Talc Guy Hatches a Plan

     So it continued.  He, the dreamer, and I, the realist.
     "How we gonna eat?  I'm hungry.  I'm not healthy.  I feel all
jutty."
     "That look is hot these days, hon.  You'd be revered in
France."
     "Fuck France.  Fuck Jerry fucking Lee fucking Loomis.  Fuck
Winona Ryder.  Fuck Christina Applegate.  Fuck fucking Flea.  Fuck
Pam Dawber.  Fuck Ed Begley Jr.  Fuck talc.  Fuck Kate Moss.  Fuck
Ross Perot.  Fuck Huggy Fucking Bear.  And most of all, fuck--"
     He touched my face.  "Is this the face of Sarah Connor?"
     "Oh, fuck you."
     "Things'll pick up.  You'll see.  This is just a bad patch."
     It wasn't a bad patch.  And not even his quaint usage could change the
one salient fact:  talc just didn't move.  The apartment
was full of the stuff.  In every closet, every cabinet, everywhere,
talc.  We ate talc, coughed up talc, shat talc, pissed milky-white
talc streams.  When we made love, our sweat lathered up like soap. 
This was not my father's Oldsmobile.  This I knew.  This was no
patch; this was the skids.
     "A new approach."
     "We've tried hundreds--"
     "Wrong angles.  Gotta hit them on a gut level.  A new pitch." 
His eyes opened wide.  "Better...words."
     "Huh?"
     "Fricatives, sibilants.  We'll seduce them with--"  Here he
paused and took his time for the next two words, "Our...LEEENGO."
     We prepared and hit the streets.
     "So, boy.  You want some talc?  It's made from...assssid. 
Sigh-asylic asssid."
     "Bullshit.  It's a nondescript silicate and it's made from
silicic acid.  There's no such thing as siacilic acid."
     "You're wrong, boy.  So wrong.  This is sssspecial talc.  Made
to order.  Designer talc.   Sigh.  A.  Sylic.  It's a mucoprotein.
You'll like it.  Lots."
     "You're crazy, lady.  You don't know shit."
     "Lissanameee, boy.  It's *TALC*!"
     "Okay, okay.  Here's five bucks.  Gimme a key."
     We survived.