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Madonna and the Severed Bits

Peter H. Conners

It is my job to mind the severed bits and the jars. To be honest, it is not too involved. Between dusting William Burroughs' fingertip, and making sure that van Gogh's ear is floating in plenty of formaldehyde; between overlapping Iggy Pop's strips of flesh with Sid Vicious' and back again, I have plenty of time to ponder things. There are procedures she insists that I must perform. And between them is my life.
     Gezundtheit.
     Madonna picked me up three years ago at The Dungeon Downstairs; a club where I'd been working maintenance for two years, since I was eighteen. I'm older now though, old enough to weigh the pros and cons of each position. At The Dungeon I was made to dress in very high heels and a leather corset that pinched my testicles. And I wore that outfit, sometimes with matching hood and clamps, through the entire twelve hour shift: replacing frayed ropes and loose strands on the whips, making sure that all binding straps were secure enough to hold any customer. Oh, how they hated when those straps gave out--customers and staff both!--and they all blamed me. So I became skilled and efficient in my work.
     That was how I caught Madonna's eye, so to speak, in the first place.
     Madonna was flogging an overweight woman with a large head and leather zippered mask when a strap on Old Splitter gave out. Old Splitter had been a thorn in my side from the start, so I was nearby and prepared when it happened. The big-headed woman watched while Madonna flogged me as I worked; she could hardly believe when I finished the job before her partner could draw blood. The woman checked and double-checked but the straps held. Skilled and efficient. Finished flogging, Madonna asked for my name. I told her, but she called me something different, something vulgar, and slapped my face and tucked one hundred dollars into my corset and sent me away. I could tell that she liked me though. One week later the boss called me in and told me that I had a new job, to report that same evening to a new address. Three years later I'm still here, performing maintenance on Madonna's severed bits and jars. And the work keeps me quite busy too; Madonna adds to her collection at least once a month. So busy, in fact, I once I remarked to the Lady, Soon the Chamber shelves will be out of space, and lost a nipple for my trouble. So now I say nothing. I accept the pieces silently and catalog them and keep them clean and dry and well preserved.
     In most ways, working for Madonna is better than working in the Dungeon. I never have a day off, but it is much better having only one person to answer to when something goes wrong. I avoid this at all costs though. Here is an example: when Jerry Garcia's fingertip was misplaced. After hours of searching the chamber I heard Madonna return upstairs and quickly severed my own fingertip to fill the space in the collection. This deception did not work though. Madonna knew immediately what I'd done and was most displeased with me. As a result, the matching fingertip was severed and I was made to crawl around on both until Mr. Garcia's finger could be located. (Under the Austrian grandfather clock beside the chamber door, for those curious.) And Madam was right, as always: I did learn my lesson and I am a lucky man. My job is actually quite simple considering the compensation I will receive.
     Once my music is released I will never work again.
     There are five separate sections to the collection. The sections are labeled Artist Bits (this includes musicians, writers, painters, etc.), Actress Bits (Madonna's most fervent passion, the cuticle of a young ingenue named Lana Marlou the latest addition, I smelled their dinner through the ceiling vent, Beef Wellington, a lovely perfume, they laughed until morning), Business Bits (Trumps' semen, Ford's left testicle, Winfrey's pubic hair, Morgan's foreskin--always genital related, this section), and two sections of unlabeled bits, one known as The Beautiful One's, and one labeled Ancients. I am most curious about these Ancients--there are pieces of flesh, digits, ears, and fluids, that would turn to dust if removed from their vials--but only Madonna knows their contents, and I know better than to ask. Suffice to say, Madonna is a most industrious woman. I never fail to learn from her, and, as she tells me daily, that is compensation enough. I am lucky for all that I receive.
     Although she has yet to reveal the true power of the bits, I have an idea of how they work. I am ejected from the room beforehand, but I notice patterns. In a way, these bits are as much mine now as hers. I see how they are arranged in certain ways after Madam has used them: a bit of Barnum, a touch of Kitt, a strand of Monroe's hair before each performance; a mingling of robber baron essences before a meeting; a mixture of ancient seductress' fluids before a date; an overlapping of all five categories before she goes out at night to gather fresh Beautiful samples... There are combinations for every occasion.
     All I am missing now is the language, the ritual, but Madam has promised these to me eventually too. And I think that time is coming soon.
     For the first time in three years, Madonna has just asked me to join her upstairs for dinner. She tossed an outfit of tight fitting black clothes into the chamber and told me it was time. To put it on and come up. It could be a trick, I have been made to dress in costumes for the Lady's friends before, but this time it is different. I can feel it. She used the Business combinations tonight, and handed me a vial to drink as well. It was yellow, but it was not her urine. This was different. And I can hear a crowd gathering upstairs and can feel the fluid pass through my veins as I dress in the outfit. And I notice disrupted vials in the Artists section, Sammy Davis, Ricky Ricardo, Errol Flynn, and some others but I am moving too fast, too eagerly, to make them all out. The sounds grow louder as I climb up from the chamber. One hundred guests, maybe more. And suddenly I am moving with new grace, my arms and legs strong and coordinated in a way they've never been before. And my pupils shrink as Madonna throws open the door, light floods the stairwell, and even as I hear my voice I do not recognize it as my own. I am dancing. Singing. And men and women in dazzling formalwear are applauding my every move as Madonna slaps my behind and announces, Ladies and Gentlemen, Mr. Ricky Martin!, and before I know it I am singing at the top of my lungs in Spanish, on top of the world, and I have my own boy in the chamber downstairs.

Copyright © 2010 by San Diego State University.

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