Berlesker: Handcrafted Literary Journal vol II | Page 27

the

by Harley Westerholt
for my friend who asked to remain nameless. . .

ust
Colorado Springs,
J townwest of so neatly on the sideColorado is a
tucked
of a mountain

that the entire place rests on a slope. Buildings look
half as tall on one side as they do the other. Ma’ & Pa’
shops and taverns line the main street, while houses
hang off cliff sides. Usually, walking the streets is a
nearly perfect 50/50 mix of locals and outsiders, and
it’s obvious who’s who. It’s like one part hemp jewelry
and sun skirts and the other part Fossil watches and
Polo t-shirts. Not today though; it’s raining. No one’s
out. So this visiting burlesque performer—whom I’ll
refer to as “Ms. International” (because she’s a professional performer who trots the globe)—she and I stay
in the car and watch the slanted town just as one would
a movie at a drive-in theatre: through the windshield.
After Colorado, Ms. International tells me, she and
a handful of other burlesque stars are going to Australia for a two-week tour. Burlesquers in the “land down
under” makes me think about the rabbits Westerners
took there and offset the ecosystem. I imagine burlesque with no known predators in Australia, resting
at the top of the food chain and disrupting the order.
I hope your guide there is better than I am here, I say
to her, referring to the limited information I provide
of the town as it plays on the windshield screen. Then
I’m off the rabbits and on to bigger thoughts, thinking about how burlesque is conquering the planet
these days like colonialism, imperialism, and capitalism. All “–isms” of Western affairs -- Burlesqueism, brought in for sport and game only to multiply
exponentially and cause chaos among the natives.
Through the rainy windshield the buildings bleed
together and become one, washing into a collage
until it all looks like the same mess. I mention the
rumors about the little town having more Pagans
than any other city in the nation -- another really
bad tour guide informational bit. Not like devil-worship Pagans, I clarify, more like earthy hippies. And
Ms. International’s quick to say she understands.
There’s only a moment’s pause before she slides her
eyes toward me beneath her droopy eyelids, the way

a crook in a cartoon would as he looked around to
make sure no one was suspicious of the crime he
was about to commit, and then she says out of the
side of her mouth, I practice Santeria, ya know.
I don’t know.  All I know is the moment she says she
practices Santeria that Sublime song jingles