Patrick Fealey's Blog, page 17
October 31, 2012
dinosaur
six shots of tequila and five beers for breakfast leave me feeling thirsty. i know, alcohol has betrayed me before and there is no reason to think it won’t again. alcohol betrays everyone, whether it’s one drink at a party or a pipeline. whatever good you think it has done will be tallied in the end and you will pay with brain cells and muscle, you will forgo love and success, alienate what you love while you love what you hate. i don’t believe i will soon peak this time around, but i learned from the last time that i will lose. so why do i drink? i say this time will be different. i know what i am doing now. hemingway couldn’t beat it, but i will. i write this knowing i will fall, believing i wont and drinking anyway. affliction and addiction. addiction and affliction. i take people one person at a time and have found that i am in opposition to most. i give myself a break. for a guy in a wool hat and no underwear, taking on humanity at every turn might cast favorable light on excuses.
i rarely call glenny. it takes too much out of me. he’s some kind of jumping parasite. you get off the phone feeling like you have given two pints. this morning he brings up how he has written three poems about babs. i reminded him of how he kicked her to the ground when she said she didn’t care about his writing. he said he remembered her saying that and how it was a kick in his teeth, but he doesn’t remember kicking her. glenny writes me an email: “call, bitch.” he wants me to call him more than i’d call everybody else. call, call, call, bitch. is he suggesting that i act like one of his abused girlfriends? you call me bitch and tell me to call you. i don’t because your method of communication is one-sided. there is no give and take, just glenny, as it has been your whole life. i believe that your mission now it to write about your mistakes from the point of view of a better man, but the mistakes go on. i have doubts about your progress. no poetry will redeem you if you can’t sit down and shut up. your writing looks like a charade titled “at the last moment.” glenny continually equates us as artists. he has written 200 pages in the last year while living off friends and relatives. he has it made in the sun in the keys, plinking on his new lap-top while i sit on 6,000 pages, representing 13 years of cockroaches and hunger. there is a rifle in the closet i never stop thinking about.
foggy cold morning in northern california, the world abandoned to mist. maybe by noon the sun will push it out. the guys are at it at the shooting range like every sunday a day off to play guns while the wives cook. right now it’s the pop crack of a .223. ar-15. mini 14. maybe an m-16. crack, crack, crack, reverberations of a lost war, or is it wars? reverberation of the continuous war, the small wars we’ve substituted for global annihilation. sits as the ultimate fear and strong-arm. the rich get richer. they don’t want to see the planet blown up. they’re having a good time or so they think. the government corners citizens who arm themselves while hiring a new breed of stupid cops (head-shaven-pawns) for domestic suppression. there was a french resistance and some day there will be an american resistance. civil war. history repeats itself. the government is cracking down on ham radio because that would be the rebels’ last best way to communicate when telephones and internet are intercepted or shut off. did you know that a soldier can walk up your street with a small computer in his hand and bring up exactly which house a gun owner lives in? i didn’t. they don’t even have to surround your house. call in an f-15. i don’t want to see my country wasted, but i’ll tell you this: it looks like it is already sold out.
wrote to my folks this morning. they don’t talk to me. wrote to my sister this morning. sometimes she talks to me. wrote to monica this morning. she reluctantly talks to me. wrote to jess this morning. she usually does not write back. i see these people in the present and they see me as a ghost. i am taking them with me. it’s part of admitting and valuing the past which has created me. they see is as some guy from 20 years ago who wants to get his cock back into their mouths and then leave them a second time. why the hell are you writing to me when you are living with another woman? women will cheat, but they never trust a man who writes to his ex-girlfriends. they’ve happily forgotten. here i am, returned to tease and taunt. tough love doesn’t work. accusations of vitriol and hatred fly. i’ve got to be smooth. talk about them. listen. the same old routine. i like it. getting around to unfinished business. for it is always unfinished. i have hope for my sister because she is a vapor and there is always hope that with a cold enough winter she’ll turn into something solid.
hungry.
you walk out into the back yard where you are surrounded by roses. pink. red. yellow. peach. white. you pick some plums off the tree. you light a cigarette. you go inside and show the plums to your girl who is in the shower. she takes one and eats it and hands you the pit. you go to the kitchen and shoot some tequila and then outside to light a cigarette. it takes her 45 minutes to get dressed because she must dye her hair. her hair did not look like it needed to be dyed, but she finally comes out into the back yard and goes to the garden. she walks toward you and says, “i’ll only interrupt you one time. look!” it is a fresh lemon-cucumber. it is round and yellow and yellow and round an unusual cucumber. “that’s how they look?” i say. “you’ve seen one before?” “yes,” she says, walking into the house, leaving me to my typing. the girl is sometimes an angel like me!
the highest possible goal a man can aspire to is to be assassinated. kick the right asses and it will happen.
assassinate a man and see how he lives. cowards pray on the vulnerable and sacrificing. the alive and loving. this place, man’s made place, is no place for a man. always paradox with the human animal. he can’t get his mind settled. the living dead assassinate the living, for there is no one else to assassinate. assassination is constant. one does, one doesn’t. neurologists study the brain like it’s the electric company when they should be studying faith.
look! a 20-foot shark. look! the holocaust. look! dinosaurs. look! omaha beach. what about the man in the room with a fly? the fly buzzes his head and pesters him for 12 hours until the man swipes the air and catches it and feeds it into his mouth and chews the motherfucker and swallows the plague forever. i want to explore the man and the fly. it seems to me the best lines are spoken to flies. “you bite me, i bite you.” “i’m not dead yet, but you are.” “you taste awful, but it’s better than listening to you.” this writer on the internet tells me “you’re a little mad, but aren’t we all?” i am not mad. madness is the luxury most afford themselves to escape the pain of being a man. i am resisting your lies, which you may or might not see through. i will be looked upon in various lights whether i become a suicide or a seraphita. mostly misunderstood and alone. i like being alone. it is better than being lazy arrogant or cocksure ignorant. the shallow, the nasty, the absent can suck my cock. no. i used to let them, but i’m now watching hummingbirds sip nectar. i believe in the few, the humble, the tangerines.
the sun has emerged, warmth on my face, need to get my sunglasses and shed the hoodie and wool hat. august is. september will be too.
i had broken into a sweat and was wiping my forehead and claustrophobic after ten minutes hunting for bluejeans at the mall. the employees, if they were around, were of no use. i talked to a girl at the jewelry counter and she gave me wrong directions. the two girls i saw working the floor took one look at me and ran for the china department. teenaged girls. awkward. pimples. too much make-up. too little help. i found myself in a stadium of bluejeans. the jeans i was looking for were not where they had been last year. i cruised the aisles fast, flushed with nervous heat. i remembered that when i was 16 and had a job i hated i performed my duties because i was polite and was glad to have a job. it took 15 minutes to find the jeans, 7 minutes to try them on, one minute to find the register, and three minutes to get the fuck out of there before i had a seizure. the inanimate clothing disturbs me. how the shirts and pants resemble crowds of headless and disembodied people. to me, there are more people in a mall than there are in the mall. it’d be best to wear the same brand and size for the rest of my life and send women out to buy them. marliyn was definitely disappointed we didn’t spend three hours trying on bras . . .
homeland insecurity
Homeland Insecurity by Patrick Fealey (886 words)
I had a problem with Homeland Security that may sound unbelievable, but I’ll try to explain it to you as best I can.
I was being tracked by a rogue agent at Homeland Security because I was in a long-distance relationship with his friend’s wife. It was not politics or even my writings, but rather a personal game of cat and mouse with one employee who was abusing his powers on behalf of a friend, interfering with, deleting, and printing out our emails for her husband.
Sometimes the agent wrote his own comments inside e-mails from my woman friend. He was able to penetrate our internet service providers at will. He had our names flagged and whenever we used the internet, he was there. She changed ISPs four times and he found in her in hours. The Homeland Security agent really got into this game, as if he was imagining himself as a cyber James Bond.
It all started when my ex-girlfriend from Washington State, in a loveless and sexless marriage, contacted me. We had once had a great relationship years ago. Her husband was a physicist. He discovered the relationship when he received a phone bill (usually handled by her) on his computer. He found out who the number belonged to (me) and asked his friend at Homeland Security to track our correspondence. The Homeland Security agent, who had previously worked at the National Security Agency, printed out hundreds of e-mails between the woman and me and gave them to her husband. He followed her around the house with a stack of emails in his hands, reading the ones where we had gotten into fights.
During this time, the Homeland Security agent was eager to “spike” my computer, which went beyond what the husband wanted. Her husband told the guy to stop, but he was enthusiastic about his pet domestic spy operation. The only reason I was not spiked (at that time) was because my woman friend pled with her husband and he in turn told his Homeland Security buddy to back off.
But after the husband received the copies of our emails, everything changed with her and me. She wanted to leave him, but was told by two divorce lawyers that he would get custody of their son. He also made a lot of money and she did not work. She decided to stay with him. He forced her to go on a retreat to “clear her mind.” I withdrew from her.
As we drifted, the Homeland Security agent continued stalking me and I no longer had her pleading for temperance. Two weeks after she and I stopped talking, I experienced massive breach of my America Online account and my hard-drive was fried. When it occurred, AOL gave me a warning that took up half my screen: MASSIVE INTRUSION. I lost everything, including a novel. I told her and she apologized, but she was helpless. After that, I did not go online for three years. I didn’t want to lose my hard-drive again or expose others to this rogue jerk.
My impression of Homeland Security is that they can see everything and do anything they want to a person’s computer, much more than I knew. Of course there must be a lot of restraint and a protocol before they should do what was done to me. I had thought this kind of attack was reserved for terrorists. The agents have too much freedom and apparently a lot of free time on their hands. They have become the terrorists.
I fully realize how unusual all of this may sound, but these are the facts. A U.S. Navy computer scientist at the Naval War College in Newport, R.I., accepted the story without hesitation and said, “They can do that.” But most people just give me a skeptical look. The scientist was able to recover my data after a hard week’s work and said, “It wasn’t easy.”
I have seen much worse corruption. This is just a gross abuse of power by one man but sheds light on the independence and lack of character and integrity among some Homeland Security employees. I considered legal action, contacting the FBI, and writing to senator Jack Reed, but convincing others of my experience is no easy task – though there are four people who know exactly what went down. I stayed low and off the internet and have had nothing to do with that woman, which is what her husband wanted.
The greatest cost to me was probably my relationship with a prominent literary magazine. The editor had saved five of my short stories and was asking for more. In the writing business this kind of interest is rare. Then the magazine switched over to online submissions only. This is something I could not do because I did not feel safe online. I wrote to the editor to ask if I could continue to submit hard copies. I asked her to make an exception and explained my problems with Homeland Security. Immediately, she sent all my stories back to me, without rejections or explanation. I think she either thought i was crazy or she was afraid of what Homeland Security might do to her magazine.
Patrick fealey is a former reporter for the narragansett times and the boston globe.
I had a problem with Homeland Security that may sound unbelievable, but I’ll try to explain it to you as best I can.
I was being tracked by a rogue agent at Homeland Security because I was in a long-distance relationship with his friend’s wife. It was not politics or even my writings, but rather a personal game of cat and mouse with one employee who was abusing his powers on behalf of a friend, interfering with, deleting, and printing out our emails for her husband.
Sometimes the agent wrote his own comments inside e-mails from my woman friend. He was able to penetrate our internet service providers at will. He had our names flagged and whenever we used the internet, he was there. She changed ISPs four times and he found in her in hours. The Homeland Security agent really got into this game, as if he was imagining himself as a cyber James Bond.
It all started when my ex-girlfriend from Washington State, in a loveless and sexless marriage, contacted me. We had once had a great relationship years ago. Her husband was a physicist. He discovered the relationship when he received a phone bill (usually handled by her) on his computer. He found out who the number belonged to (me) and asked his friend at Homeland Security to track our correspondence. The Homeland Security agent, who had previously worked at the National Security Agency, printed out hundreds of e-mails between the woman and me and gave them to her husband. He followed her around the house with a stack of emails in his hands, reading the ones where we had gotten into fights.
During this time, the Homeland Security agent was eager to “spike” my computer, which went beyond what the husband wanted. Her husband told the guy to stop, but he was enthusiastic about his pet domestic spy operation. The only reason I was not spiked (at that time) was because my woman friend pled with her husband and he in turn told his Homeland Security buddy to back off.
But after the husband received the copies of our emails, everything changed with her and me. She wanted to leave him, but was told by two divorce lawyers that he would get custody of their son. He also made a lot of money and she did not work. She decided to stay with him. He forced her to go on a retreat to “clear her mind.” I withdrew from her.
As we drifted, the Homeland Security agent continued stalking me and I no longer had her pleading for temperance. Two weeks after she and I stopped talking, I experienced massive breach of my America Online account and my hard-drive was fried. When it occurred, AOL gave me a warning that took up half my screen: MASSIVE INTRUSION. I lost everything, including a novel. I told her and she apologized, but she was helpless. After that, I did not go online for three years. I didn’t want to lose my hard-drive again or expose others to this rogue jerk.
My impression of Homeland Security is that they can see everything and do anything they want to a person’s computer, much more than I knew. Of course there must be a lot of restraint and a protocol before they should do what was done to me. I had thought this kind of attack was reserved for terrorists. The agents have too much freedom and apparently a lot of free time on their hands. They have become the terrorists.
I fully realize how unusual all of this may sound, but these are the facts. A U.S. Navy computer scientist at the Naval War College in Newport, R.I., accepted the story without hesitation and said, “They can do that.” But most people just give me a skeptical look. The scientist was able to recover my data after a hard week’s work and said, “It wasn’t easy.”
I have seen much worse corruption. This is just a gross abuse of power by one man but sheds light on the independence and lack of character and integrity among some Homeland Security employees. I considered legal action, contacting the FBI, and writing to senator Jack Reed, but convincing others of my experience is no easy task – though there are four people who know exactly what went down. I stayed low and off the internet and have had nothing to do with that woman, which is what her husband wanted.
The greatest cost to me was probably my relationship with a prominent literary magazine. The editor had saved five of my short stories and was asking for more. In the writing business this kind of interest is rare. Then the magazine switched over to online submissions only. This is something I could not do because I did not feel safe online. I wrote to the editor to ask if I could continue to submit hard copies. I asked her to make an exception and explained my problems with Homeland Security. Immediately, she sent all my stories back to me, without rejections or explanation. I think she either thought i was crazy or she was afraid of what Homeland Security might do to her magazine.
Patrick fealey is a former reporter for the narragansett times and the boston globe.
October 30, 2012
the gravedigger
The gravedigger
The gravedigger said:
“what are you doing in here?”
“I am not lost, man
“I have come to shop
for a very nude woman.
for one not so plump.”
“you should not be here
wagging your smart tongue about.
Is that beer you have?”
“as numb as my foot
I swear it isn’t beer here.
Would you like a swig?”
“since it isn’t beer
and I have my shovel here,
work requires water.
“Let’s see that canteen.”
“a swig, it’s for the ladies.
You might be surprised.”
“many a maiden
I have fairwelled here myself
But wouldn’t say met.”
“you must stay later.
Do not go home gravedigger,
Call off your quitting.
“wait for the display
when your dirt becomes fashion.
I will introduce.”
“your beer is hot, smooth.
what do I want of your ghosts?
I have goats back home.”
“are you afraid then
or do your goats dance and drink?
Stay awhile, make friends.”
“my goats have habits.
I am a man of habits.
You have strange pastimes.
“I admit, I fear
the dark was never for me.
the dead are easy.
“I have no courage.
your beer does not change a thing.
the nighttime is strange.”
“you dig holes by day
and leave before the party.
you are the strange one.
“but as you wish it
only do not report me.
we have talked well here.
“you see I mean well
your clients and I get on
we clean up our mess.”
“the crows get nothing,”
laughed the gravedigger, drinking.
I never saw you.
“do you speak god’s truth?
These, uh, birds come out and dance?
You and skeletons?”
“listen, stay or go.
And allow me have some drink.
You drank all of it?
“lousy gravedigger,
you leave nothing for the dead,
none for the living!
“go to your habit.
go back to your goats and locks.
it’s getting dusk now.
“did you notice that?
You were drinking, the sun set.
My friends will be out.”
“help me stand up now.
I don’t want to be here then.
Hurry! Before dark!”
“but you drank our rye.
you must indulge your presence.
my friends are no ghouls.”
“My goats will miss me.
We are all inside by now.
This is not correct.”
“Darkness descends now.
You might deign to hide your shovel.
They can be moody.”
“please, please get me out.
I’ll do anything you wish.
Get me out of here.
“no! you are like them!
God, what have you done to me?
They were all sleeping.”
“what are you fearing?
The blackness? Not the spirits?
You do a fair job.”
“if you understand,
your friends gave me what I have,
more goats than I should.”
“I see your habit.
I understand your night fears.
My dames don’t wear goats.”
“ha! They need nothing!
“only the dirt I gave them!
I needed those things!”
“you are forgetting
the one thing a lady wants.
dancing shoesand eyes!”
“i am nothing here.
your friends can have everything.
my goats, let me go.”
“a goat for honor!
A goat in place of respect!
A goat to dance with!
“as for you, my man,
the same fat unbeliever.
Tonight you shall see
what is like to smile at yourself.”
The gravedigger said:
“what are you doing in here?”
“I am not lost, man
“I have come to shop
for a very nude woman.
for one not so plump.”
“you should not be here
wagging your smart tongue about.
Is that beer you have?”
“as numb as my foot
I swear it isn’t beer here.
Would you like a swig?”
“since it isn’t beer
and I have my shovel here,
work requires water.
“Let’s see that canteen.”
“a swig, it’s for the ladies.
You might be surprised.”
“many a maiden
I have fairwelled here myself
But wouldn’t say met.”
“you must stay later.
Do not go home gravedigger,
Call off your quitting.
“wait for the display
when your dirt becomes fashion.
I will introduce.”
“your beer is hot, smooth.
what do I want of your ghosts?
I have goats back home.”
“are you afraid then
or do your goats dance and drink?
Stay awhile, make friends.”
“my goats have habits.
I am a man of habits.
You have strange pastimes.
“I admit, I fear
the dark was never for me.
the dead are easy.
“I have no courage.
your beer does not change a thing.
the nighttime is strange.”
“you dig holes by day
and leave before the party.
you are the strange one.
“but as you wish it
only do not report me.
we have talked well here.
“you see I mean well
your clients and I get on
we clean up our mess.”
“the crows get nothing,”
laughed the gravedigger, drinking.
I never saw you.
“do you speak god’s truth?
These, uh, birds come out and dance?
You and skeletons?”
“listen, stay or go.
And allow me have some drink.
You drank all of it?
“lousy gravedigger,
you leave nothing for the dead,
none for the living!
“go to your habit.
go back to your goats and locks.
it’s getting dusk now.
“did you notice that?
You were drinking, the sun set.
My friends will be out.”
“help me stand up now.
I don’t want to be here then.
Hurry! Before dark!”
“but you drank our rye.
you must indulge your presence.
my friends are no ghouls.”
“My goats will miss me.
We are all inside by now.
This is not correct.”
“Darkness descends now.
You might deign to hide your shovel.
They can be moody.”
“please, please get me out.
I’ll do anything you wish.
Get me out of here.
“no! you are like them!
God, what have you done to me?
They were all sleeping.”
“what are you fearing?
The blackness? Not the spirits?
You do a fair job.”
“if you understand,
your friends gave me what I have,
more goats than I should.”
“I see your habit.
I understand your night fears.
My dames don’t wear goats.”
“ha! They need nothing!
“only the dirt I gave them!
I needed those things!”
“you are forgetting
the one thing a lady wants.
dancing shoesand eyes!”
“i am nothing here.
your friends can have everything.
my goats, let me go.”
“a goat for honor!
A goat in place of respect!
A goat to dance with!
“as for you, my man,
the same fat unbeliever.
Tonight you shall see
what is like to smile at yourself.”
October 28, 2012
cassanova's last beers
one of his last jobs was the stone foundation of some mafioso’s waterfront restaurant, but there was a dispute and he walked off the job and was never paid for the stones he had laid but he said the mobster’s wife was decent. in the chapel, when his sister said he loved freely, openly, fully, the guy sitting next to me laughed out loud. two wives. six girlfriends when he died, the fastest man ever to climb out a back window or walk into the living room to convince the husband he had said it was okay. we stood around the cooler, a Budweiser in every hand, including mine and his brothers’. we had always believed life was too short to drink shitty beer, but these were in his fridge when they found him and some of us need all the help we can get.
the russians are coming!
the russians are coming (to repair our shoes) -- dedicated to ronald reagan’s feet
he was sitting behind the counter in a dimly lit bookstore in the fillmore district of san francisco, one of america’s bohemian ghettoes, reading all the pretty horses, when he noticed the man standing in the doorway looking at him.
the man stepped into the bookstore. he looked in his mid-fifties and had a big red face and wide flat nose like a horse. he wore a black leather jacket and he looked like he had just huffed and puffed his way across the sierras from montana, drinking guinness stout all the way. he almost looked mad, and at first the bookstore clerk was frightened; when the man stepped into the store, the clerk remembered where the mace was.
“where is the other?” the man asked. his accent was heavier than his english and no doubt eastern european. slovac or maybe russian. “where is the other?”
the bookstore clerk had no idea what he was talking about. the man smiled at him, a tremendous smile on the same scale as his belly. the man’s teeth were bad, but his thick eyebrows were like two minks curled above his bloodshot eyes.
“you mean tom?” the clerk said. tom, the owner of the shop, was the only other person who worked in the store. “he’s not working today.”
“i want to tell him ‘thank you,” the man said.
the clerk nodded.
“how is business?” the man asked.
“okay,” the clerk lied. really, business was not well. the store had lost money every day since it had opened. and tom had been working full-time for six months without pay.
“i looked at this space for shoe repair, but too much!” the man said. he shook his big head. “they want twelve-hundred a month! tom say go to divisadero and i go there and i think i find space. i call the woman to ask her to tell me, to speak to me the price . . . tell me or speak to me?”
“huh?”
“how do you say? she speak to me or she tell me? which is better?”
“tell me.”
the man nodded. “i call her to ask her to tell me the price . . . and i get message. what is this america? everyone message! leave message! everyone so busy? message! in russia, you want business, you do it, no message! you talk and you do. america – message!”
“it’s part of the negotiation.”
the man laughed but he looked like he didn’t understand.
“how long have you been here?” the clerk said.
“what?”
“how long have you been in america?”
“eight month.”
“you’re doing well. they’re very different languages.”
“we had in school. back in russia when i was boy, we learn alphabet.”
“english?”
“you know, alphabet. a, b, c, d, e . . .” the russian unleashed a hearty laugh, the best laugh the clerk had ever heard in that bookstore.
just then, a kid who had come in while the clerk was talking with the russian, stepped up to the counter and dropped a book. he was in his twenties, tall and with his blonde hair grown into dreadlocks. a strand of hair hung in front of his eye, wrapped in green and yellow and red threads. the russian was quiet.
“how much is this?” the kid asked. “fifty cents?”
it was a paperback copy of a clockwork orange. the clerk opened the cover to check the price. “it can’t be fifty cents,” he said. “because nothing in this store is fifty cents.”
the clerk saw that the price, which had been two dollars, had been erased. “i don’t know,” the clerk said. “it’s been erased.”
“are you saying i erased it?” the kid said. the kid looked the clerk in the eyes for the first time.
“no. i’m saying i don’t know the price.”
“i don’t even have an eraser on me!”
“you can have it for a buck.”
the kid said nothing. he unfolded a dollar bill and threw it at the clerk. he grabbed the book and walked out. the clerk noticed he was barefoot. he stuck the buck in the drawer and looked up for the russian. he was gone.
he was sitting behind the counter in a dimly lit bookstore in the fillmore district of san francisco, one of america’s bohemian ghettoes, reading all the pretty horses, when he noticed the man standing in the doorway looking at him.
the man stepped into the bookstore. he looked in his mid-fifties and had a big red face and wide flat nose like a horse. he wore a black leather jacket and he looked like he had just huffed and puffed his way across the sierras from montana, drinking guinness stout all the way. he almost looked mad, and at first the bookstore clerk was frightened; when the man stepped into the store, the clerk remembered where the mace was.
“where is the other?” the man asked. his accent was heavier than his english and no doubt eastern european. slovac or maybe russian. “where is the other?”
the bookstore clerk had no idea what he was talking about. the man smiled at him, a tremendous smile on the same scale as his belly. the man’s teeth were bad, but his thick eyebrows were like two minks curled above his bloodshot eyes.
“you mean tom?” the clerk said. tom, the owner of the shop, was the only other person who worked in the store. “he’s not working today.”
“i want to tell him ‘thank you,” the man said.
the clerk nodded.
“how is business?” the man asked.
“okay,” the clerk lied. really, business was not well. the store had lost money every day since it had opened. and tom had been working full-time for six months without pay.
“i looked at this space for shoe repair, but too much!” the man said. he shook his big head. “they want twelve-hundred a month! tom say go to divisadero and i go there and i think i find space. i call the woman to ask her to tell me, to speak to me the price . . . tell me or speak to me?”
“huh?”
“how do you say? she speak to me or she tell me? which is better?”
“tell me.”
the man nodded. “i call her to ask her to tell me the price . . . and i get message. what is this america? everyone message! leave message! everyone so busy? message! in russia, you want business, you do it, no message! you talk and you do. america – message!”
“it’s part of the negotiation.”
the man laughed but he looked like he didn’t understand.
“how long have you been here?” the clerk said.
“what?”
“how long have you been in america?”
“eight month.”
“you’re doing well. they’re very different languages.”
“we had in school. back in russia when i was boy, we learn alphabet.”
“english?”
“you know, alphabet. a, b, c, d, e . . .” the russian unleashed a hearty laugh, the best laugh the clerk had ever heard in that bookstore.
just then, a kid who had come in while the clerk was talking with the russian, stepped up to the counter and dropped a book. he was in his twenties, tall and with his blonde hair grown into dreadlocks. a strand of hair hung in front of his eye, wrapped in green and yellow and red threads. the russian was quiet.
“how much is this?” the kid asked. “fifty cents?”
it was a paperback copy of a clockwork orange. the clerk opened the cover to check the price. “it can’t be fifty cents,” he said. “because nothing in this store is fifty cents.”
the clerk saw that the price, which had been two dollars, had been erased. “i don’t know,” the clerk said. “it’s been erased.”
“are you saying i erased it?” the kid said. the kid looked the clerk in the eyes for the first time.
“no. i’m saying i don’t know the price.”
“i don’t even have an eraser on me!”
“you can have it for a buck.”
the kid said nothing. he unfolded a dollar bill and threw it at the clerk. he grabbed the book and walked out. the clerk noticed he was barefoot. he stuck the buck in the drawer and looked up for the russian. he was gone.
October 27, 2012
at the bar with bigfoot bobo
peanuts
we were at bobo’s house just long enough to find the bathroom, nevermind sit down to that promised home cookin’. bobo made phone calls and i stood in the living room. his mother was sitting in a recliner, visiting with a friend. she had not moved when we walked in. i was surprised by how old she was, but bobo had an older brother and i had a young mother. we split. we were in manhattan beach long enough to snag bobo’s little brother, the snark, and bobo’s old friend, red.
the snark had a job. dominoes let him deliver pizzas. he said he knew every pro ball and hockey player in town. when he went to work, it was as a groupie and extortionist. the athletes bribed in the form of huge tips, made him promise he would not tell anyone where they lived and what they ate. he also delivered to the only black manhattan beach resident who wasn’t a pro athlete. the guy wore a t-shirt proclaiming his feat. it was that kind of town that bobo heralded from, though his house had been more modest than most of them. red lived near the beach in a nice house. red was an art student, silent and bothered. he seemed sharp. his father was an engineer, designed guidance systems for icbms and bombs. red waited tables on weekends for a catering company, a quick two bills. bobo considered red loaded. we would hang with red until his money ran out, then we’d desert to the snark camp and piss away his n.b.a. salary.
in redondo, we picked up a blonde guy, a ripe waiter who looked like he had once seen the beach down the street. his apartment was in a white bungalow with a near flat roof. the curtains were stiff, orange, dusty. beads hanging in the doorways between dark paneled rooms. cats crawled into places like this to die, but i imagined the rent was sweet. the place suggested sex and drugs, hedonism as an aspiration. he looked at least 30, but he’d played football with bobo in high school. aging fast, he’d gone on to beat himself into a cynicism that he seemed not to hear. and he had a loud face. he rattled and swore, he was all noise and obviousness. he was the first pigeon i doubted. he reminded me of the grotesque brutality of the fraternity, a fall back. he was ruling something in his head. i had to listen to this pig from redondo to huntington beach. he spoke fast. he shouted. no rests or room for a conversation. he was riding shotgun with bobo, took my seat. he was interpreting the events bobo had missed while he was at humboldt. the usual who was screwing whom, who was screwing whom over, who had gotten married or engaged, who had gotten separated, divorced or broken up, who was dead, who was dying, who had become rich, by marriage, work, or luck, and what surfing buddies had turned pro. he laughed a lot. he was in my seat. we went along behind the freeway strife and bobo tolerated the guy’s interest in other people’s lives for quite awhile.
“roosta came to surf real waves,” bobo said.
i didn’t want to be brought into conversation with this guy.
“yeah?” the blonde said, eyes forward. “what’s his problem?”
“this is surf central!” bobo admonished me, like i was inanimate. we were in the presence of his old buddies, whose positions required respect. i was beneath a pigeon. “this is where it all began!”
“i thought it all began in hawaii!” i said.
“this is where it all began here!” bobo said.
“i thought it all began here in santa cruz!” i said.
bobo to the blonde guy: “it has not been an easy education.”
the snark was a smirky fuck. in the strobe shadows he was poised for attack, stalking the conversation for an opening which suited his insect wit. face shaped like bobo’s, no doubt a brother, but less the charisma and i.q. pale and acned, the snark looked like he ate more pizza than he delivered and had never seen a wave. the snark represented the pigeon ideal.
“where’d you get roosta?” the snark challenged. “what are you, a stud?”
“my hair sticks straight up when it gets wet,” i said. “a friend back east started it.”
“you don’t have any hair,” he said.
“no.”
“you’re too skinny, roosta,” the snark said. “you waste away in potential.”
“he fucked himself into this tragic condition!” bobo said. “with some redhead from berkeley. these chicks, he’s so horny he’ll never get fat! i have a legitimate poverty on which to blame my diminished fat cells, whereas roosta intentionally oxidizes his potential voluntarily!”
“one day you’ll get a hard-on and we’ll never see you again!” i said. “i rode with him for twelve-hundred miles.”
“i lived with him for twenty years,” the snark said.
“the best twenty years of his life!” bobo said.
“i’m moving out!” the snark said. “i’ve been making big tips off the lakers and kings! regulars! i want to, need to. greg is moving out too!”
“greg is a successful purveyor of washing machines and refrigerators! he should have been out before he was promoted to driers! he shaves and wears clean suits! greg never once looked like any of us ‘cept maybe mom in the days when she did my laundry! he has been overdue to move ever since before maytag put him into a company car! the nest cannot support him! he must take wing! you, snark, are a feeble and fat nestling! you must remain bound to the life you know!”
“i’m getting forty bucks a pizza!” the snark said. “do the math! i’ll own a house before you get a spare tire!”
“am i not out? i have three domiciles, two surfboards, and an adopted son! do not insult my lifestyle while you are riding in it!”
“roosta, how did you hook up with my idiot brother?”
“i don’t know.”
“roosta can surf! i have borne witness to his exceptional excursions. he has fearlessness! i will testify to his waves, but you don’t know if he made it until he comes flying out of the flashing white barrel upside down! he needs a longer board is all and he needs to exist on more than pubic hair!”
“i need a gun.”
“talk to the snark!”
“you two can go leach off someone else!” the snark said. “are you a drunk like my brother or do you just drink like my brother?”
“’tis a luxurious emergency a'brewin’ when roosta drinks!” bobo said. “he drinks but he does not become so drunk as . . . introspectively heightened! he is always promising someone similar to himself that he will not drink, but seems his confidants have no conscience or restraint! roosta has restrained me!”
“you are in the presence of the king of humboldt county,” i said.
“and i intend to exploit the throne!” bobo said.
“you’re not in humboldt county!” red said.
“what heresy from a longtime constituent!”
“you mean heavily taxed contributor!” red said.
“first i shall repeal liquor label warnings! then a bounty on all sharks over ten inches! the war on banana slugs, our enemies from the south who have been waging war with the bottoms of the king’s slaps, the cornerstone of this dynasty, is getting costly! red, you shall be a member of my cabinet!”
“i lack the level of fat, drunk, and stupid your administration represents!”
“man is dumb, numbed and has a short attention span! i have plans, gentle pigeons, dreams of a land where we are all in this together!”
“nobody else knows it!” red said.
three pitchers to commence, as bobo said, reaching across a giant round table. peanut shells on the floor, chewing salt. the shells on the floor reminded me of this restaurant my parents took my sister and me to when we were little. a silent three stooges loop played while a clown moved from table to table twisting balloons into knots.
i was starving in color.
there had been no homecooked meal at bobo’s and i was into hour twelve on the english muffin in san luis. his mother had been home, but she hadn’t known when we were coming. i ordered as many baskets of peanuts as they’d part with and grazed, shells piling under my chair in an incriminating heap. once in awhile i dispersed them with a kick. between salty mouthfuls, i washed down the skins with beer and eyed the untouched baskets on nearby tables.
more guys showed up. the quick calls bobo had made from his house had multiplied into a broadcast that had reached several counties. huntington was midway, but i never heard why this bar. a few were students, home for the break, some were working, all about our age, a lot of them surfers. they were outgoing and strong looking, ones only the stupid would trouble themselves with. i shot pool with red. pool was one subject i had studied at the respected but dull and stifling university back east. it fell under physics. we had a table downstairs at the fraternity. red didn’t say much and he appeared to have concerns. maybe that was how he always was. i didn’t know. but he was inside his head. his calls were sure enough.
“bobo’s the only one here who takes this seriously,” red said. “he plans to be a happy pigeon forever.”
“maybe he will be. maybe he isn’t serious.”
“he’ll be the last one on the playground. i don’t know what he’d do.”
“he’s got time,” i said.
“i’ve known him my whole life. he’s the same. he doesn’t let things in. i don’t know why. reality is his problem.”
“you mean it isn’t.”
“not today, obviously.”
red had gained as much of my respect as i could reel out in two hours, but i didn’t quite understand why he was talking like this. we were young and drinking and alive. bobo was engaged with everyone, from neo nazis to sasquatch. i knew what red meant about bobo living behind a lack of seriousness, but he had time, the way we all did. and anyhow, bobo was conscious of himself and he seemed to know the score; he just wasn’t troubled. his lack of seriousness was not serious yet. red could not be predicting that bobo would trip hard some day, though he seemed to be suggesting the chance. maybe something had happened with him and bobo or maybe red’s life had changed and he was feeling the differences. to red, bobo’s lifestyle was unchanged, the same easy and engaged irresponsibility, california on nothing a day. drink and surf. was it jealousy? red worked every weekend, commuted to classes all week, and came home to his father and ecstatic 26-year-old step-mother. he had no time and no peace. it might have been about that and about money. red’s family had money, bobo didn’t. red couldn’t get a hold of enough money. bobo didn’t need it. red had no time. bobo was free.
red was in art school. torment might have been in his blood. wherever he looked, he might have seen conflict. i had only just met him, watched while bobo pried him from his room. he was fairly discontented. weekends as a waiter, serious about art school. he was an only child and his parents had divorced recently. his old man was a middle-aged electrical engineer and he had married a woman six years older than red. this step-mother was a good source of pigeon jokes because she was good looking and red had to listen to them fuck. when she had moved in, when this relationship became official, red was then living with his father and some chick who wouldn’t have given him a second look in a bar. they were his trouble. he mentioned talking to his mother like she and red were the serious family. his father was the fool he needed, the cunt-struck bomb builder who paid his tuition.
i didn’t ask him questions, just listened to what he saw, watched him. there had been a drawing easel in his room when we’d picked him up. the large pages of the pad were thrown back, a blank white page facing his room like an iced window. i was curious about the pages underneath, but i didn’t touch them and i didn’t ask. red was the least enthusiastic pigeon and i sensed he was not coming with us as a pigeon. these were friends he wanted to see. he tolerated the pageant with what was close to contempt. the pigeons were having their sequel: a parody of pigeons, who were a parody. what’s that make it but a stale cliché, which is what a pigeon is not. to red, they were worn out. we shot pool and exchanged few words. he had a problem and he could not afford the simple answer. it was too loud to talk much and i was an outsider, an accident, new. we played away from the others. the life which had passed could survive only in nostalgia and he was not sentimental. he had moved on, but not far enough for disgust to die. we shot pool until two female silhouettes of impatience motioned that we looked too comfortable.
back at the table, we’d lost our seats. we grabbed beers and stood in the noise. then a bouncer with guns and broomstick legs came into us. he was determined to settle perceived differences at our table. an ostrich named ‘gold’s gym,’ cropped head and blue eyes, a sunburned face disrupted by tanning booth goggles and a body built on protein shakes, a gold chain going down his neck, his power was an inevitable ugliness.
“what’s going on here?” he demanded.
“--- nothing-“
“what’s with the fighting?” he said.
“-custom-- “
“no customs here!”
bobo was holding court, telling the table about our night with kenny rogers on the dark roads of the far north, and far it seemed. he called it a “rendezvous with destination.” how that jeep vanished over the cliff, how we pulled his drunken ass out of the mouths of wolves, how he repaid us with a ben franklin just when we were all, including weederman, succumbing to sobriety. bobo looked to me for confirmation when incredulous silence needled him. he was bobo and they were skeptical. i nodded, it was true. mostly, the gathering laughed, but a few guys saw what i saw. i mentioned the couple on the golden gate bridge and it started a conversation on suicide.
reaching for the peanuts, i tipped my beer. i caught it before it went over, but beer splashed onto the table and ran down the glass into my fingers. how did i? - did someone bump my elbow? was i too hungry? buzzed? foam rose and settled on the table, beer floated up peanut shells.
“roosta spilled,” someone said.
bobo stopped talking. he looked apologetic. why did he bring roosta? the others were looking at me, more amused than disappointed.
“who’s gonna do it?”
“i shall,” bobo said.
the bastard. the emaciated jock. but i had an inside connection, didn’t i? he had volunteered in order to spare me. bobo came around the table and i stood. he unleashed into my shoulder. i caught myself. had he not lost muscle over the last three months, i would have been lying under the next table over. my arm thumped and burned.
“if i have to talk to you guys one more time, you’re outa here!” the bouncer needed to put his bench-press fees to some use, but he knew he would leave in the ambulance. we let him do the talking because he had the power to shut us off, which is why a pigeon near him told him he looked a bit like mickey rourke. he went away, diffused.
the night moved like that, pitchers and pitchers of cheap beer coming in three’s, no slowing. i was warm.
someone got up to piss. i took his chair. the rules. it encouraged stoicism. i needed to sit. my mind was cycling from high to glimpses of impending badness. i would be sick. a pitcher stood in front of me. i drank. someone refilled my glass. i drank that.
bobo spilled a drop of beer.
i alone saw it, apparently.
the others were distracted with talk and maybe i, more than anyone, had reason to hold a vigil over his beer.
i denounced the motherfucker.
“who spilled?”
“bobo spilled.”
chins moved his way.
bobo shrugged.
who, me?
roosta can’t even see.
but he did not withstand the eyes. he grinned.
up close, bobo was betrayed by a small wet trail on his sweatshirt.
“you saw it, you do it,” red said. “payback.”
bobo was looking at me.
he was not pleading for mercy. he was looking to see if pleading was necessary or worthwhile.
i moved toward him.
i had been hit so many times.
there were the skipped waves and lost money and the home-cooked mosquito.
his face tore apart, wrenched and red.
did i hurt him?
he pushed back his chair, held his arm. he stood.
he was going to kick my ass.
he was going to kill me.
he didn’t move.
“that hurt,” someone said.
“ . . . ” bobo said.
“skinny takes the belt,” the snark said.
“you could punch me in the face and it wouldn’t hurt,” bobo said.
guys laughed.
“i’m not kidding,” bobo said. “put it right there.”
he touched the dimple of his chin.
i wasn’t for punching him in the face. he was hammered already. i went and sat down before i lost my fucking seat.
bobo stayed on his feet, challenging, inciting a table full of arms.
the arms were more interested in their pitchers.
bobo was taunting. it was not all atmospheric.
red was watching.
not laughing.
“c’mon red,” bobo said. “right here.”
“you really?” red said.
“pussy,” bobo said.
red got up, walked over. “sure?”
“how many outs you gonna give me, you art faggot, ‘fore i get insulted? your best shot right here. i won’t do anything, on my honor.”
red smiled. “ . . . alright . . . “
“go ahead, cocksucker. pretend i’m your new mother,” bobo laughed.
red was so fast i missed all but bobo’s head snapping back.
bobo’s jaw was in his hand. his eyes bugged with tears, yet there was a small smile peeking through his fingers.
he didn’t do anything to red.
he’d promised.
then he turned and headed for the bathroom.
“that’s it! you’re outa here! now!”
“they’re just fooling-“
“ clear out! five minutes! or i call the cops!”
“it’s not-“
“five minutes!”
a second bouncer had come over to back up mickey rourke and contribute motions to the condemnation and eviction. their arrival alone reminded us of where we were. two of them and all of us, the thought went through me and i saw it on faces. we could have thrown them past the end of huntington pier. but there would be cops and cops were into processes and degradations which are too hard to sign for. nobody wanted the kind of morning where victory came out of his wallet. some of our honor was at stake, but there was less honor in the match-up. it wasn’t worth it. there was some spreading of shoulders and contempt. grace was not shown. reason let the ostrich live. we picked our coats from chairs and stalled, downing the pitchers we had paid for. we had five minutes and we were going to use all fifteen of them. bobo was not in sight. i hadn’t seen him since he’d taken red’s shot. i went to the men’s room. i heard him in a stall. he was puking his life out. it was one sorry sound he’d asked for, but he was ahead of the rest of us. i left him and went back to the table, where the banishment continued to honor us.
waves broke beyond the dunes. trash blew across the sidewalk. vomit joined the graffiti on a brick wall. another guy leaned into it with a hand on the bricks. the vomit slid down.
while bobo opened weederman, i let go my beer and peanuts. then someone else. tears in my eyes, but it was more fun with others. into weederman. i climbed into the driver’s seat. i put in the key. i thought i was driving. i couldn’t drive. i could see the road, but i didn’t know where i was. the guys collapsed in back to compost. the wheel was cold and hard and in my chest. i had screwed up.
shivering. i sat with arms folded across the wheel, my head on them, summoning a coat and camp fire. in the middle of the night i awoke to the side door sliding open. someone puked into the gutter, slid it closed. this was the sound of the night, again and again. the sliding of the door and gutts being sucked out by the wind. i was so cold that i tried to dream myself out of that place, but instead stirred from one nightmare to the next.
first light meant something. rush hour traffic accelerated past from light to light and reminded me of how far we had to drive and through what. i was the first to wake. the traffic was reaming us with loud fumes. i was not a beer drinker. i needed water. i was dizzy, had sharp pieces of peanut shells stuck in my dried cheeks. i needed water. snores rose from the back floor. the keys were in the ignition. i reached to start weederman and my arm hurt. weederman kicked over. i pulled into traffic while the guys slept, but the clapping engine and the bouncing soon broke the stinking mass into individual mouths. their protests made less sense than my motion and the day. they wanted to sleep. i wanted heat and water, the fountains. i spotted a doughnut shop on the right. i swung weederman into the lot and the rear door slid open. inside we stood dazed before the choices. water was all i needed. but an orange juice sounded more fortifying than water. the donuts looked good. i hadn’t eaten last night. i was hungry. i got a chocolate donut. i figured that if i could order the donut, i would be able to eat it. we sat at a table and woke some more, talking very little. bobo’s jaw hurt, but he could joke with red about it. he admitted he had underestimated red’s impressiveness, but he smiled away suggestions that he had been a fucking idiot. there seemed to be zero inclination to move. i don’t remember what got us out of there.
“the commuter lane!” bobo was yelling. “the commuter lane!”
i already was in the carpool lane, but the prick and the other pricks were lying in back, unable to see this, pissing up driving instructions with only a view of the sky and the garbage they lay in. the worst was they were out of sight. driving in the carpool lane apparently alone turned most of the morning drivers against me. they were going two miles an hour while i cruised at 25, apparently alone. as individuals, they didn’t have long to hate me, but i passed hundreds of them, fled hundreds of drivers, thousands, becoming cumulatively the most hated asshole on the road to l.a. even if the guys were visible in back, people would question where we were commuting to. maybe a psychiatric ward? or to a mechanic? so i cruised the carpool lane in the slowest vehicle in the state, excluding farm tractors and motorized skateboards, while thousands of drivers took down my face . . . the sun showed up and the guys livened in the warmth halfway home, about an hour after we’d split huntington. twelve hours after we’d been ejected from the bar, i pulled weederman up to red’s uncomfortable beach town home. the garage was partway open, revealing the back end of his old man’s white bmw 735i. i jumped out and puked in front of it. chocolate donuts, orange juice, peanuts, beer sprayed my shoes while the pigeons laughed their asses off. red was dismayed, but couldn’t help himself.
we were at bobo’s house just long enough to find the bathroom, nevermind sit down to that promised home cookin’. bobo made phone calls and i stood in the living room. his mother was sitting in a recliner, visiting with a friend. she had not moved when we walked in. i was surprised by how old she was, but bobo had an older brother and i had a young mother. we split. we were in manhattan beach long enough to snag bobo’s little brother, the snark, and bobo’s old friend, red.
the snark had a job. dominoes let him deliver pizzas. he said he knew every pro ball and hockey player in town. when he went to work, it was as a groupie and extortionist. the athletes bribed in the form of huge tips, made him promise he would not tell anyone where they lived and what they ate. he also delivered to the only black manhattan beach resident who wasn’t a pro athlete. the guy wore a t-shirt proclaiming his feat. it was that kind of town that bobo heralded from, though his house had been more modest than most of them. red lived near the beach in a nice house. red was an art student, silent and bothered. he seemed sharp. his father was an engineer, designed guidance systems for icbms and bombs. red waited tables on weekends for a catering company, a quick two bills. bobo considered red loaded. we would hang with red until his money ran out, then we’d desert to the snark camp and piss away his n.b.a. salary.
in redondo, we picked up a blonde guy, a ripe waiter who looked like he had once seen the beach down the street. his apartment was in a white bungalow with a near flat roof. the curtains were stiff, orange, dusty. beads hanging in the doorways between dark paneled rooms. cats crawled into places like this to die, but i imagined the rent was sweet. the place suggested sex and drugs, hedonism as an aspiration. he looked at least 30, but he’d played football with bobo in high school. aging fast, he’d gone on to beat himself into a cynicism that he seemed not to hear. and he had a loud face. he rattled and swore, he was all noise and obviousness. he was the first pigeon i doubted. he reminded me of the grotesque brutality of the fraternity, a fall back. he was ruling something in his head. i had to listen to this pig from redondo to huntington beach. he spoke fast. he shouted. no rests or room for a conversation. he was riding shotgun with bobo, took my seat. he was interpreting the events bobo had missed while he was at humboldt. the usual who was screwing whom, who was screwing whom over, who had gotten married or engaged, who had gotten separated, divorced or broken up, who was dead, who was dying, who had become rich, by marriage, work, or luck, and what surfing buddies had turned pro. he laughed a lot. he was in my seat. we went along behind the freeway strife and bobo tolerated the guy’s interest in other people’s lives for quite awhile.
“roosta came to surf real waves,” bobo said.
i didn’t want to be brought into conversation with this guy.
“yeah?” the blonde said, eyes forward. “what’s his problem?”
“this is surf central!” bobo admonished me, like i was inanimate. we were in the presence of his old buddies, whose positions required respect. i was beneath a pigeon. “this is where it all began!”
“i thought it all began in hawaii!” i said.
“this is where it all began here!” bobo said.
“i thought it all began here in santa cruz!” i said.
bobo to the blonde guy: “it has not been an easy education.”
the snark was a smirky fuck. in the strobe shadows he was poised for attack, stalking the conversation for an opening which suited his insect wit. face shaped like bobo’s, no doubt a brother, but less the charisma and i.q. pale and acned, the snark looked like he ate more pizza than he delivered and had never seen a wave. the snark represented the pigeon ideal.
“where’d you get roosta?” the snark challenged. “what are you, a stud?”
“my hair sticks straight up when it gets wet,” i said. “a friend back east started it.”
“you don’t have any hair,” he said.
“no.”
“you’re too skinny, roosta,” the snark said. “you waste away in potential.”
“he fucked himself into this tragic condition!” bobo said. “with some redhead from berkeley. these chicks, he’s so horny he’ll never get fat! i have a legitimate poverty on which to blame my diminished fat cells, whereas roosta intentionally oxidizes his potential voluntarily!”
“one day you’ll get a hard-on and we’ll never see you again!” i said. “i rode with him for twelve-hundred miles.”
“i lived with him for twenty years,” the snark said.
“the best twenty years of his life!” bobo said.
“i’m moving out!” the snark said. “i’ve been making big tips off the lakers and kings! regulars! i want to, need to. greg is moving out too!”
“greg is a successful purveyor of washing machines and refrigerators! he should have been out before he was promoted to driers! he shaves and wears clean suits! greg never once looked like any of us ‘cept maybe mom in the days when she did my laundry! he has been overdue to move ever since before maytag put him into a company car! the nest cannot support him! he must take wing! you, snark, are a feeble and fat nestling! you must remain bound to the life you know!”
“i’m getting forty bucks a pizza!” the snark said. “do the math! i’ll own a house before you get a spare tire!”
“am i not out? i have three domiciles, two surfboards, and an adopted son! do not insult my lifestyle while you are riding in it!”
“roosta, how did you hook up with my idiot brother?”
“i don’t know.”
“roosta can surf! i have borne witness to his exceptional excursions. he has fearlessness! i will testify to his waves, but you don’t know if he made it until he comes flying out of the flashing white barrel upside down! he needs a longer board is all and he needs to exist on more than pubic hair!”
“i need a gun.”
“talk to the snark!”
“you two can go leach off someone else!” the snark said. “are you a drunk like my brother or do you just drink like my brother?”
“’tis a luxurious emergency a'brewin’ when roosta drinks!” bobo said. “he drinks but he does not become so drunk as . . . introspectively heightened! he is always promising someone similar to himself that he will not drink, but seems his confidants have no conscience or restraint! roosta has restrained me!”
“you are in the presence of the king of humboldt county,” i said.
“and i intend to exploit the throne!” bobo said.
“you’re not in humboldt county!” red said.
“what heresy from a longtime constituent!”
“you mean heavily taxed contributor!” red said.
“first i shall repeal liquor label warnings! then a bounty on all sharks over ten inches! the war on banana slugs, our enemies from the south who have been waging war with the bottoms of the king’s slaps, the cornerstone of this dynasty, is getting costly! red, you shall be a member of my cabinet!”
“i lack the level of fat, drunk, and stupid your administration represents!”
“man is dumb, numbed and has a short attention span! i have plans, gentle pigeons, dreams of a land where we are all in this together!”
“nobody else knows it!” red said.
three pitchers to commence, as bobo said, reaching across a giant round table. peanut shells on the floor, chewing salt. the shells on the floor reminded me of this restaurant my parents took my sister and me to when we were little. a silent three stooges loop played while a clown moved from table to table twisting balloons into knots.
i was starving in color.
there had been no homecooked meal at bobo’s and i was into hour twelve on the english muffin in san luis. his mother had been home, but she hadn’t known when we were coming. i ordered as many baskets of peanuts as they’d part with and grazed, shells piling under my chair in an incriminating heap. once in awhile i dispersed them with a kick. between salty mouthfuls, i washed down the skins with beer and eyed the untouched baskets on nearby tables.
more guys showed up. the quick calls bobo had made from his house had multiplied into a broadcast that had reached several counties. huntington was midway, but i never heard why this bar. a few were students, home for the break, some were working, all about our age, a lot of them surfers. they were outgoing and strong looking, ones only the stupid would trouble themselves with. i shot pool with red. pool was one subject i had studied at the respected but dull and stifling university back east. it fell under physics. we had a table downstairs at the fraternity. red didn’t say much and he appeared to have concerns. maybe that was how he always was. i didn’t know. but he was inside his head. his calls were sure enough.
“bobo’s the only one here who takes this seriously,” red said. “he plans to be a happy pigeon forever.”
“maybe he will be. maybe he isn’t serious.”
“he’ll be the last one on the playground. i don’t know what he’d do.”
“he’s got time,” i said.
“i’ve known him my whole life. he’s the same. he doesn’t let things in. i don’t know why. reality is his problem.”
“you mean it isn’t.”
“not today, obviously.”
red had gained as much of my respect as i could reel out in two hours, but i didn’t quite understand why he was talking like this. we were young and drinking and alive. bobo was engaged with everyone, from neo nazis to sasquatch. i knew what red meant about bobo living behind a lack of seriousness, but he had time, the way we all did. and anyhow, bobo was conscious of himself and he seemed to know the score; he just wasn’t troubled. his lack of seriousness was not serious yet. red could not be predicting that bobo would trip hard some day, though he seemed to be suggesting the chance. maybe something had happened with him and bobo or maybe red’s life had changed and he was feeling the differences. to red, bobo’s lifestyle was unchanged, the same easy and engaged irresponsibility, california on nothing a day. drink and surf. was it jealousy? red worked every weekend, commuted to classes all week, and came home to his father and ecstatic 26-year-old step-mother. he had no time and no peace. it might have been about that and about money. red’s family had money, bobo didn’t. red couldn’t get a hold of enough money. bobo didn’t need it. red had no time. bobo was free.
red was in art school. torment might have been in his blood. wherever he looked, he might have seen conflict. i had only just met him, watched while bobo pried him from his room. he was fairly discontented. weekends as a waiter, serious about art school. he was an only child and his parents had divorced recently. his old man was a middle-aged electrical engineer and he had married a woman six years older than red. this step-mother was a good source of pigeon jokes because she was good looking and red had to listen to them fuck. when she had moved in, when this relationship became official, red was then living with his father and some chick who wouldn’t have given him a second look in a bar. they were his trouble. he mentioned talking to his mother like she and red were the serious family. his father was the fool he needed, the cunt-struck bomb builder who paid his tuition.
i didn’t ask him questions, just listened to what he saw, watched him. there had been a drawing easel in his room when we’d picked him up. the large pages of the pad were thrown back, a blank white page facing his room like an iced window. i was curious about the pages underneath, but i didn’t touch them and i didn’t ask. red was the least enthusiastic pigeon and i sensed he was not coming with us as a pigeon. these were friends he wanted to see. he tolerated the pageant with what was close to contempt. the pigeons were having their sequel: a parody of pigeons, who were a parody. what’s that make it but a stale cliché, which is what a pigeon is not. to red, they were worn out. we shot pool and exchanged few words. he had a problem and he could not afford the simple answer. it was too loud to talk much and i was an outsider, an accident, new. we played away from the others. the life which had passed could survive only in nostalgia and he was not sentimental. he had moved on, but not far enough for disgust to die. we shot pool until two female silhouettes of impatience motioned that we looked too comfortable.
back at the table, we’d lost our seats. we grabbed beers and stood in the noise. then a bouncer with guns and broomstick legs came into us. he was determined to settle perceived differences at our table. an ostrich named ‘gold’s gym,’ cropped head and blue eyes, a sunburned face disrupted by tanning booth goggles and a body built on protein shakes, a gold chain going down his neck, his power was an inevitable ugliness.
“what’s going on here?” he demanded.
“--- nothing-“
“what’s with the fighting?” he said.
“-custom-- “
“no customs here!”
bobo was holding court, telling the table about our night with kenny rogers on the dark roads of the far north, and far it seemed. he called it a “rendezvous with destination.” how that jeep vanished over the cliff, how we pulled his drunken ass out of the mouths of wolves, how he repaid us with a ben franklin just when we were all, including weederman, succumbing to sobriety. bobo looked to me for confirmation when incredulous silence needled him. he was bobo and they were skeptical. i nodded, it was true. mostly, the gathering laughed, but a few guys saw what i saw. i mentioned the couple on the golden gate bridge and it started a conversation on suicide.
reaching for the peanuts, i tipped my beer. i caught it before it went over, but beer splashed onto the table and ran down the glass into my fingers. how did i? - did someone bump my elbow? was i too hungry? buzzed? foam rose and settled on the table, beer floated up peanut shells.
“roosta spilled,” someone said.
bobo stopped talking. he looked apologetic. why did he bring roosta? the others were looking at me, more amused than disappointed.
“who’s gonna do it?”
“i shall,” bobo said.
the bastard. the emaciated jock. but i had an inside connection, didn’t i? he had volunteered in order to spare me. bobo came around the table and i stood. he unleashed into my shoulder. i caught myself. had he not lost muscle over the last three months, i would have been lying under the next table over. my arm thumped and burned.
“if i have to talk to you guys one more time, you’re outa here!” the bouncer needed to put his bench-press fees to some use, but he knew he would leave in the ambulance. we let him do the talking because he had the power to shut us off, which is why a pigeon near him told him he looked a bit like mickey rourke. he went away, diffused.
the night moved like that, pitchers and pitchers of cheap beer coming in three’s, no slowing. i was warm.
someone got up to piss. i took his chair. the rules. it encouraged stoicism. i needed to sit. my mind was cycling from high to glimpses of impending badness. i would be sick. a pitcher stood in front of me. i drank. someone refilled my glass. i drank that.
bobo spilled a drop of beer.
i alone saw it, apparently.
the others were distracted with talk and maybe i, more than anyone, had reason to hold a vigil over his beer.
i denounced the motherfucker.
“who spilled?”
“bobo spilled.”
chins moved his way.
bobo shrugged.
who, me?
roosta can’t even see.
but he did not withstand the eyes. he grinned.
up close, bobo was betrayed by a small wet trail on his sweatshirt.
“you saw it, you do it,” red said. “payback.”
bobo was looking at me.
he was not pleading for mercy. he was looking to see if pleading was necessary or worthwhile.
i moved toward him.
i had been hit so many times.
there were the skipped waves and lost money and the home-cooked mosquito.
his face tore apart, wrenched and red.
did i hurt him?
he pushed back his chair, held his arm. he stood.
he was going to kick my ass.
he was going to kill me.
he didn’t move.
“that hurt,” someone said.
“ . . . ” bobo said.
“skinny takes the belt,” the snark said.
“you could punch me in the face and it wouldn’t hurt,” bobo said.
guys laughed.
“i’m not kidding,” bobo said. “put it right there.”
he touched the dimple of his chin.
i wasn’t for punching him in the face. he was hammered already. i went and sat down before i lost my fucking seat.
bobo stayed on his feet, challenging, inciting a table full of arms.
the arms were more interested in their pitchers.
bobo was taunting. it was not all atmospheric.
red was watching.
not laughing.
“c’mon red,” bobo said. “right here.”
“you really?” red said.
“pussy,” bobo said.
red got up, walked over. “sure?”
“how many outs you gonna give me, you art faggot, ‘fore i get insulted? your best shot right here. i won’t do anything, on my honor.”
red smiled. “ . . . alright . . . “
“go ahead, cocksucker. pretend i’m your new mother,” bobo laughed.
red was so fast i missed all but bobo’s head snapping back.
bobo’s jaw was in his hand. his eyes bugged with tears, yet there was a small smile peeking through his fingers.
he didn’t do anything to red.
he’d promised.
then he turned and headed for the bathroom.
“that’s it! you’re outa here! now!”
“they’re just fooling-“
“ clear out! five minutes! or i call the cops!”
“it’s not-“
“five minutes!”
a second bouncer had come over to back up mickey rourke and contribute motions to the condemnation and eviction. their arrival alone reminded us of where we were. two of them and all of us, the thought went through me and i saw it on faces. we could have thrown them past the end of huntington pier. but there would be cops and cops were into processes and degradations which are too hard to sign for. nobody wanted the kind of morning where victory came out of his wallet. some of our honor was at stake, but there was less honor in the match-up. it wasn’t worth it. there was some spreading of shoulders and contempt. grace was not shown. reason let the ostrich live. we picked our coats from chairs and stalled, downing the pitchers we had paid for. we had five minutes and we were going to use all fifteen of them. bobo was not in sight. i hadn’t seen him since he’d taken red’s shot. i went to the men’s room. i heard him in a stall. he was puking his life out. it was one sorry sound he’d asked for, but he was ahead of the rest of us. i left him and went back to the table, where the banishment continued to honor us.
waves broke beyond the dunes. trash blew across the sidewalk. vomit joined the graffiti on a brick wall. another guy leaned into it with a hand on the bricks. the vomit slid down.
while bobo opened weederman, i let go my beer and peanuts. then someone else. tears in my eyes, but it was more fun with others. into weederman. i climbed into the driver’s seat. i put in the key. i thought i was driving. i couldn’t drive. i could see the road, but i didn’t know where i was. the guys collapsed in back to compost. the wheel was cold and hard and in my chest. i had screwed up.
shivering. i sat with arms folded across the wheel, my head on them, summoning a coat and camp fire. in the middle of the night i awoke to the side door sliding open. someone puked into the gutter, slid it closed. this was the sound of the night, again and again. the sliding of the door and gutts being sucked out by the wind. i was so cold that i tried to dream myself out of that place, but instead stirred from one nightmare to the next.
first light meant something. rush hour traffic accelerated past from light to light and reminded me of how far we had to drive and through what. i was the first to wake. the traffic was reaming us with loud fumes. i was not a beer drinker. i needed water. i was dizzy, had sharp pieces of peanut shells stuck in my dried cheeks. i needed water. snores rose from the back floor. the keys were in the ignition. i reached to start weederman and my arm hurt. weederman kicked over. i pulled into traffic while the guys slept, but the clapping engine and the bouncing soon broke the stinking mass into individual mouths. their protests made less sense than my motion and the day. they wanted to sleep. i wanted heat and water, the fountains. i spotted a doughnut shop on the right. i swung weederman into the lot and the rear door slid open. inside we stood dazed before the choices. water was all i needed. but an orange juice sounded more fortifying than water. the donuts looked good. i hadn’t eaten last night. i was hungry. i got a chocolate donut. i figured that if i could order the donut, i would be able to eat it. we sat at a table and woke some more, talking very little. bobo’s jaw hurt, but he could joke with red about it. he admitted he had underestimated red’s impressiveness, but he smiled away suggestions that he had been a fucking idiot. there seemed to be zero inclination to move. i don’t remember what got us out of there.
“the commuter lane!” bobo was yelling. “the commuter lane!”
i already was in the carpool lane, but the prick and the other pricks were lying in back, unable to see this, pissing up driving instructions with only a view of the sky and the garbage they lay in. the worst was they were out of sight. driving in the carpool lane apparently alone turned most of the morning drivers against me. they were going two miles an hour while i cruised at 25, apparently alone. as individuals, they didn’t have long to hate me, but i passed hundreds of them, fled hundreds of drivers, thousands, becoming cumulatively the most hated asshole on the road to l.a. even if the guys were visible in back, people would question where we were commuting to. maybe a psychiatric ward? or to a mechanic? so i cruised the carpool lane in the slowest vehicle in the state, excluding farm tractors and motorized skateboards, while thousands of drivers took down my face . . . the sun showed up and the guys livened in the warmth halfway home, about an hour after we’d split huntington. twelve hours after we’d been ejected from the bar, i pulled weederman up to red’s uncomfortable beach town home. the garage was partway open, revealing the back end of his old man’s white bmw 735i. i jumped out and puked in front of it. chocolate donuts, orange juice, peanuts, beer sprayed my shoes while the pigeons laughed their asses off. red was dismayed, but couldn’t help himself.
October 26, 2012
October 25, 2012
the tyranny of a face
the tyranny of a face
hers was an ass
sticky from
laxatives
yet lenny kravitz
and anthody
kiedis
and i
wanted it
she started
with inserts
and local tv
she sold
seafood
and
underwear and
herself
the blonde
dream
men conspired
with
on the toilet
her ambitious
mother
pushed
the idea
of the bodily
saw the house
the bmw
and a boyfriend
for herself
her sweetheart
shoved her
against
her locker
and sent
his tongue
deep
he couldn’t
say hello
in any other
language
when
daddy
said
let’s play
he meant
go down
into
the basement
and wait
until i’m
done
i couldn’t
overlook
the carrots
and my eyeballs
rolled
off the runway
as i listened
to her
tell me
how ugly she was
the women, the magazines
model citizens
underfoot
her friends
seducing me
behind her ass
we shared
a place
when she
was not
standing around waiting
she leaned on
the spoon
and put
on
her boots
with a smile
that was
aggression
she watched
me
from the couch:
“you’re too generous
with your time
and money. i think
you’re getting
sick.”
i said:
“i’m the opposite
of you. everything
looks bad on me.”
before my eyes
her beauty
faded out
on an ugly mind
and mouth
sports illustrated
never called
and a couple years
later
she overdosed
in the company
of
rehab buddies
wrung out
by vanity
and the failure
to perpetuate a flash
i don’t think
of her
when i jerk off
just see her
whenever
i smell vomit
