performers' library

Party Soccer Magic
A game's time traveling influence.

Taxi Trix

I knew I was walking into a party of performers when, on my way up the stairs, Santa grabbed my ass. Later in the evening, it was reinforced as I watched Santa, and a pretty tasty barmaid in drag "show Elvis that he was gay." I'll add here that Santa had some pretty slinky, frilly stuff going on under that jolly red exterior. Freaky, yummy show, that. After a few fairly fierce games of ping-pong, interrupted only by the dog chomping on the ball whenever it entered his little sphere of influence, we settled down for some quiet chitchat. Spectacle emerged once again, this time in the form of a short-skirted lass dangling a rather prodigious phallus (I would stack it up against three of mine) as bait, and said dog jumping, edging for a chomp. Needless to say, some of the gentlemen found this particular whimsy a trifle disconcerting. (Not only because of the phallus size.)

The party finished for seven of us at about three am. It was the first time I had seen the odd loft of Boris Koski, man of triumph, and I had been duly impressed. We were off to Jenny's to sleep, and she wanted to stop and see a sculpture on the way. The piece was in a park. We pulled the caravan over, halting, parked in its shadow. We looked at it, climbed on it, and took it in awhile. The sculpture was a tribute to peace, temporary in the park, to commemorate/ respect/ cry over/ somehow express some of what was going on in our world after September 11. There was a spiral staircase going nowhere, fitting poetry, a platform from which to request a dance, perhaps. A bald eagle with an 18-foot wing wingspan and a rose in its mouth graced a massive globe made of chain link fence, and even though I cultivate cynicism of all things patriotic, I felt shivers. It's not often we are proximate to the sacrifice of innocence, and it imparts grace.

I'm reminded of Julie Chen. Julie gave me that line. We were lovers. We woke together on the morning of September 11 safe in my bed. Safe in what was once the choir loft of an old church in Cornwall Bridge, CT, surrounded by the quiet Berkshire Hills, and safe New York money. My friend Heather was leaving an alarmed message on my machine about a plane flying into one of the twin towers, and I allowed that to sink in, along with a mental note to turn the machine volume down, as we redrifted. The second message got us out of bed. A second plane. It wasn't an accident. We went to a local bar to see the TV. It was closed, but open to friends. We sat at the bar with my sister's boyfriend, drinking nothing but shock.

We both love to roller blade and when we got to the city, we rolled to the vigil at Union Square. Candles incongruent among the tall buildings, people being gentler than they are. Julie lives in SOHO: we were shimmered through the barriers. Below Canal, the silence was eerie and otherworldly. It was smoky. More smoky than you know. A friend had given me dust masks on the train. We had them on. Julie and I had spent many hours volunteering together before this, both believing there is hope for humanity. I'll never forget her eyes with the mask on, the eyes of a fighter, a black belt, cappuccino skin defying misfortune's white mask. Firebright eyes. I loved her then. We rolled through silent streets, unable to escape the glee of the miles and miles of room. I remarked on peoples' gentle treatment of each other on this night. She said, "It happens whenever there is a sacrifice of innocence." Quieted, we went home, and slept together, changed, scared, knowing safety is an illusion. Knowing life is uncertain.

A few weeks after, we arrived at one of those relationship impasses; neither wanting to get real, both knowing the superficial had been thoroughly explored. Julie got filed along with September 11 under "don't dwell on this," and I rolled on. The sculpture brought it all right back. It asked you to remember. I complied, drifting.

Then Brady pulled out a soccer ball. We were lost to it. I took him up on it right away, and Martin followed suit as soon as he spotted us. We quickly grew from a hacky-type circle to a longer kick. It was clear that even after a long night of partying, athletic ability was still well intact. Magic rode in on the back of a lifting ball. Past melted into past. We were no longer tired. It became all about the ball. About the game. About now. We kicked that thing all over the parking lot for an hour.

The quick ability; this mutual desire to set all aside in favor of generating fun, might be what separates us from non-performers. But I guess they have it too, or they wouldn't stop to watch. Is it what separates humanity from descent into despair?

Taxi Trix

Mr. Taxi Trix is a frequent contributor to He is seeking help for his compulsion to make up words. His love of sentence fragments.

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