while dying in day old water.

“Do something about those fish,” I tell her.

“What’s the matter?”

“They’re dying.”

“They’re fine. They’re swimming around, see?”

“There’s something wrong with them.”

“They’re probably thinking the same thing about us,” she laughs.

“Okay, that’s it. I want those fish out of here.” I walk over to the stereo and kill the music. I grab my keys, cigarettes, Paxil.

“What are you doing?”

“We’re going for a walk.”

“A walk, are you kidding me?”

“Yes, a walk. And the fish are coming with us.”

“Where is there to walk to around here?”

“The river.”

“Can we go swimming?”

“Whatever you want.”

In my mind, I have an old film clip of me and Leticia at river, taking apart her new shoes, dumping those half dead fish into the polluted water. The film is scratched. It skips, jerks forward, moves back. There are missing frames, no sound. There I am, shading my eyes against the light coming off the water: baggy shorts, ghostly legs, eyes like pieces of coal. There’s Leticia, looking lovely in her yellow bikini and giant Jackie-O glasses, running in crazy zigzags along the shore, laughing and waving, the track marks on her arms overexposed, burned away by the blinding sun.

It’s a short piece of film, and it runs off its spool in a matter of seconds. The screen goes black.

I don’t watch it much anymore.

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