by David Haberman

Don’t cross a man you can’t see

     Sometimes I imagine that I’m the Invisible Man.

     My whole body is wrapped in white gauze bandages. I’m wearing a stylish Armani suit. I head off to some chic nightclub with a very strict snob door policy, where only the very rich, the super models and the celebrities get in.

     Outside the gates of the nightclub, a mass of not-so-chic people beg with their eyes to be admitted. I go up to the gate, where the dominatrix transgender doorperson looks me over from head to toe and sneers “You’re not wearing the right clothes, you can’t come in.”

     I nod my head, acknowledging the rejection, take off my Armani suit and hand it to a dear friend. Then I unwrap myself.

     When I’m done, I step over the gate and push one of those strong-arm bouncers, tripping him into the other bruisers, to remind the crowd outside of the legacy of the Three Stooges.

     Then I go behind the ultra-bitch/Mitch doorperson and kick her/him in the ass like it was super-bowl time.

     Then I say, out of the clear and empty-looking night air, “For once you’re all wrong. I’m in and I’m not wearing anything at all.”