Peg Leg Chronicles
Volume 1
I'm not going to tell you, even though I know you're curious, because when you have a peg leg there's nothing worse than having to explain how you got it for the umpteenth time. I'll tell you someday, I promise, as it's a good story, if I do say so myself.
It's Thursday afternoon and I'm sitting in Bar Tabac having a glass of champagne. I like to drink champagne, especially when I have nothing to celebrate, and I sip my champagne and read the paper while out of work hipsters whine about their problems at the table next to me. The paper says there's a banking crisis, a food crisis, a housing crisis, a population crisis, a confidence crisis, but the hipsters seem only aware of the crisis of their personal expression. They have tats, they have thrift, they have spikes, they have fros.
"No one will buy my etchings!" One hipster yelps.
I smile to myself and nod. I don't sweat the small stuff much. Why should I? After all, I have a peg leg.
I put my peg leg up on the chair across from me. The blood that has pooled at the bottom of my knee rolls back into my thigh. Hmmm, feels good.
The waitress comes over and tops off my champagne. She gives a slight wink and a smile.
"On me," she says.
The waitress sashays away from the table. She wears an oversized button down shirt cinched together at the waist with a thick black leather belt, tight jeans, and motorcycle boots. She's pretty, but her fashion sense strives for the unusual.
I sip more champagne and return to my paper, which says that people are too fat, too thin, freaked out about their parents, about their children, about their friends, about the diseases they already have but don't know it. I put the paper down and look around. The hipsters discuss seeing some comic book movie, which seems to embarrass them, but they justify it with an ironic tone.
The waitress collects the hipster money and then brings a champagne bottle over and sits down at my table. I raise my glass to her and we toast. She sips. I sip. Suddenly, she looks awkward, as if her bold move to sit down was something she did without thinking and now regrets.
I smile at her. This kind of thing happens to me all the time. People feel close to me real fast, like they're part of my world, even though we've only just met, on account of the peg leg.
"Can I – touch it?" She asks, demure, precise.
"Go on," I say.
The waitress gently places her hand on my wooden member. She runs her fingers across its ridges and knots and divots.
"Redwood," I say.
"It's… Beautiful," she says. "What are all these initials?"
"Different people I've met. Special people. People who understand the power of the peg leg."
"Oh. Wow, " she says.
Our eyes meet, a twinkle of energy passes between us, and before I know it, she's got her bag and we are out on the sidewalk together. Even though we're going to her house, and I don't know where that is, the waitress walks a few steps behind me, no doubt to take in the rhythmic grace of the strut of my peg leg. People are always noticing the way I move. I was in a dance company for a while, where I 'spun the peg' for thousands of cheering fans. I was a real hit, and the dancers got jealous, insecure, then bulimic, so I moved on.
We arrive at her building. A grim feeling passes through me as the waitress tells me she lives on the fifth floor – walk up.
By the time we reach the top, I feel drained, and a little winded, but I do pretty well at not showing it. It's important, I've always thought, not to show any weakness, any diminishment, on account of the peg leg.
She opens the door to her lair. It's stuffy, so she opens a window. The late afternoon breeze billows in and rustles her hair into her face. The waitress puts on some music, a somber tune by Nina Simone.
The waitress unzips her pants and pulls them down slowly to her knees, revealing pink underwear. I am surprised, but not really, as I am accustomed to this kind of thing, on account of the peg leg.
The waitress looks at me, her eyes larger now, searching, yet somehow wounded. She points to a scar above her knee, a big scar, huge and purple, a real doozy, an inch wide and six long. Her eyes get misty. I think she's going to cry. She almost does, but then her eyelids hold the tears in somehow.
I nod slowly, showing that I understand.
She blinks several times and then, without pulling her pants back up, she slowly shuffles over to where I stand, leaning on my peg leg. I take her into my arms and hold her as Nina Simone moans with intensity.
"You are special," I say. "I think you understand the power of the peg leg."
I pull her closer to me. I can feel her body working inside her skin.
"I want you to mark me," I say.
"Really?" She asks, soft.
"Really."
I go to my leather satchel and pull out my Wusthof paring knife and hand it to her. She initials my wooden member and hands back the knife. We make love seven times, making unusual, fascinating, prodigious use of the peg leg.
Eventually, she falls asleep, and I slip out. Heading home, I take in the lights of the city, and the smells of rotting garbage. I think about giving myself a buff and polish, a deep grain rub. I think about the rich life I lead, all on account of the peg leg.