Burning Man, Part II

So you want to hear the rest of the story about the whole Burning Man fiasco? Okay. 

(switch to present tense, in case you're wondering) 

I wake up in Eli, Nevada in the back of a pickup.  Whose pickup? I have no idea. There's a fresh tattoo on my arm that looks as though it was done by Henry Rollins in a Jeep going over the Rubicon Trail. A crust of blood or ink or some shmutz has formed and the whole affair is stuck to my shirt; I can make out the crude shape of a Star of David, which is at least appropriate since I'm partly Jewish. Only Jews are forbidden to tattoo their bodies, so I'm damned to hell. But then again, Jews don't really believe in hell, so maybe it's okay. Desiree, a saucy showgirl from Reno with two-tone hair and fake tits, stretches out besides me in a catlike manner that makes me forget all about my hangover, the lightness of my wallet (lost some money at the casino), and the infected mess on my arm. I embrace her quite tenderly only to get rebuffed in a shrill voice that nearly splits my pounding headache in two. "Not now, Frank," she says. "I know we just got married and I do like you that way, but this truck ain't exactly the Howard Johnson's, you know what I mean?" Did she say married? I believe she did. "Listen, Mary," I say in a reasonable tone. "Who are you calling Mary?" She shrieks. Doesn't she know I have a headache? How could I marry such an inconsiderate woman? "Do I look like a fucking Mary to you?" I agree that she does not. "My sister's name is Mary and I fucking hate her. You hear me Frank? I hate her!" A heavy Brooklyn accent has suddenly appeared with her rage. "So don't ever call me that again or so help me, god..." Mary, I mean Desiree, closes her eyes and steadies her hands in front of her in a zen pantomime, as though she is using breathing or something to calm herself. As though there's any chance in hell that she'll control herself. I brace myself for a shit-storm of histrionic drama that is about to fly in my face.

(to be continued)