Too Weird for Ziggy by Sylvie Simmons Page B

as they lay propped up together on the oversized pillows. It was a while before he broke the silence and asked her what she did.
    And he shuddered as he remembers how she tugged a cigarette from the packet and lit it, blew out a smoke ringhe tried to catch. She said, “I gave him a blow job. And then I fell asleep.” The cemetery caretaker found her the next morning. She was sent to a psychiatric institution. She still saw her caseworker; she wanted him to meet her. The caseworker approved of her going on the show. And it came to him that what he did was just another form of necrophilia, trying to suck some life out of a corpse, but he banished the thought as quickly as it had come to him, pulled the door closed, and started the motor up.
    He drove up Sunset and parked outside the nightclub where the Germans had come to see him play. He watched the world hum by in its Porsches and Mercedes. He turned on the radio and waited for his ride.

ALLERGIC TO KANSAS

    Everything was fine until Leo started growing breasts.
    Better than fine. Even Leo, with his well-honed sense of his own genius and matching grievance at how long it had taken others to catch on, viewed his achievements with some satisfaction, although he knew he deserved them and more. A number one album in Britain, a second one climbing the American charts, five hit singles, a sold-out U.S. tour, and a supermodel girlfriend who swallowed. And who had just called to say that her Caribbean shoot had been canceled and she was flying straight out to join him on the road. And who would be more than a little upset to see the teeth marks and lacerations that covered his torso, courtesy of the crazy blonde he’d shagged last night in Kansas.
    â€œTell her she can’t come,” said Murray. The tour manager knew all about the problems caused by visiting girlfriends. If he had his way, all females would be banned from the road.
    Leo shook his head. “Ain’t gonna work.” No one said no to Phoebe Fitzwarren, and he wasn’t suicidal enough to try. So he chose the grizzling option instead.
    â€œMurray, she’s going to be here tomorrow. What the motherfuck am I gonna do?”
    Murray had experience in these matters. He’d worked with bands for years. Moments later he appeared with a huge roll of wide, crepe bandage, ordered Leo to strip, and proceeded to wind it tightly around his body,armpits to pelvis, pelvis to armpits, down, up, down. “Tell your old lady,” he said, “that you tripped coming offstage and cracked a rib.” And Phoebe had fallen for it—not just fallen, been smitten by such a fit of caring that she’d stuck around for almost a fortnight. Two weeks deep-frying under the stage lights like a burrito with legs—and no sex. Not even a hand job. “Broken ribs,” Phoebe said, “can be dangerous. One false move, you could puncture a lung. Come on, baby, lie down here next to me, we’ll just hold each other and talk.” Which was just what he needed after two hours of staring down at rows of sweet young cleavage, feeling hornier than a Salvation Army band. He’d had to go behind Dave’s drum kit for a wank during the guitar solo; he was sure he saw Ian’s guitar tech laughing. He made a mental note to tell his manager to stop his end-of-tour bonus.
    A hundred years later Phoebe’s shoot was rescheduled. Finally he could take the bandage off. Her cab had barely pulled away when Leo shot back to his hotel room and ripped off his clothes. Standing naked in front of the mirror, he twisted an arm behind his back and tugged at the top of the wide strip of surgical tape that held the bandage down. It was stuck tight. He reached the other arm around, but it stayed put. Murray had done too good a job. Leo picked up the receiver and dialed. “The person in room 1–6–0–1,” said a machine, “is not available. Leave a message after the tone or press