There is a place where the chainlink fence and the
overgrown grass sprouts out of the ground as if from the same root, behind
foliage sits classic car after classic car like Lucky Strikes packed neatly into
a box.
Someone loved each one of them, now they lay in cemetery.
Each is a different flavor. A green Monte Carlo, a
red Mustang, a blue El Camino. A blonde, a brunette, a redhead.
They are all dead beauty queens, laying in their
chain-link coffin. Chrome rusts like rotting flesh. mangled frames slowly
decompose and crack. Their paint greys like hair, once colorful, vibrant and
exploding with life.
I could imagine what it would be like to be behind
the wheel of a 70’ Monte Carlo, but this one was long dead. I could imagine what
a date with Marilyn Monroe would be like. I could imagine the dinner, the
drive-in theater, and even lover’s lane if I played my cards right. But
either way, digging up Marilyn Monroe would not mean she would be the same.
Dead is dead.
I could never accept death, so I’ll dig up the
corpse of Bettie Page and bolt on the legs of Marilyn Monroe. I’ll stitch on
Jane Mansfield’s breasts and screw in Rita Hayworth’s shining teeth. I’ll weld
on Betty Grable’s glutes and air up Brigitte Bardot’s lips. Then I’ll spray on
a brightly colored dress and drop a gorilla’s heart into her chest.
She’s alive.
