Frankie Say No More

Dear D____.

Since moving here from the West, I’ve been living in a walk-up above the “Pleasuredome” karaoke bar, where music by ‘80s glam rockers “Frankie Goes To Hollywood” rattles my floorboards. The bar attracts a curious crowd, including a trio of bouffant-haired Frenchmen, whose leader, Maurice, twirls a silver-tipped cane and sings in a soft contralto, “Relax! Don’t do it. When you want to go to it.”

During the day, I peddle soup door-to-door. In the West, where the weather is warm, my neighbors would’ve howled at my occupation, but here life’s a perpetual icebox. The people welcome a hot bowl of my chowder. They open their doors to my Gazpacho. They go gaga over my chicken gumbo.

Each day, I work without rest. At night, I come home exhausted and warm myself with a cup of tea. The Earl Grey ripples to bass notes from the music below.

Until recently, my walk-up was a dark place with an unpleasant smell. My landlady’s a Czech whose husband operates a glassworks in the basement. He creates light bulbs that look like chickens’ eggs. They’re pale brown and radiate a farm-like odor. Their filaments make a clucking sound.

I keep mostly to myself. Once, Maurice invited me to his trio’s quarters for a bowl of potage velours and a show of shadow puppetry, but I found the evening distasteful. The soup was too thick and the light too dim for puppetry’s sake.

I was about to give up, when you came into my life. Do you remember that night, D____? You called to ask if I knew of the curative powers of hormone replacement therapy.

I’d never heard of it, but was interested in improving my health. I only hoped you did not take me for a dilettante. You told me this therapy would open windows in my world. Indeed, I was ready. I’d been living in the dark too long.

The next day, a Sudanese body-builder named Yambo arrived. He carried his massage board under one arm and a black bag under the other. I served him a bowl of my best Bouja, loading it with cabbage, rutabagas, and beans and seasoning it with pickling spice. He described it as the best he’d tasted.

Yambo told me, until recently, only women received hormone replacement therapy, but men could reap its benefits too. Did I feel irritable most of the time? Did I cry a lot? I answered yes to all of his questions.

He invited me to lie down on his board. My back muscles were his drum skin. He tapped, he thumped. He did his best Gene Krupa imitation. He fell into a rhythm of music from the bar. He sang along. “Frankie say,” he warbled in a voice that was not unpleasant. “Frankie say no more.”

When he finished, he poked my left arm with a needle and slipped away while I slept. I must’ve been out for a long time, because when I woke the bar was silent and I was famished. I fixed a bowl of emerald vichyssoise and finished off a bag of chocolates.

I regretted my gluttony. I felt fat. To cheer myself, I walked to the Shoe Emporium and bought twenty-six pairs. I returned to stand on a scale and nibble on a Klondike bar.

Yambo came back two days later. He said he could see a difference. Had I redecorated? I gave him a tour of my place, which smelled better for the potpourri that simmered on the stove. He admired the periwinkle wallpaper in the hall and loved the silk roses in my room.

He gave me a pedicure and painted my nails. Afterwards, we went for a walk in the park, where I really opened up to him. I told him of people who were cruel to me. He held me gently as I had a long cry on his burgundy cape.

When we returned, he asked if I was going to be all right or should he stay over? I did not want him to think I’m cheap. I said, “No, I’m feeling better.” He seemed disappointed as he drew a syringe from his bag and pierced me with its needle. I drifted off as he spoke of life in his native country where hellacious haboobs rise out of the desert and blanket the sky over Khartoum.

I don’t know how long I was out. When I awoke, he was gone. He’d slipped a chartreuse afghan over me. (How kind!) I snuggled beneath it all afternoon, while I watched soap operas and snacked on a quart of Chunky Monkey ice cream.

Yambo failed to call after our evening in the park. I felt used and poured my anguish into my diary. How could I live without him? My breasts ached, and my hands and feet retained water. I did not have his number, and you, D___, were blocking my calls.

My business suffered. A customer commented that his bouillabaisse wasn’t warm enough and I snapped. I rode my fury like it was a wild horse. I told him that from now on he could find his soup in a can.

I contemplated liposuction and bought seventeen more pairs of shoes. I changed my hair color to turquoise and wrote a long letter to Dear Abby. Dear Abby wrote back to say she’d tired of people nagging her with questions all the time. I went downstairs and sat at the bar with Maurice. He bought me a Pink Lady and told me that all of life’s questions can be answered by the music of “Frankie Goes To Hollywood.” They’re the magic 8 ball to the cosmos. “Relax,” he said. “Don’t do it. When you want to go to it.”

Maurice was right. I’ve wanted to go to it for a long time and simply lacked courage. I’ve packed my belongings and am heading to a place far from this cold land, where my curry is appreciated, where music of tablas and the oud fills the air, and where everyone lives a happy and peaceful din.

Forever,

Frankie