Blue Rose In Chelsea Read Free Page B

Poland, and the implications for all of Eastern Europe and the world, but all I can seem to grab hold of in my thoughts is the disarming and penetrating gaze of Evan Candelier, and the overwhelming yearning that has taken hold of me to see him stripped of his clothes.  I weave and dart through the crowds to keep pace with Dylan, who rushes because we’ve barely two minutes to spare to catch our train home.  There is something about Dylan’s larger-than-life presence that signals people to step out of his way.  Not so for me as I find myself jostled and knocked in the shoulders as I struggle to steer through the cattle herds of commuters.
         “We’re going to break the backs of the communists.”  At the ticket booth he brandishes his rolled newspaper like a magic scepter to vanquish the Red Enemy.
         “We?  Oh, now you’re an agent for the CIA?” I manage through mouthfuls of pretzel dough, although I wouldn’t be surprised.  Dylan doesn’t seem to require sleep like the rest of us mere mortals; it’s as if he’s plugged into some cosmic generator.  He always has his hand in some project, and he brings every one to fruition with the intensity and focused will of a future mogul.
         He buys our tickets, and taps his big foot as we stand before the board that announces the tracks.  “It’s only a matter of time before the Soviet Union implodes.  So, you can quit writing all your depressing poems about nuclear annihilation, and find some other topic to milk.”
         “Most of my poems are about love, and the longing for a creative life.  If you bothered to read any of them, you would know that!  We’re Track Five.”  I glance at the board, gnawing the pretzel, like a lion on a fresh kill.
         “I do read them, and half the time I can’t figure out what the hell any of them are about.  It’s like reading Morse code.  Can’t you write some poems for the common folk?”
         “It’s called metaphor.  And the depressing ones, unfortunately, are the easiest to get published, especially in literary circles.”
         “Well, that’s a relief.  At least I know you’re motivated by profit, and not in need of electroshock therapy.”
         “I can’t imagine a world without a Cold War.  It’s such a bold imagining,” I muse, attempting to divert Dylan.
         “Fortune favors the bold!”  Dylan’s words echo in the small stairway rife with the stale smells of sweat and urine, as we descend to the tracks.
         He continues his diatribe, smacking the newspaper with the back of his hand for emphasis, before lurching onto the train, where we settle into a seat facing one another.  Dylan doesn’t mind riding backwards—whereas it makes me nauseous—so he faces me, leaving me an entire seat to drape my backpack and books.  I’ve bought paperbacks of Marguerite Duras’s, The Lover , with its haunting cover of a coal-eyed young ingénue; a collection of very short stories called Short Shorts ; and the slim but much beloved Bible for young writers, Rilke’s, Letters To A Young Poet .  Someday, I’ll have a personal library of exclusively hardcover books.
         “Oh, c’mon.  That will never happen.  There has always been a Soviet Union.  I can’t imagine living in a world without that threat.”
         “There has always been a Soviet Union in our lifetime, but there are some who remember a time when there wasn’t.”
         Dylan is making reference to the President.  He has never forgiven me for throwing my vote away in the 1984 elections.  The conductor collects our tickets, punching them, and rather than sticking them in the chrome seam of the seat, he returns them directly to Dylan; Dylan’s presence commands that sort of consideration.
         Now that Dylan is on the topic of his hero, President Reagan, there is little chance I will be able to steer him back to a discussion of Evan.  All hope for crucial