by Horror Sleaze Trash on May 28, 2012

Kiss Kids on Heroin

In a borrowed car, driving downtown to score some food at that diner we both abhor and adore. It’s raining so hard it’s impossible to tell how fast we’re going.

On the way there, you glare at me and say, “So, we’re divorced, huh?”


“Are you relationship damaged now?”


“Are you broken? Do you feel that you can never love again?”

I’m taken aback. No one has ever asked me this.

“I’m not sure,” I say. “I hope not.”

“I’ve felt that way before.”

“Oh, yeah?”


“Do you still feel that way?”


“What changed it?”

“I found another girl,” you say, your eyes shinny little pinpoints, the only stars in town.

I stick my head out the passenger window and see that we aren’t even driving on a road.

“Stick your head out the window all you want,” you tell me. “You still can’t see tomorrow.”

I take off my coat, sit down, hear knock at my door, stand up, open the door.

It’s Gene Simmons, of the band Kiss.

“What are you doing here?”

“I thought I’d stop by and check up on you.”

“Check up on me?”


He pushes me aside, walks on his platform boots across the clutter of my living room–pill bottles and your blackened spoons–picks up a crayon and draws the Kiss logo on the wall above my television.

“Hey, this is a rental–you can’t do that!”

“But you love Kiss.”

“Yeah, when I was 14. I’m 46 now.”

“I’m 62.”


“I still get all the pussy.”

I got nothing, it seems, and nothing to say to that.

“Young pussy,” he says.


“Really young,” he says.

“I’ve read that,” I say.

“It defies logic,” he laughs. But does it?

“And you?” he says.

“Me what?”

“You never got any in High School. I’ve read about you, too.”

“No you haven’t.”

“You’re right, I haven’t. That’s because you don’t get the pussy.”

A pause ensues and seems to last nine months…

He pats his codpiece, sizing me up. “Everything seems to be in order here, Mr. Eisenlohr. Carry on.”

“Will do,” I say. And poof, he disappears in a cloud of stage smoke, a smattering of applause.

I sit down, open a book, read the first line:

“Long before love there was solitude.”

Another knock at the door: Me, you posing as me, my mirror.

“Hey, how you doing?”

“You! Thank God!”


“Gene Simmons was just here.”

Thee Gene Simmons?”

“Yeah, the guy from Kiss.”

“What did he want?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Nice Kiss logo you have on your wall, dork.”

“I didn’t put that there, he did.”

“Remember that song Christine Sixteen?”

“Yes. I wish I could forget it.”

“Got any cereal?”

“I’m all out.”

“What about hot dogs?”

“I do have hot dogs.”

“Get ’em going. Star Trek is on in five minutes.”

“The original series?”

“Of course.”

We sit and eat hot dogs, watch Star Trek. “The Way to Eden” episode. I’m wearing pajamas. I’m Japanese, a soldier unaware the war is long over, look at you through thick glasses that Ginger has fogged.

“I didn’t know you liked Star Trek,” I say.

“Who said I did?”

“Then why are we watching it?”

“I never said I didn’t like it.”

“Want another hot dog?”

“You know what I always say.”

“What’s that?”

“Smoke ’em if you got ’em!” we scream.

You stand, walk to the door, look back and say, “Everything seems to be in order here, lover.”

“Don’t go,” I beg–and poof, I’m alone again.

The trick is to be an absence. The trick is not to be.

It’s tricky, isn’t it, babe?

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