The Motorcyclists by James Tate

The Motorcyclists

 

My cuticles are a mess. Oh honey, by the way, 

did you like my new negligee? It’s a replica 

of one Kim Novak wore in some movie or other. 

I wish I had a foot-long chili dog right now. 

Do you like fireworks, I mean not just on the 4th of July, 

but fireworks any time? There are people 

like that, you know. They’re like people who like 

orchestra music, listen to it any time of day. 

Lopsided people, that’s what my father calls them. 

Me, I’m easy to please. I like ping-gong and bobcats, 

shatterproof drinking glasses, the smell of kerosene, 

the crunch of carrots. I like caterpillars and 

whirlpools, too. What I hate most is being the first 

one at the scene of a bad accident. 

 

Do I smell like garlic? Are we still in Kansas? 

I once had a chiropractor make a pass at me, 

did I ever tell you that? He said that your spine 

is happiest when you’re snuggling. Sounds kind 

of sweet now when I tell you, but he was a creep. 

Do you know that I have never understood what they meant 

by “grassy knoll.” It sounds so idyllic, a place to go 

to dream your life away, not kill somebody. They 

should have called it something like “the grudging notch.” 

But I guess that’s life. What is it they always say? 

“It’s always the sweetest ones that break your heart.” 

You getting hungry yet, hon? I am. When I was seven 

I sat in our field and ate an entire eggplant 

right off the vine. Dad loves to tell that story, 

 

but I still can’t eat eggplant. He says I’ll be the first 

woman President, it’d be a waste since I talk so much. 

Which do you think the fixtures are in the bathroom 

at the White House, gold or brass? It’d be okay with me 

if they were just brass. Honey, can we stop soon? 

I really hate to say it but I need a lady’s room.