M.T. Fallon

Menchov Gets the Key to the City

Menchov, I said to Menchov, are you ready for the ball, I said. No, Menchov said, I am not going to the ball, he said. Balls to the ball, he said, untying his tie. Menchov, I said, the mayor is giving you the key to the city, I said. Yes, Menchov said, the so-called key to the city, he said, taking off his tuxedo coat. The mayor is giving me the so-called key to the city, but I do not want the key to this city, said Menchov, removing his suspenders. You don’t want to meet the mayor and get the key to the city, I said to Menchov, shaking my head. This so-called city is in fact a shitty city, Menchov said, unbuttoning his shirt, this so-called city is in fact a shitbox, he said. I do not want the key to a shitbox, Menchov said, pointing at me. What about the mayor, I said, the mayor is expecting you, I said. The mayor, Menchov said, laughing aloud, the mayor is the shithead of the shitbox, he said. And what about the city palace, I said, the city palace is a pretty palace, I said. The city palace is a pretty shitty palace, Menchov said, throwing off his cummerbund, a pretty shitty palace in a pretty shitty city, he said, unbuckling his belt. If you had a shitbox, Menchov said, pointing at me, if you had a shitty little shitbox, would you want a key for it, said Menchov, taking off his pants. No, I said, I would not want a key to a shitbox, because I would not want to open it. Precisely, Menchov said, taking off his socks, now you know why I do not want the key to the city, he said, pecking his finger on my chest. Now you know, said Menchov, removing his underpants. But you already live in the city, I said to Menchov, you are already inside the shitbox, I said. You are always already inside the shitbox, I said. Ah, Menchov said, rubbing his chin in his hand, you are right, he said, pointing his finger at me. I am always already inside the shitbox, he said, scratching himself. Do you think, Menchov said, rubbing his chin, do you think this key could get me out, he said, scratching his behind, do you think this key could get me out of the shitbox, Menchov said. It is possible, I said, everything is possible phonologically, I said. Come, Menchov said, let’s get ready for the ball, he said, gathering his clothes. We don’t want to be late for the ball, he said.

M. T. Fallon lives in Colorado. Excerpts from Introduction to the Work of Ivan Menchov by Igor Lenchov, from which this piece is taken, have also appeared in Cafe Irreal, Sleeping Fish, and New York Tyrant.