Well, well. Logged on today to discover a DCMA complaint was lodged against this blog for posting links to an audience recorded Bob Dylan show. I have cooperated with both Sony Music's representatives and blogspot to remove the offending material.
However, I maintain the fair use defense should any further action be taken in such matters. The music that I have posted is invariably accompanied by significant or substantial review of the music that sometimes undergoes multiple drafts. The purposes of these reviews are to strengthen the transformative aspects of the music. No commercial gain is sought through the posting of any music on this blog and this will not change.
The material posted here has not seen official release in any form. If a copyright holder or their representatives object to the inclusion of any material here, that material will be removed immediately. Many artists in the music community or their estates permit the trading of audience recorded shows. Until an artist and/or their representatives communicate to me that they object to the inclusion of their material here, the material will remain available under the fair use doctrine.
In the future, it is likely that when I offer recordings from certain artists, I will offer selections rather than an entire recording. This is in accordance with the fair use doctrine principles of refraining from offering unreleased works in their entirety. As previously mentioned, until an artist and/or representatives communicate to me that they object to the inclusion of their material here, it is possible that I may offer those recordings in their entirety.
When considering the fourth factor in determining fair use, I maintain that no links offered here pose a direct financial threat to the sales of any artist. The reasons for this are manifold and beyond dispute. Audience recordings do not benefit from the technology of professional recording and are clearly intended for a niche audience compromising only a fraction of the general music listening public. These recordings are not available for purchase from myself or any representative. These recordings were not purchased at any point thus depriving the artist of financial gain. These recordings are intended solely for educational and private use. I believe music is a spiritual experience and has deeply informed my development as a human being. I am not interested in defrauding these artists in any way, shape, or form. The amateur nature of the recording clearly shows that it is not a direct market substitute for officially released work. Many of the artists included in this blog are notorious/celebrated for the creative deviation they bring to their best known songs. These differences further separate them from their officially released counterparts. There is no potential for market harm.
Once again, if any artist or their representatives object to material featured on this blog, contact me through whatever channels you deem useful and I will answer every request.
Thursday, December 23, 2010
Train Wreck
Skyrocketing train wrecks, avalanches of ash,
Boxy steel corpses sprawl across the land
And dredge up the earth with their slide.
Broken bodies stretch and simmer, gears clash,
Flowers of steam billow and expand
And the screams of the dead will not subside.
These clanging dinosaurs segment the nation,
Carve out cities from the plains
And spike the soil with their tracks.
Charging over iron arteries and past dusty stations,
The engines of America char the grain
And man is under attack.
They die with their machines and we do as well,
The flashing lights steep our brains in glitter
That sends us crashing into electric graves.
No matter how much we talk, we cannot quell
The cold shock that causes us to fret and fritter
Away our time in a nation no one can save.
Monday, November 29, 2010
Wikileaks
There needs to be a fundamental change in the way we govern our society. There is no concession from the corridors of power that the revelation of this material does, indeed, compromise their own self-interest, demonstrates the extent of modern government's failure to justly govern and advocate for its people, and the omission of this fact shows the extent of their moral and intellectual bankruptcy. The incessant games of brinkmanship that statesmen and legislators alike play with our security and personal freedoms benefits no one. It enriches those in power and creates a culture of court intrigue that serves no one. We must demand more of our leaders and depose, without violence, those who fail to do the bidding of the people. If this can never happen, then perhaps it is time for our best thinkers and average man alike to concede that we are neither truly free, truly informed, or well and truly served. We are cattle enslaved by a social structure lacking honesty and humanity.
Why is no one in power decrying the information revealed here AND talking about the potential dangers such revelations create? The administration has clearly failed the American people in the area of foreign policy. This is not a partisan judgment - it is a judgment formed from my understanding of our long-held American ideals. Perhaps they now exist as little more than chest-thumping propaganda, a Hollywood-spiked opiate for a gullible electorate. This whole embarrassing affair should spur a national discussion about the methods and ideology that truly underpin modern American foreign policy. It won't.
Why is no one in power decrying the information revealed here AND talking about the potential dangers such revelations create? The administration has clearly failed the American people in the area of foreign policy. This is not a partisan judgment - it is a judgment formed from my understanding of our long-held American ideals. Perhaps they now exist as little more than chest-thumping propaganda, a Hollywood-spiked opiate for a gullible electorate. This whole embarrassing affair should spur a national discussion about the methods and ideology that truly underpin modern American foreign policy. It won't.
Saturday, November 20, 2010
The Prettiest Dead Girl In Bloomington (work in progress)
They do not know that they are dying.
The children do not know that they are dying by their own hand. So many things make them think otherwise. Their faces are free from wrinkles and their bodies are firm. Their friends are using drugs as much as they are and nothing bad happens to them. They are drinking, smoking, screwing, and spinning their wheels with no visible scars. They are sure they can pay any penalty and withstand any blow. Everyone has time to change course before it is too late. The kids in the park are dying but they believe they will live forever.
Frank Brady watches People's Park from his car. The park is a small parcel of land in one of Bloomington's busiest downtown neighborhoods, one block away from Indiana University, and currents of cars and people alike travel the narrow suburban streets and sidewalks. The children gather around the park's steel tables and benches, sit under its two oak trees, and ride a brick wall that flanks Kirkwood Avenue. Frank has an unobstructed view of the entire park and counts sixteen people there in all. Melanie Boyer and Zeke Grover are among them. It is cold for early fall in southern Indiana and Melanie presses her body against Zeke. His fading brown leather jacket covers half of her body.
Melanie is killing herself just like the others. She is a fifteen-year-old runaway and crack addict. Her father is unknown and her mother is a drug addict and convicted murderer serving a life sentence stuffed away in a state prison. She spends the first ten years of her life with her mother in an assortment of beige one-bedroom apartments sleeping on furniture reeking of mildew, pet urine, alcohol, and sweat. She spends the first ten years of her life wearing mismatched clothes, having soda and potato chip dinners out of a vending machine and watching a succession of jumpy-eyed men slink in and out of her mother's bedroom door. Melanie moves in with her grandparents two months of her tenth birthday. When she thinks of her mother, she short-circuits the pain by slicing her thighs with a pair of scissors. Melanie is ten years old and she is dying.
Melanie runs away from home in early October, but this is not the first time she disappears. She meets Zeke in the early spring of that year and two weeks later, whacked out on crack, they decide to leave the state. The two of them rob her grandparents at gunpoint and steal their black Lincoln Continental. They plan to be in Florida by the next sundown, but the spree stops six hours later and fifty miles south of Bloomington. A state cop pulls them over at two am along a quiet state highway. Zeke throws his fists and kicks his feet and it takes four cops to cram him into the back seat. Melanie is high and difficult to subdue. She is binging on crack and depressants to quiet her craving for crack. It is three screaming days pass before the straps come off. Her grandparents visit once.
"Tell me some more about your granddaughter. Does she have a boyfriend?"
The veins in Elsie's thin neck flare to life and she nods. "Yes, she has a boyfriend. He's the cause of a lot of her problems."
Frank scribbles notes in a small spiral notebook. When he is asking questions like this, a silky chill spreads across his body. He is probing, ferreting out information, prying away the valuable from the trivial and it makes him feel well, whole, and worthwhile.
"How so?" he asks.
Albert leans forward in his chair and places his right palm on Frank's desk. His eyes tighten and his doughy jaw shifts from side to side. "The man's a menace. He's forty-five years old and an alcoholic and drug addict. I did some research on the man and found out he's a registered sex offender too. I can't even imagine what he's put my grand-daughter through. "
"I've never heard his name, but I'll ask around about him. How did they meet?"
Albert sits back in his chair and sighs deeply. "We're not sure. He's homeless, so we assume they met on the streets somehow."
Elise's hands jerk and she places them on top of each other. She cocks her chin upward. "That whole scene is infested with nothing but drug users, drunks, and sexual predators! Why doesn't the city clean that park up?"
"The cops patrol the area a lot, Mrs. Boyer. People's Park isn't the problem. Her addiction and her boyfriend are the problems. If she hadn't met Zeke,, she would've just met someone else. She was looking for someone like him."
Albert and Elise Boyer see many things, but they do not see that she is dying. What they see is an unusually pretty young woman who starts developing at thirteen and shows no signs of slowing down. Her hair is the color of olive oil and her eyes are light blue. She has sloping, sculptured shoulders, and a shapely figure. They believe her looks set her apart. Her mother is a statuesque blonde with light blue eyes and a narrow body, but Melanie holds her sculptured shoulders high, bats her saccharine eyes, and sways her hips with poise her mother never possesses. The Boyers believe that her looks can carry her through life. They know she can marry well if she spends her time with the right people. People like them. People who value shaking hands, cocktail parties, and marrying the right people. Zeke Grover is not the right kind of person.
"What do you mean, Mr. Brady?" Albert says. He grits his teeth and snaps his hands shut. He squeezes so hard that his knuckles turn white.
"I'm going on the information you've given me. She sounds like a broken girl. She's been looking for someone as broken as her and found him at last. What was she like before she started acting out?"
"Quiet, but we were working on that. Really took pride in herself and appearance. She learned that from me, I think. Liked girlie things, liked to swim." Elise says.
Albert nods. "She's a good swimmer. Any good school would want her for that."
"She was always athletic. My oldest sister Alice was pretty and talented like her."
"How did she do in school?"
Elise's eyes sink and she shrugs his shoulders. "She did well. Her art teacher in sixth grade said her painting skills were beyond her years."
Albert rolls his eyes and smirks. "I never understood the painting. She should have taken more of an interest in physical things instead. You know, to help her get over her shyness." His eyes moisten and he licks his lips. "I blame our daughter Julie for that."
"She was in band and can play some instruments." Elise says.
Albert shakes his head. His eyes dart around the room. "She could have such a bright future. She's got the looks and personality to go far in life. It'd be a damn shame if she ended up like her mom."
Frank thinks the Boyers love their granddaughter, but the love is conditional. They will love her long hair and deep, enticing curves. They will love her blue eyes and the lush spill of her hair. They will love her because she is their last good chance to redeem themselves. They lost their daughter. They cannot lose Melanie or love her for what she is. They are not grieving because they are losing their granddaughter; they are grieving for their lost peace of mind.
The second time she runs away is less dramatic, but costly. She steals a check from her grandfather's checkbook and forges his signature by tracing his real signature onto the check from another piece of paper. She drains ten thousand dollars from his bank account and launches herself headlong into a crack cocaine binge unlike any before.
Store video cameras capture Zeke and Melanie robbing a liquor store a week later. Zeke hospitalizes an uncooperative cashier with a broken wrist, fractured skull and four broken ribs. Frank hounds her friends for information, but her friends will not talk. He cruises Bloomington's west side neighborhoods angling for a chance sighting. He falls back on lurking around People's Park when all else fails. A week and a half passes before he finds them. He calls Issac Fulton, a Bloomington Police Department detective.
"Hello?" Issac says.
"It's Frank. I've found them."
Frank hears Issac's loud, raspy whistle. "Really? Just made my day. Where are they?"
"Where do you think? We've gotten lucky."
"People's Park?"
"Bingo. Ready to get these two off the streets?"
"Yeah. We'll see you in a few."
"I need to call the Boyers, Brent Dudley, and Lifepaths. How do you want to handle getting Melanie to the treatment center?"
"Well, you know, the usual. We'll get her downtown and book her into jail. Then transport her out there."
"Okay, thanks. I'll keep an eye on them in case they take off." Frank says.
He ends the call and dials Brent Dudley's cell phone. Brent is an attorney specializing in criminal and family law. They first meet when Frank works as an investigator for Child Protective Services and aids Brent in a number of custody cases. When Frank branches off into private investigation, Brent feeds him work.
"Dudley here, speak." Brent says. He bellows rather than speaks and has a minor lisp.
"It's Frank. They've found our Bonnie and Clyde."
"Really? Where? Are they in custody yet?"
"I'm watching both of them right now at People's Park. I called Issac Fulton and the police are on their way."
"Great news, Frank! The Boyers are going to be very relieved. I'll call them and all of us can meet at my office after the police have them in custody, okay?"
"No problem. See you soon." Frank says. He closes the cell phone and slides it into his shirt pocket.
He watches them. Zeke's face is gaunt and his beard wreathes his face like a thick tangle of wires. He holds Melanie close to him, but scans his surroundings with short, sudden sweeps of his head. His concern is obvious. He says little while Melanie talks to another girl. Her hands are flailing and her head thrashes when she speaks.
The police cruisers creep into the area. Frank sees one pass behind him and another comes to a stop to his right at the corner of Dunn and Sixth Street. To the south, officers stride across a small parking lot. Zeke is looking for them, but Melanie distracts him and he drops his guard long enough for the officers to close in. His eyes widen when he spots them and he slaps Melanie's back.
"Cops! Run!"
Melanie looks around and sprints to the south. Zeke bolts in Frank's direction. The police officers react immediately and give chase. Melanie rushes out into Kirkwood Avenue, dodges an oncoming car, and stumbles when she reaches the other side. Six officers swoop in and subdue her. Zeke makes it a little further. He runs down an alley and a group of officers pursues him. When he trips on a manhole grating and lands on his face, the officers drive him into the concrete and tie up his limbs.
"You motherfuckers! Motherfuckers! You're gonna fuckin' die!" Zeke says.
Frank hopes that this is the end. He hopes that the court puts Zeke behind bars for a long time and that Melanie gets the chance to breathe, smile, and live again. He craves this for her, as much as he craves anything but knows that she may never live again. He sighs, starts his car and drives away to meet her grandparents at Brent's office.
It is an office complex on Bloomington's east side. The sprawling brick building is dotted with many windows and a supermarket-sized parking lot buffers the building on every side. Brent personally oversees the construction of its deep awnings, sculptured facades, and marble floors. When his office employees move into the new location, Brent marks the occasion by staging a ribbon-cutting ceremony, holding a company picnic, and publishing short leather bound scrapbooks that chronicle the day in photos. He is a professional, earns every cent of his hefty fee, and he wants you to feel at home.
Brent Dudley is the middle-aged man you see jogging in shorts on a brittle December morning. He rarely sets upright at his desk. He reclines instead in a noisy leather chair and stretches his legs out in front of him. Albert Boyer is an elderly man with a swollen stomach and short legs. He sits close to his wife and holds her hand. Elise Boyer coughs occasionally and wipes tissue paper around her eyes.
"Mr. Brady, thanks for coming." Albert says.
"It's no trouble. I hope both you and Mrs. Boyer are doing well. Under the circumstances."
Albert dodges Frank's gaze and frowns. "It's over, that's all that matters. This embarrassment has come to an end and we can get Melanie the help that she needs."
"We'll do just that, Mr. Boyer. Do you or Mrs. Boyer have any questions you want to ask us?" Brent asks.
Elise sniffles loudly, raises her head, and looks at Brent. "What's going to happen now, Mr. Dudley? Is this place Lifepaths going to be good enough for the court or do we need to look elsewhere?"
"She's being booked into Monroe County Jail right now, Mrs. Boyer. After that, she'll be transported to Lifepaths. As we've discussed before, Lifepaths is a secure unit. We'll get her stable there and I'll work with the court and prosecutor's department to find out what they want from us." Brent says.
Albert's lower lip bulges over his upper lip. "They have to know that it isn't Melanie behind all of this. She isn't this kind of girl. It's the drugs and that man. Do you think we can keep details out of the news?"
Brent leans forward and interlocks his fingers as if he is praying. He plants his elbows on his knees and tightens his gaze onto Albert and Elise alone. They are the only people in the room and his concern cannot flutter or fade. Frank sees him do this with clients countless times and cannot help but admire his beaming, plastic charm.
"Mr. Boyer, everyone, including the judge and prosecutor, have nothing but respect for the two of you and know that both of you want the best for Melanie. They know that she has bad influences all around her. A certain amount will get out, but everyone wants to protect you, your wife, and, of course, Melanie, from any needless embarrassment." Brent says.
"Thank you for considering us in this whole mess." Elise says.
Frank and Brent follow the Boyers when they leave the office. Brent pats Albert on the shoulder and stays close to him. They will pull Melanie from the murk and steer her to a different direction. She will not die. This is the first step. Any further sorrows will rip the Boyers apart and Brent is going to work keep that from happening. When Albert or Elise looks at Frank, he smiles. His mouth is tense and his lips press together as if he is striding face-long into the cold. Frank thinks about denial as he walks. Elise's footsteps tremble and Frank has his arm interlocked with one of her own. Her arm is nothing but gristle and bone.
Brent's cell phone erupts with a string of staccato beeps. He takes out the phone and opens it. He frowns and shakes his head.
"It's Lifepaths. I'm sorry to delay you, but this could be important." Brent says.
Albert puckers his lips, closes his eyes, and shakes his head. "No problem, Mr. Dudley. We can wait."
Brent nods and puts the phone to his ear. "Dudley here, speak. Hello, Linda, how are you? Oh, I see. I hate to hear this, are they alright? Are the police still there? Okay, thanks for calling so quickly. The private investigator I am using, Frank Brady, will likely be there to see you soon. Can you let them know that he is coming? Great. Goodbye, Linda."
Brent closes the cell phone. "Bad news." he says.
Frank feels Elise pull his arm closer to her body. Frank is her anchor right now. She will waver and fall if she loosens her grip. Her voice trembles when she speaks.
"What is it, Mr. Dudley?"
Brent sighs. "That was Linda Hansen at Lifepaths. The police transported Melanie to the facility forty-five minutes ago. The police left and before they could get her onto the unit, Melanie attacked a nurse and another employee. She ran out of the building and got away before the police could get back. They are looking for her right now."
"They haven't found her? How could they not find her?" Elise says.
Albert lowers his head. "This nightmare has no end. We're never going to get her under control so she can get the help she needs."
"Don't give up, Mr. Boyer. The police will find her or Frank will track her down again. We're going to get this situation under control, I promise you." Brent says.
"I don't believe it. I just don't believe it anymore." Albert says. He frowns and jerks his head upwards.
Frank hears something in their voices. He hears that they are ready for her to die. If she does not bend to their world, clutch their lives to her breast, and immortalize their blood, they will toss her onto the scrap heap of their history. They will mold their failure as parents and grandparents into a crushing martyrdom that feeds them until the grave.
"You don't have to believe right now, Mr. Boyer. Just trust that we are looking out for what's best for her and have the skills to produce results. That's all. Just trust. Can you do that?" Frank says.
Albert straightens his back and cocks his head to one side. His eyes well up with tears and his eyebrows squeeze together in thought. "Yes, Mr. Brady, I trust you will do your best. Maybe you can bring our granddaughter home."
The children do not know that they are dying by their own hand. So many things make them think otherwise. Their faces are free from wrinkles and their bodies are firm. Their friends are using drugs as much as they are and nothing bad happens to them. They are drinking, smoking, screwing, and spinning their wheels with no visible scars. They are sure they can pay any penalty and withstand any blow. Everyone has time to change course before it is too late. The kids in the park are dying but they believe they will live forever.
Frank Brady watches People's Park from his car. The park is a small parcel of land in one of Bloomington's busiest downtown neighborhoods, one block away from Indiana University, and currents of cars and people alike travel the narrow suburban streets and sidewalks. The children gather around the park's steel tables and benches, sit under its two oak trees, and ride a brick wall that flanks Kirkwood Avenue. Frank has an unobstructed view of the entire park and counts sixteen people there in all. Melanie Boyer and Zeke Grover are among them. It is cold for early fall in southern Indiana and Melanie presses her body against Zeke. His fading brown leather jacket covers half of her body.
Melanie is killing herself just like the others. She is a fifteen-year-old runaway and crack addict. Her father is unknown and her mother is a drug addict and convicted murderer serving a life sentence stuffed away in a state prison. She spends the first ten years of her life with her mother in an assortment of beige one-bedroom apartments sleeping on furniture reeking of mildew, pet urine, alcohol, and sweat. She spends the first ten years of her life wearing mismatched clothes, having soda and potato chip dinners out of a vending machine and watching a succession of jumpy-eyed men slink in and out of her mother's bedroom door. Melanie moves in with her grandparents two months of her tenth birthday. When she thinks of her mother, she short-circuits the pain by slicing her thighs with a pair of scissors. Melanie is ten years old and she is dying.
Melanie runs away from home in early October, but this is not the first time she disappears. She meets Zeke in the early spring of that year and two weeks later, whacked out on crack, they decide to leave the state. The two of them rob her grandparents at gunpoint and steal their black Lincoln Continental. They plan to be in Florida by the next sundown, but the spree stops six hours later and fifty miles south of Bloomington. A state cop pulls them over at two am along a quiet state highway. Zeke throws his fists and kicks his feet and it takes four cops to cram him into the back seat. Melanie is high and difficult to subdue. She is binging on crack and depressants to quiet her craving for crack. It is three screaming days pass before the straps come off. Her grandparents visit once.
"Tell me some more about your granddaughter. Does she have a boyfriend?"
The veins in Elsie's thin neck flare to life and she nods. "Yes, she has a boyfriend. He's the cause of a lot of her problems."
Frank scribbles notes in a small spiral notebook. When he is asking questions like this, a silky chill spreads across his body. He is probing, ferreting out information, prying away the valuable from the trivial and it makes him feel well, whole, and worthwhile.
"How so?" he asks.
Albert leans forward in his chair and places his right palm on Frank's desk. His eyes tighten and his doughy jaw shifts from side to side. "The man's a menace. He's forty-five years old and an alcoholic and drug addict. I did some research on the man and found out he's a registered sex offender too. I can't even imagine what he's put my grand-daughter through. "
"I've never heard his name, but I'll ask around about him. How did they meet?"
Albert sits back in his chair and sighs deeply. "We're not sure. He's homeless, so we assume they met on the streets somehow."
Elise's hands jerk and she places them on top of each other. She cocks her chin upward. "That whole scene is infested with nothing but drug users, drunks, and sexual predators! Why doesn't the city clean that park up?"
"The cops patrol the area a lot, Mrs. Boyer. People's Park isn't the problem. Her addiction and her boyfriend are the problems. If she hadn't met Zeke,, she would've just met someone else. She was looking for someone like him."
Albert and Elise Boyer see many things, but they do not see that she is dying. What they see is an unusually pretty young woman who starts developing at thirteen and shows no signs of slowing down. Her hair is the color of olive oil and her eyes are light blue. She has sloping, sculptured shoulders, and a shapely figure. They believe her looks set her apart. Her mother is a statuesque blonde with light blue eyes and a narrow body, but Melanie holds her sculptured shoulders high, bats her saccharine eyes, and sways her hips with poise her mother never possesses. The Boyers believe that her looks can carry her through life. They know she can marry well if she spends her time with the right people. People like them. People who value shaking hands, cocktail parties, and marrying the right people. Zeke Grover is not the right kind of person.
"What do you mean, Mr. Brady?" Albert says. He grits his teeth and snaps his hands shut. He squeezes so hard that his knuckles turn white.
"I'm going on the information you've given me. She sounds like a broken girl. She's been looking for someone as broken as her and found him at last. What was she like before she started acting out?"
"Quiet, but we were working on that. Really took pride in herself and appearance. She learned that from me, I think. Liked girlie things, liked to swim." Elise says.
Albert nods. "She's a good swimmer. Any good school would want her for that."
"She was always athletic. My oldest sister Alice was pretty and talented like her."
"How did she do in school?"
Elise's eyes sink and she shrugs his shoulders. "She did well. Her art teacher in sixth grade said her painting skills were beyond her years."
Albert rolls his eyes and smirks. "I never understood the painting. She should have taken more of an interest in physical things instead. You know, to help her get over her shyness." His eyes moisten and he licks his lips. "I blame our daughter Julie for that."
"She was in band and can play some instruments." Elise says.
Albert shakes his head. His eyes dart around the room. "She could have such a bright future. She's got the looks and personality to go far in life. It'd be a damn shame if she ended up like her mom."
Frank thinks the Boyers love their granddaughter, but the love is conditional. They will love her long hair and deep, enticing curves. They will love her blue eyes and the lush spill of her hair. They will love her because she is their last good chance to redeem themselves. They lost their daughter. They cannot lose Melanie or love her for what she is. They are not grieving because they are losing their granddaughter; they are grieving for their lost peace of mind.
The second time she runs away is less dramatic, but costly. She steals a check from her grandfather's checkbook and forges his signature by tracing his real signature onto the check from another piece of paper. She drains ten thousand dollars from his bank account and launches herself headlong into a crack cocaine binge unlike any before.
Store video cameras capture Zeke and Melanie robbing a liquor store a week later. Zeke hospitalizes an uncooperative cashier with a broken wrist, fractured skull and four broken ribs. Frank hounds her friends for information, but her friends will not talk. He cruises Bloomington's west side neighborhoods angling for a chance sighting. He falls back on lurking around People's Park when all else fails. A week and a half passes before he finds them. He calls Issac Fulton, a Bloomington Police Department detective.
"Hello?" Issac says.
"It's Frank. I've found them."
Frank hears Issac's loud, raspy whistle. "Really? Just made my day. Where are they?"
"Where do you think? We've gotten lucky."
"People's Park?"
"Bingo. Ready to get these two off the streets?"
"Yeah. We'll see you in a few."
"I need to call the Boyers, Brent Dudley, and Lifepaths. How do you want to handle getting Melanie to the treatment center?"
"Well, you know, the usual. We'll get her downtown and book her into jail. Then transport her out there."
"Okay, thanks. I'll keep an eye on them in case they take off." Frank says.
He ends the call and dials Brent Dudley's cell phone. Brent is an attorney specializing in criminal and family law. They first meet when Frank works as an investigator for Child Protective Services and aids Brent in a number of custody cases. When Frank branches off into private investigation, Brent feeds him work.
"Dudley here, speak." Brent says. He bellows rather than speaks and has a minor lisp.
"It's Frank. They've found our Bonnie and Clyde."
"Really? Where? Are they in custody yet?"
"I'm watching both of them right now at People's Park. I called Issac Fulton and the police are on their way."
"Great news, Frank! The Boyers are going to be very relieved. I'll call them and all of us can meet at my office after the police have them in custody, okay?"
"No problem. See you soon." Frank says. He closes the cell phone and slides it into his shirt pocket.
He watches them. Zeke's face is gaunt and his beard wreathes his face like a thick tangle of wires. He holds Melanie close to him, but scans his surroundings with short, sudden sweeps of his head. His concern is obvious. He says little while Melanie talks to another girl. Her hands are flailing and her head thrashes when she speaks.
The police cruisers creep into the area. Frank sees one pass behind him and another comes to a stop to his right at the corner of Dunn and Sixth Street. To the south, officers stride across a small parking lot. Zeke is looking for them, but Melanie distracts him and he drops his guard long enough for the officers to close in. His eyes widen when he spots them and he slaps Melanie's back.
"Cops! Run!"
Melanie looks around and sprints to the south. Zeke bolts in Frank's direction. The police officers react immediately and give chase. Melanie rushes out into Kirkwood Avenue, dodges an oncoming car, and stumbles when she reaches the other side. Six officers swoop in and subdue her. Zeke makes it a little further. He runs down an alley and a group of officers pursues him. When he trips on a manhole grating and lands on his face, the officers drive him into the concrete and tie up his limbs.
"You motherfuckers! Motherfuckers! You're gonna fuckin' die!" Zeke says.
Frank hopes that this is the end. He hopes that the court puts Zeke behind bars for a long time and that Melanie gets the chance to breathe, smile, and live again. He craves this for her, as much as he craves anything but knows that she may never live again. He sighs, starts his car and drives away to meet her grandparents at Brent's office.
It is an office complex on Bloomington's east side. The sprawling brick building is dotted with many windows and a supermarket-sized parking lot buffers the building on every side. Brent personally oversees the construction of its deep awnings, sculptured facades, and marble floors. When his office employees move into the new location, Brent marks the occasion by staging a ribbon-cutting ceremony, holding a company picnic, and publishing short leather bound scrapbooks that chronicle the day in photos. He is a professional, earns every cent of his hefty fee, and he wants you to feel at home.
Brent Dudley is the middle-aged man you see jogging in shorts on a brittle December morning. He rarely sets upright at his desk. He reclines instead in a noisy leather chair and stretches his legs out in front of him. Albert Boyer is an elderly man with a swollen stomach and short legs. He sits close to his wife and holds her hand. Elise Boyer coughs occasionally and wipes tissue paper around her eyes.
"Mr. Brady, thanks for coming." Albert says.
"It's no trouble. I hope both you and Mrs. Boyer are doing well. Under the circumstances."
Albert dodges Frank's gaze and frowns. "It's over, that's all that matters. This embarrassment has come to an end and we can get Melanie the help that she needs."
"We'll do just that, Mr. Boyer. Do you or Mrs. Boyer have any questions you want to ask us?" Brent asks.
Elise sniffles loudly, raises her head, and looks at Brent. "What's going to happen now, Mr. Dudley? Is this place Lifepaths going to be good enough for the court or do we need to look elsewhere?"
"She's being booked into Monroe County Jail right now, Mrs. Boyer. After that, she'll be transported to Lifepaths. As we've discussed before, Lifepaths is a secure unit. We'll get her stable there and I'll work with the court and prosecutor's department to find out what they want from us." Brent says.
Albert's lower lip bulges over his upper lip. "They have to know that it isn't Melanie behind all of this. She isn't this kind of girl. It's the drugs and that man. Do you think we can keep details out of the news?"
Brent leans forward and interlocks his fingers as if he is praying. He plants his elbows on his knees and tightens his gaze onto Albert and Elise alone. They are the only people in the room and his concern cannot flutter or fade. Frank sees him do this with clients countless times and cannot help but admire his beaming, plastic charm.
"Mr. Boyer, everyone, including the judge and prosecutor, have nothing but respect for the two of you and know that both of you want the best for Melanie. They know that she has bad influences all around her. A certain amount will get out, but everyone wants to protect you, your wife, and, of course, Melanie, from any needless embarrassment." Brent says.
"Thank you for considering us in this whole mess." Elise says.
Frank and Brent follow the Boyers when they leave the office. Brent pats Albert on the shoulder and stays close to him. They will pull Melanie from the murk and steer her to a different direction. She will not die. This is the first step. Any further sorrows will rip the Boyers apart and Brent is going to work keep that from happening. When Albert or Elise looks at Frank, he smiles. His mouth is tense and his lips press together as if he is striding face-long into the cold. Frank thinks about denial as he walks. Elise's footsteps tremble and Frank has his arm interlocked with one of her own. Her arm is nothing but gristle and bone.
Brent's cell phone erupts with a string of staccato beeps. He takes out the phone and opens it. He frowns and shakes his head.
"It's Lifepaths. I'm sorry to delay you, but this could be important." Brent says.
Albert puckers his lips, closes his eyes, and shakes his head. "No problem, Mr. Dudley. We can wait."
Brent nods and puts the phone to his ear. "Dudley here, speak. Hello, Linda, how are you? Oh, I see. I hate to hear this, are they alright? Are the police still there? Okay, thanks for calling so quickly. The private investigator I am using, Frank Brady, will likely be there to see you soon. Can you let them know that he is coming? Great. Goodbye, Linda."
Brent closes the cell phone. "Bad news." he says.
Frank feels Elise pull his arm closer to her body. Frank is her anchor right now. She will waver and fall if she loosens her grip. Her voice trembles when she speaks.
"What is it, Mr. Dudley?"
Brent sighs. "That was Linda Hansen at Lifepaths. The police transported Melanie to the facility forty-five minutes ago. The police left and before they could get her onto the unit, Melanie attacked a nurse and another employee. She ran out of the building and got away before the police could get back. They are looking for her right now."
"They haven't found her? How could they not find her?" Elise says.
Albert lowers his head. "This nightmare has no end. We're never going to get her under control so she can get the help she needs."
"Don't give up, Mr. Boyer. The police will find her or Frank will track her down again. We're going to get this situation under control, I promise you." Brent says.
"I don't believe it. I just don't believe it anymore." Albert says. He frowns and jerks his head upwards.
Frank hears something in their voices. He hears that they are ready for her to die. If she does not bend to their world, clutch their lives to her breast, and immortalize their blood, they will toss her onto the scrap heap of their history. They will mold their failure as parents and grandparents into a crushing martyrdom that feeds them until the grave.
"You don't have to believe right now, Mr. Boyer. Just trust that we are looking out for what's best for her and have the skills to produce results. That's all. Just trust. Can you do that?" Frank says.
Albert straightens his back and cocks his head to one side. His eyes well up with tears and his eyebrows squeeze together in thought. "Yes, Mr. Brady, I trust you will do your best. Maybe you can bring our granddaughter home."
Friday, September 10, 2010
Spanish Tony Revision
Dedicated to Lance "Monty" Wright
Marty loves rock and roll. His mother Beverly is a blue-collar girl from a small
town with a fetish for guitar players. She meets Marty's father one night at a concert and they have sex in an alley behind the bar. She writes down her phone number in lipstick on a bar napkin. He calls her a few nights later.
Marty is ten years old when his rock and roll parents divorce. He cheats on her, she cheats on him, he uses drugs, and she drinks every day. Little Marty is a pawn. She makes breathy late night phone calls and threatens to cut his throat if he brings any women around her son. He destroys furniture and screams that he will take Marty and disappear. His father gives up custody for smaller support payment and moves out of town. He does not tell his son and never sees him again. Beverly marries another guitar player within a year. Dwayne. He hates Marty from the start.
Marty listens to music every day. It makes his chest swell and his leg bounce. The tempos and melodies sink into him like hooks and carry him away to another place. Sometimes, when he sits in front of his cassette player, he forgets about his mother and the stepfather who hates him. Bone-white beams of light stream from the speakers and envelop his body with their electric pulse. His favorite song is "Rosanna" from the band Toto. He hears it for the first time and immediately wants to be a drummer. Beverly does not want to hear it. She expects that her son will be a strapping, blonde haired guitar player. No other instrument will do.
“Mom, what if I wanted to play drums?”
Beverly frowns. “That’s stupid, drummers aren't anything.” She pauses. “Well, what I mean is that they usually aren't famous ‘cause they’re at the back of the stage and they’re usually pretty stupid too. You don’t wanna be stupid, do you, Marty?”
Marty’s eyes widen. “No, mom.”
“Then quit saying stupid things.”
She wants a budding stud, but what she ends up with is a soft and myopic little boy. At least he has blonde hair. She makes him wear it long and strong-arms him over his weight.
“Marty, don’t you wanna be like other kids? You should do more.”
“Mom…” His voice is bursting with bruises.
“Mom what? Marty, you’re too fat. You need some exercise or somethin’. Don’t you wanna ever have a girlfriend?”
“Mom, I’ve had girlfriends!”
“Who? I think you’re lyin’. Girls don’t like fat boys, Marty. Don’t come cryin’ to me later.”
She hates his music and it gives her another reason to scold him. She knows better. He does not know what real music is.
“Marty, you’re listenin’ to Toto? I taught you better than that.”
“God, mom, I like this song!” he whines.
Beverly snorts loudly. “It’s a crappy pop song. You wanna listen to some shit like that instead of good rock like The Stones?”
“I think it’s kinda cool. I wish you liked it.”
“Not in your wildest dreams, buddy-o.” Her expression freezes. “Fine, listen to your pop bullshit. I’m disappointed, my own son, gettin’ into shit like this.”
She leaves the room and slams the door behind here. Marty sighs and pushes the rewind button on the cassette player. He lowers the volume to avoid riling his mother and listens to the song again. The rowdy strains of The Rolling Stones song "Start Me Up" swells from the next room. Marty hears his mother singing along with a thin, reedy voice.
He will quit listening to Toto and start listening to The Rolling Stones. He will love his mom’s music and it will make her love him. She will see that he could be cool and that she can be proud to call him her son. He thinks it will work. A warm cloud of gold climbs from his stomach and fills his shoulders with light.
He walks into the next room and finds her cleaning while the music plays. She is oblivious to her son's presence and waits until the song ends before noticing him. When she does, she stops and frowns.
“Done listenin’ to your music? Then go out and play or somethin’, you can’t hang out in here right now, I’m cleanin’.”
“No, mom, I was wonderin' if I could borrow a couple of your Rolling Stones tapes.”
Her back arches with surprise. “You wanna borrow some Stones?”
“Yeah. I think they're pretty cool.”
“Pretty cool? They’re the greatest rock and roll band in the world, honey.”
“They are? Cool.”
“Lemme get you a couple of tapes.”
She leaves the room. She called me honey! She never does that! She returns with two cassette tapes and a paperback book in her hands. She keeps her grip on them when Marty reaches out to take them.
“Don’t lose this stuff. Lose it and your ass is mine.”
“I won’t lose any of it, mom.”
Her eyes focus on him and her eyebrow arches. "Let me tell you about this book. It's called Up and Down with The Rolling Stones. A guy named Spanish Tony wrote it about the guitarist Keith Richards. It tells a lot about the band. Read it and tell me what you think."
"Okay, mom."
He takes the book and cassettes from her, walks into his bedroom, and puts the tape in. The blue razor slashes of the song "Brown Sugar" rip open a jagged scar on his brain. It is too raw and the steamy volume of the music fazes him. He will pretend to like it though. He will act as if it is the greatest music he has ever heard. He will read this book and act as if he loves every word. He will do it all and she will love him in the end.
He reads the book on the school bus over the next few days. It is largely about drugs and sex. It depicts a world utterly alien to Marty's experience and is slightly repellant. He finishes the book just before he gets home in the afternoon. In a hurry to get off the bus, he stuffs the book into his back pocket and rushes off the bus. No one is home. Marty watches television for a hour before his mom comes home.
“Hi, mom. I finished that book on the way home from school today!”
She sits down and runs her fingers through her hair. She looks down at the floor and a heavy sigh causes her body to convulse. She lights a cigarette and puffs on it with frequent jerks of her hand.
“Really? That’s quick. What’d ya think of it?”
“I loved it! It was fun to read. Especially those stories about Keith and all his guns!”
She smiles. “Yeah, lots of rock stars carry guns. They probably should considerin’ what happened to John Lennon.”
“What happened to John Lennon?”
“He was shot by a crazy fan. You really liked the book?”
“Yeah, mom, it was cool!”
She smiles again. “That’s great! Come here and give me a hug!”
He is propelling headlong into a dream and rushes towards his mother. He gives her a long, tight hug and drives his head into her chest. When he looks up and sees her smiling at him, it knocks the air out of him.
“Okay, honey, where's the book?"
He reaches towards his back pocket and finds nothing. A heavy fist pounds inside his chest. I lost it! He cannot look at his mother and stares at the floor. The carpet collapses and an inky cavity yawns at his feet.
"I... don't know, mom. I don't know. I had it in my back pocket..."
“Huh?”
“I think I lost it, mom.”
“How? Where? Jesus fucking Christ…”
“I finished readin’ it on the bus this afternoon and when I got off, I stuck it in my backpack and ran off the bus in a hurry so I could come in and tell you…”
“That’s it, right there! You didn’t make sure you had the book really inside the backpack and it felt out alongside the road!”
Marty was on the verge of tears. “I think so… mom.”
“DON’T YOU MOM ME, MOTHERFUCKER! DO YOU KNOW HOW HARD THAT BOOK WAS TO FIND?” She takes a deep breath and her eyes narrow. “No, ‘course you don’t. You wouldn’t know. Everything’s about you and nothin’ else.”
“It’s not true! It was an accident and I’m sorry!”
“Everythin’ is an accident with you. Just accident all around. When you gonna take some responsibility for yourself? You ain’t gonna be a kid forever.” She glared at him intensely. “I thought you were my friend. Guess I was wrong. You’re just my kid.”
A salty stream of tears makes his eyes sticky and he rocks back and forth on his toes. “Mom, that… that’s not true. I’m your friend. I love you.”
Beverly is unmoved by his tears. She snorts and waves her hand backward. “Save it. I don’t wanna hear it. You know, you’re like Spanish Tony. Keith trusted him with his secrets and he wrote a book. I trusted you with my copy of the book and you disappointed me. Get outta here. I wanna be alone. Go to your room."
Marty back-peddles into his bedroom. The click when Beverly slams the door shut sounds like a cracking whip. He turns around slowly and lunges towards the cassette tape player. The sound of "Rosanna" playing once again helps him stop shaking and slows his steady tears. He is an orphan and the facts of his birth are incidental. There are no toys here or posters on the wall. There are no pictures or bright colors. There is only a stereo playing a pop song, a small bed, and a bicycle with a flat tire and missing chain. There is only a little boy alone in his room staring out the window at his back yard. He presses his fingers against the glass and cries.
Marty loves rock and roll. His mother Beverly is a blue-collar girl from a small
town with a fetish for guitar players. She meets Marty's father one night at a concert and they have sex in an alley behind the bar. She writes down her phone number in lipstick on a bar napkin. He calls her a few nights later.
Marty is ten years old when his rock and roll parents divorce. He cheats on her, she cheats on him, he uses drugs, and she drinks every day. Little Marty is a pawn. She makes breathy late night phone calls and threatens to cut his throat if he brings any women around her son. He destroys furniture and screams that he will take Marty and disappear. His father gives up custody for smaller support payment and moves out of town. He does not tell his son and never sees him again. Beverly marries another guitar player within a year. Dwayne. He hates Marty from the start.
Marty listens to music every day. It makes his chest swell and his leg bounce. The tempos and melodies sink into him like hooks and carry him away to another place. Sometimes, when he sits in front of his cassette player, he forgets about his mother and the stepfather who hates him. Bone-white beams of light stream from the speakers and envelop his body with their electric pulse. His favorite song is "Rosanna" from the band Toto. He hears it for the first time and immediately wants to be a drummer. Beverly does not want to hear it. She expects that her son will be a strapping, blonde haired guitar player. No other instrument will do.
“Mom, what if I wanted to play drums?”
Beverly frowns. “That’s stupid, drummers aren't anything.” She pauses. “Well, what I mean is that they usually aren't famous ‘cause they’re at the back of the stage and they’re usually pretty stupid too. You don’t wanna be stupid, do you, Marty?”
Marty’s eyes widen. “No, mom.”
“Then quit saying stupid things.”
She wants a budding stud, but what she ends up with is a soft and myopic little boy. At least he has blonde hair. She makes him wear it long and strong-arms him over his weight.
“Marty, don’t you wanna be like other kids? You should do more.”
“Mom…” His voice is bursting with bruises.
“Mom what? Marty, you’re too fat. You need some exercise or somethin’. Don’t you wanna ever have a girlfriend?”
“Mom, I’ve had girlfriends!”
“Who? I think you’re lyin’. Girls don’t like fat boys, Marty. Don’t come cryin’ to me later.”
She hates his music and it gives her another reason to scold him. She knows better. He does not know what real music is.
“Marty, you’re listenin’ to Toto? I taught you better than that.”
“God, mom, I like this song!” he whines.
Beverly snorts loudly. “It’s a crappy pop song. You wanna listen to some shit like that instead of good rock like The Stones?”
“I think it’s kinda cool. I wish you liked it.”
“Not in your wildest dreams, buddy-o.” Her expression freezes. “Fine, listen to your pop bullshit. I’m disappointed, my own son, gettin’ into shit like this.”
She leaves the room and slams the door behind here. Marty sighs and pushes the rewind button on the cassette player. He lowers the volume to avoid riling his mother and listens to the song again. The rowdy strains of The Rolling Stones song "Start Me Up" swells from the next room. Marty hears his mother singing along with a thin, reedy voice.
He will quit listening to Toto and start listening to The Rolling Stones. He will love his mom’s music and it will make her love him. She will see that he could be cool and that she can be proud to call him her son. He thinks it will work. A warm cloud of gold climbs from his stomach and fills his shoulders with light.
He walks into the next room and finds her cleaning while the music plays. She is oblivious to her son's presence and waits until the song ends before noticing him. When she does, she stops and frowns.
“Done listenin’ to your music? Then go out and play or somethin’, you can’t hang out in here right now, I’m cleanin’.”
“No, mom, I was wonderin' if I could borrow a couple of your Rolling Stones tapes.”
Her back arches with surprise. “You wanna borrow some Stones?”
“Yeah. I think they're pretty cool.”
“Pretty cool? They’re the greatest rock and roll band in the world, honey.”
“They are? Cool.”
“Lemme get you a couple of tapes.”
She leaves the room. She called me honey! She never does that! She returns with two cassette tapes and a paperback book in her hands. She keeps her grip on them when Marty reaches out to take them.
“Don’t lose this stuff. Lose it and your ass is mine.”
“I won’t lose any of it, mom.”
Her eyes focus on him and her eyebrow arches. "Let me tell you about this book. It's called Up and Down with The Rolling Stones. A guy named Spanish Tony wrote it about the guitarist Keith Richards. It tells a lot about the band. Read it and tell me what you think."
"Okay, mom."
He takes the book and cassettes from her, walks into his bedroom, and puts the tape in. The blue razor slashes of the song "Brown Sugar" rip open a jagged scar on his brain. It is too raw and the steamy volume of the music fazes him. He will pretend to like it though. He will act as if it is the greatest music he has ever heard. He will read this book and act as if he loves every word. He will do it all and she will love him in the end.
He reads the book on the school bus over the next few days. It is largely about drugs and sex. It depicts a world utterly alien to Marty's experience and is slightly repellant. He finishes the book just before he gets home in the afternoon. In a hurry to get off the bus, he stuffs the book into his back pocket and rushes off the bus. No one is home. Marty watches television for a hour before his mom comes home.
“Hi, mom. I finished that book on the way home from school today!”
She sits down and runs her fingers through her hair. She looks down at the floor and a heavy sigh causes her body to convulse. She lights a cigarette and puffs on it with frequent jerks of her hand.
“Really? That’s quick. What’d ya think of it?”
“I loved it! It was fun to read. Especially those stories about Keith and all his guns!”
She smiles. “Yeah, lots of rock stars carry guns. They probably should considerin’ what happened to John Lennon.”
“What happened to John Lennon?”
“He was shot by a crazy fan. You really liked the book?”
“Yeah, mom, it was cool!”
She smiles again. “That’s great! Come here and give me a hug!”
He is propelling headlong into a dream and rushes towards his mother. He gives her a long, tight hug and drives his head into her chest. When he looks up and sees her smiling at him, it knocks the air out of him.
“Okay, honey, where's the book?"
He reaches towards his back pocket and finds nothing. A heavy fist pounds inside his chest. I lost it! He cannot look at his mother and stares at the floor. The carpet collapses and an inky cavity yawns at his feet.
"I... don't know, mom. I don't know. I had it in my back pocket..."
“Huh?”
“I think I lost it, mom.”
“How? Where? Jesus fucking Christ…”
“I finished readin’ it on the bus this afternoon and when I got off, I stuck it in my backpack and ran off the bus in a hurry so I could come in and tell you…”
“That’s it, right there! You didn’t make sure you had the book really inside the backpack and it felt out alongside the road!”
Marty was on the verge of tears. “I think so… mom.”
“DON’T YOU MOM ME, MOTHERFUCKER! DO YOU KNOW HOW HARD THAT BOOK WAS TO FIND?” She takes a deep breath and her eyes narrow. “No, ‘course you don’t. You wouldn’t know. Everything’s about you and nothin’ else.”
“It’s not true! It was an accident and I’m sorry!”
“Everythin’ is an accident with you. Just accident all around. When you gonna take some responsibility for yourself? You ain’t gonna be a kid forever.” She glared at him intensely. “I thought you were my friend. Guess I was wrong. You’re just my kid.”
A salty stream of tears makes his eyes sticky and he rocks back and forth on his toes. “Mom, that… that’s not true. I’m your friend. I love you.”
Beverly is unmoved by his tears. She snorts and waves her hand backward. “Save it. I don’t wanna hear it. You know, you’re like Spanish Tony. Keith trusted him with his secrets and he wrote a book. I trusted you with my copy of the book and you disappointed me. Get outta here. I wanna be alone. Go to your room."
Marty back-peddles into his bedroom. The click when Beverly slams the door shut sounds like a cracking whip. He turns around slowly and lunges towards the cassette tape player. The sound of "Rosanna" playing once again helps him stop shaking and slows his steady tears. He is an orphan and the facts of his birth are incidental. There are no toys here or posters on the wall. There are no pictures or bright colors. There is only a stereo playing a pop song, a small bed, and a bicycle with a flat tire and missing chain. There is only a little boy alone in his room staring out the window at his back yard. He presses his fingers against the glass and cries.
Monday, September 6, 2010
The Hounds - September 2010 Revision
The hounds snap at his heels. Their jagged, fungus-green teeth jut far outside their mouths and throbbing internal organs cling to their distended bodies. They claw at his body and pursue him in long gallops under a stormy, purple sky. One hound wounds a leg and a bubbling stew of vodka and blood erupts from the gash. The pain cuts and burns like flaming glass, but he cannot stumble. They never tire, but if he falters or slows, they will eat his flesh. He cannot keep going much longer.
He wakes up. His wide eyes stare upwards as he gasps for air. An opaque twilight fills the tent and a foul odor fills the air. He convulses and feels a cold layer of sweat covering his body. His rapid heartbeat rattles his chest and his head feels like a rough, heavy hand is pressing down on his skull. He senses someone near and rolls his head to look around. His friend Walter huddles in a corner of the tent.
"Fuckin' Christ, you scared the shit out of me, Johnny! What the fuck is wrong with you?"
Walter is in his late forties. Ancient acne scars dot his face and his long arms are loose, fleshy spools of rope. The gray hair matted to his head looks like a sticky smear of paint.
Johnny runs his hand over his face and sighs. "Sorry, man. Nightmare."
"I'll fuckin' say. You thrashed around like crazy." He pauses. "I'm glad it happened though. I had a nightmare too and you woke me up."
"Any of that bottle left? I need a drink. I'm shakin' already."
Walter reaches into a nearby backpack and pulls out a half gallon of vodka. This is the solvent of choice, the poison that scours away the battery of their birth. Johnny unscrews the lid with shaking hands and raises the bottle to his lips. He swallows three mouthfuls before he feels his body relax.
"You got any tobacco left?" Johnny asks.
"Yeah. Want me to roll it?"
"If you would. I'd just fuck up the paper."
They smoke silently. They tumble in a toxic abyss, head over feet, and their dizzy descent brings them to the brink of death. Johnny is pale and puffy. Deep grooves of shadow surround eyes like ditches and his bald head glistens with sweat. Walter's stomach is bloated and distended. Alcohol squeezes its way out of every pore of his body and smells like rotten cabbage.
"What kinda nightmare did you have?" Walter asks.
"It was fuckin' bad. These hounds were chasing me and biting me. They were turned all inside out and I saw their insides. They were like demons."
"Damn. I hadda nightmare too."
"What was it?"
"I was in a house of bones. Faces and claws were comin' out of the walls and faces talked to me."
"What did they say?"
"They said I was scum and deserved to die. They said they'd get me soon."
Walter says nothing. They live in the woods near a railroad switchyard and the whine of a train whistle punctuates their silence. The living room lights of distant houses tatter the dark around them.
"I heard voices too." Johnny says.
"You too?"
"Yeah. The hounds talked to me."
"What did they say?"
"They said we were gonna die."
The chill covers Walter's body. It is unsettling to have been a part of Johnny's nightmare. He takes another long drink and passes the bottle to Johnny.
"That all we got left?" Johnny asks.
Walter frowns. "Yeah, but we got some money left from yesterday."
"Enough for another one?"
"Yeah, I think so. What time ya got?"
"I don't know, man. Let me find my watch."
Walter looks through his backpack and sighs deeply. "I can't find my watch."
"Well, it ain't been that long since the sun went down. I think it's eight or somethin'. Plenty of time still. I don't think we've been passed out long."
"I know we need more. That's all I know."
"Yeah. I don't feel right." Johnny says.
"Let me roll a couple more cigarettes for the walk."
Their black bodies strain through the humid nighttime air. Their tent is in a tiny clearing and a small footpath leads to the railroad tracks. The only sound they hear is the soft crackle of dry foliage under their feet.
Johnny's breathing is frantic. "We missed the trail! I can't see anything!"
"It's okay, we'll make it. I ain't very steady though."
"Me too. Just take it slow, okay?"
They walk into trees, stumble over fallen limbs, and step into hidden holes. The vines and overgrowth alike smack their faces. Johnny thinks about his dream and a cold fist clutches his body.
"I'm scared, man. Ain't no light at all." he says.
"I know. There's no light anywhere."
Johnny stops and his head twists from side to side. "Walter, did you hear that?"
"Hear what?"
"That sound! Shhh! I think something's following us."
"I don't hear anything."
Johnny sighs and shakes his head slowly. "Let's sit down for a minute. I can't think straight."
"No problem."
They sit down and take another drink. A hot blast of nausea wracks his body. He hands the bottle back to Walter and lays back on the ground.
"I feel sick and see things movin' all around me. I feel like I can't breathe sometimes."
"Man, we've been drinkin' everyday for a week. I don't even know what day of the week it is."
"I've been seein' things every day lately. Insects as big as fists, weird colors."
"We're gonna be okay, man. You just need another drink and it'll make you feel better."
"The whole fuckin' world's gone rotten." Johnny says.
They quietly pass the alcohol back and forth. A black, scalding cloud blooms from the bottle but the men do not see it. Its oily gurgle clots their minds, peels away muscle and fries their nervous system. Nothing escapes its gelatinous reach.
"Maybe we should go back to the tent and lay down. We can worry 'bout getting a bottle later. I don't think it's more than nine o'clock, so we got six more hours before the store closes." Walter says.
"I need to lay down. I can't think straight and I'm scared."
"We ain't got nothin' to be scared of, Johnny. It's all in your head."
"Let's go back to the tent, man, okay?"
They are carried back to their tent on a covert breeze that causes the tree limbs to rustle and clash. Milky pinholes of light from lightning bugs wheel all around them. Johnny is having trouble catching his breath and his steps are small and poorly timed.
"There's somethin' out there, Walter. I can hear it." Johnny hisses.
Walter stops and turns to Johnny in the darkness. "There's nothin' out there, Johnny. You're hearing things."
"DON'T TELL ME WHAT I'M HEARIN' OR NOT HEARIN'! I KNOW WHAT I'M HEARIN'! MAYBE YOU'RE WITH THEM!"
Walter lays his hands lightly on Johnny's chest. "Man, it's going to be okay, we just gotta get back to the tent."
Johnny sighs deeply. "I gotta sit down."
He collapses onto the ground and hunts for the bottle. The longer it takes to find the bottle, the more frantic he becomes. When he finds it, he jerks the bottle out, unscrews the lid, and gulps down a rattling mouthful of vodka. A few seconds pass and Johnny's body begins to shudder.
"Johnny!"
Walter clutches him in a tight embrace, but cannot subdue Johnny's shaking. Johnny grabs him on each side and pushes him away. Walter lands hard against a tree and watches Johnny's shadow vanish into the darkness. All he can hear is the sound of Johnny crashing through the wilderness followed by an alarming silence.
"Johnny, come back!"
Walter struggles to his feet and starts running after him. Johnny is crouched behind a hawthorn bush and can hear Walter coming. The hounds are here and, if they find him, he will fight. They will not get him without a fight. He knows that Walter is helping them. He is leading him into a trap. Johnny's eyes skim the dark in search of his attackers.
"Johnny, let me help you, man! Where are you?" Walter cries out.
Walter is only a few feet away. Johnny reaches into his pocket and touches his knife. The blade pops out with a soft click. He will kill Walter and the hounds. He sees Walter a few inches away and leaps out from behind the bush. He plunges the knife deep into Walter's back again and again.
"Johnny, no!" Walter screams.
Walter tumbles over and lands on his back. Johnny jumps on top of him and grabs a handful of his hair. With a quick slice, he slits Walter's throat from ear to ear.
"You won't bring them to me, you bastard! You're trying to kill me!"
Then, out of the darkness, the hounds came for him.
He wakes up. His wide eyes stare upwards as he gasps for air. An opaque twilight fills the tent and a foul odor fills the air. He convulses and feels a cold layer of sweat covering his body. His rapid heartbeat rattles his chest and his head feels like a rough, heavy hand is pressing down on his skull. He senses someone near and rolls his head to look around. His friend Walter huddles in a corner of the tent.
"Fuckin' Christ, you scared the shit out of me, Johnny! What the fuck is wrong with you?"
Walter is in his late forties. Ancient acne scars dot his face and his long arms are loose, fleshy spools of rope. The gray hair matted to his head looks like a sticky smear of paint.
Johnny runs his hand over his face and sighs. "Sorry, man. Nightmare."
"I'll fuckin' say. You thrashed around like crazy." He pauses. "I'm glad it happened though. I had a nightmare too and you woke me up."
"Any of that bottle left? I need a drink. I'm shakin' already."
Walter reaches into a nearby backpack and pulls out a half gallon of vodka. This is the solvent of choice, the poison that scours away the battery of their birth. Johnny unscrews the lid with shaking hands and raises the bottle to his lips. He swallows three mouthfuls before he feels his body relax.
"You got any tobacco left?" Johnny asks.
"Yeah. Want me to roll it?"
"If you would. I'd just fuck up the paper."
They smoke silently. They tumble in a toxic abyss, head over feet, and their dizzy descent brings them to the brink of death. Johnny is pale and puffy. Deep grooves of shadow surround eyes like ditches and his bald head glistens with sweat. Walter's stomach is bloated and distended. Alcohol squeezes its way out of every pore of his body and smells like rotten cabbage.
"What kinda nightmare did you have?" Walter asks.
"It was fuckin' bad. These hounds were chasing me and biting me. They were turned all inside out and I saw their insides. They were like demons."
"Damn. I hadda nightmare too."
"What was it?"
"I was in a house of bones. Faces and claws were comin' out of the walls and faces talked to me."
"What did they say?"
"They said I was scum and deserved to die. They said they'd get me soon."
Walter says nothing. They live in the woods near a railroad switchyard and the whine of a train whistle punctuates their silence. The living room lights of distant houses tatter the dark around them.
"I heard voices too." Johnny says.
"You too?"
"Yeah. The hounds talked to me."
"What did they say?"
"They said we were gonna die."
The chill covers Walter's body. It is unsettling to have been a part of Johnny's nightmare. He takes another long drink and passes the bottle to Johnny.
"That all we got left?" Johnny asks.
Walter frowns. "Yeah, but we got some money left from yesterday."
"Enough for another one?"
"Yeah, I think so. What time ya got?"
"I don't know, man. Let me find my watch."
Walter looks through his backpack and sighs deeply. "I can't find my watch."
"Well, it ain't been that long since the sun went down. I think it's eight or somethin'. Plenty of time still. I don't think we've been passed out long."
"I know we need more. That's all I know."
"Yeah. I don't feel right." Johnny says.
"Let me roll a couple more cigarettes for the walk."
Their black bodies strain through the humid nighttime air. Their tent is in a tiny clearing and a small footpath leads to the railroad tracks. The only sound they hear is the soft crackle of dry foliage under their feet.
Johnny's breathing is frantic. "We missed the trail! I can't see anything!"
"It's okay, we'll make it. I ain't very steady though."
"Me too. Just take it slow, okay?"
They walk into trees, stumble over fallen limbs, and step into hidden holes. The vines and overgrowth alike smack their faces. Johnny thinks about his dream and a cold fist clutches his body.
"I'm scared, man. Ain't no light at all." he says.
"I know. There's no light anywhere."
Johnny stops and his head twists from side to side. "Walter, did you hear that?"
"Hear what?"
"That sound! Shhh! I think something's following us."
"I don't hear anything."
Johnny sighs and shakes his head slowly. "Let's sit down for a minute. I can't think straight."
"No problem."
They sit down and take another drink. A hot blast of nausea wracks his body. He hands the bottle back to Walter and lays back on the ground.
"I feel sick and see things movin' all around me. I feel like I can't breathe sometimes."
"Man, we've been drinkin' everyday for a week. I don't even know what day of the week it is."
"I've been seein' things every day lately. Insects as big as fists, weird colors."
"We're gonna be okay, man. You just need another drink and it'll make you feel better."
"The whole fuckin' world's gone rotten." Johnny says.
They quietly pass the alcohol back and forth. A black, scalding cloud blooms from the bottle but the men do not see it. Its oily gurgle clots their minds, peels away muscle and fries their nervous system. Nothing escapes its gelatinous reach.
"Maybe we should go back to the tent and lay down. We can worry 'bout getting a bottle later. I don't think it's more than nine o'clock, so we got six more hours before the store closes." Walter says.
"I need to lay down. I can't think straight and I'm scared."
"We ain't got nothin' to be scared of, Johnny. It's all in your head."
"Let's go back to the tent, man, okay?"
They are carried back to their tent on a covert breeze that causes the tree limbs to rustle and clash. Milky pinholes of light from lightning bugs wheel all around them. Johnny is having trouble catching his breath and his steps are small and poorly timed.
"There's somethin' out there, Walter. I can hear it." Johnny hisses.
Walter stops and turns to Johnny in the darkness. "There's nothin' out there, Johnny. You're hearing things."
"DON'T TELL ME WHAT I'M HEARIN' OR NOT HEARIN'! I KNOW WHAT I'M HEARIN'! MAYBE YOU'RE WITH THEM!"
Walter lays his hands lightly on Johnny's chest. "Man, it's going to be okay, we just gotta get back to the tent."
Johnny sighs deeply. "I gotta sit down."
He collapses onto the ground and hunts for the bottle. The longer it takes to find the bottle, the more frantic he becomes. When he finds it, he jerks the bottle out, unscrews the lid, and gulps down a rattling mouthful of vodka. A few seconds pass and Johnny's body begins to shudder.
"Johnny!"
Walter clutches him in a tight embrace, but cannot subdue Johnny's shaking. Johnny grabs him on each side and pushes him away. Walter lands hard against a tree and watches Johnny's shadow vanish into the darkness. All he can hear is the sound of Johnny crashing through the wilderness followed by an alarming silence.
"Johnny, come back!"
Walter struggles to his feet and starts running after him. Johnny is crouched behind a hawthorn bush and can hear Walter coming. The hounds are here and, if they find him, he will fight. They will not get him without a fight. He knows that Walter is helping them. He is leading him into a trap. Johnny's eyes skim the dark in search of his attackers.
"Johnny, let me help you, man! Where are you?" Walter cries out.
Walter is only a few feet away. Johnny reaches into his pocket and touches his knife. The blade pops out with a soft click. He will kill Walter and the hounds. He sees Walter a few inches away and leaps out from behind the bush. He plunges the knife deep into Walter's back again and again.
"Johnny, no!" Walter screams.
Walter tumbles over and lands on his back. Johnny jumps on top of him and grabs a handful of his hair. With a quick slice, he slits Walter's throat from ear to ear.
"You won't bring them to me, you bastard! You're trying to kill me!"
Then, out of the darkness, the hounds came for him.
Monday, August 30, 2010
Faith and Loss - August 2010 Revision
"You don't look good, Chuck."
He is a black man in his early fifties who looks ten years older. His name is Charles, but no one calls him that. As a fast rising air officer, Chuck helps build the second Cyclotron at nearby Indiana University. The Cyclotron is a particle accelerator that performs nuclear experiments and it brings both the school and Chuck considerable recognition. He is married, a father of two kids, and owns his own home. However, something is terribly wrong.
"Jericho?" He is confused and smells of urine and vodka.
"Yeah, man, it's Jericho. You alright?"
"No, man, I'm not too good. I ain't done any good in a long time."
There is a creature in his body that has been there since his birth. It is a coiled, red snake that swallows him whole. He is a successful military officer, but it means nothing. His learning helps build better bombs. He is a father that sees his children as gaping mouths and nothing more. His lack of feeling for them fills him with shame. He marries a woman who gives up so much until his contempt is total. He leaves his job and family on a rainy August morning and always remembers the light coming through the curtains as he left. The living room is a funeral home to him.
"Where ya goin?" Jericho asks.
"I need a bottle before I go to 9th Street Park."
"Lemme help ya, Chuck. I'll get your bottle at Big Red and help you to the park."
Chuck sighs. "Don't bother. If I don't make it, then fuck it."
"Fuck that. You could fall and break a leg or go to jail."
"If I do, I do. Who cares? I sure don't. Maybe I'll get lucky and break my neck."
Jericho waves his hand at him. "Come on, man, get the fuck up."
Jericho grabs Chuck's right arm with his own and pulls his limp frame up a few inches. He puts his arm around his shoulder and gets Chuck upright. Chuck does not protest and weaves while struggling to keep his balance.
"Come on, man."
Chuck nods and they walk slowly away. Chuck places one foot in front of another like a man walking on ice and Jericho watches closely for any sign of collapse. They are in the hot heart of the summer and downtown Bloomington is busy. The Midwestern heat stirs a sour brew of eighty proof sweat and urine into a dizzying smell. Jericho wonders why he is helping Chuck. He is drunk and the idea of another bottle is appealing, but there is something more. From the moment they meet, Jericho wants to understand why Chuck drinks like he does. He is dying and his eyes are sunken, blood-streaked puddles of yellow clay.
Jericho leaves him sitting outside the liquor store entrance. When he returns, he finds Chuck lying in the flower planter near the doors. Jericho shakes him by the shoulder.
"Chuck, man, get the fuck up! They'll call the law!"
Chuck moves around and mumbles angry, half-formed words. He pulls himself upright and looks at Jericho but does not recognize him.
"Who the fuck are you?" he slurs.
Jericho sighs. "You know me, man. It's Jericho."
"Oh. You got something to drink?"
"Yeah, man. Let's get outta here."
They are crossing College Avenue. One of Bloomington's busiest streets, the liquor store, county jail, and a low rent motel are within three blocks of each other. Chuck cannot run and they wait until the traffic passes. Because of his drunkenness, Jericho wants to reach the nearby railroad tracks leading to 9th Street Park to lower the chances of being arrested. They are only a block away.
Chuck is a broken puppet. He often collapses due to his drinking and two of the falls break both ankles. He fails to seek treatment and walks on the broken bones. Over a short time, the steady stride of a healthy man turns into the inconsistent shuffle of a wayward old man. He is half slumped over and his ratty clothes hang loosely from the frayed black rope of his body.
"Eatin' much, Chuck?"
He shrugs. "Sometimes."
"You gotta take better care of yourself."
His face tightens at the suggestion. "Why?"
"I don't wanna see you die. You're a tough motherfucker and if you took care of yourself, you'd have a long life."
He laughs. "I don't want a long life."
"Why?"
"A man is good and I'm no man."
After leaving his family, Chuck moves to Indianapolis. His family and friends search, but he is another faceless homeless man in a large city. There is no mailing address or phone number to help find him. His drinking takes complete control. He sleeps in parks, spends time in jail, and feeds himself to the creature within. He searches through dumpsters for food and discovers a baby once. Wrapped in a thick layer of newspaper, the baby cries softly as he takes it out of the dumpster. It is a girl. He thinks of his kids and cries, but the tears do not last long. He lives for his shame alone.
"Aw, come on, man. I think you oughta forgive and forget."
"Forgive and forget? I can't forget and there's no forgiveness in this world. The best we do is bury things and get by."
"I have faith I'll turn out alright."
"You won't lose it either. You'll give it away, just like me."
The railroad tracks are a whole new challenge. The old and uneven creosote crossties make it a risky walk and needs reflexes that Chuck does not have. It does not take long for Chuck to fall down. His body blows outward like he fell from high above. Jericho stands over him.
"This ain't no fuckin' good, man. You've gotta get up."
He slowly shakes his head. "I can't."
"Yeah, you can. Just get up slow and lean on me as you're gettin' up."
Chuck nods and reaches for him. He grabs Jericho's belt to pull himself up and both men fall to the ground. Jericho hits the gravel hard and skins his hand.
"Fuck!"
Jericho gets up and stands over Chuck again. He thinks about the other homeless who spend time in 9th Street Park and hopes he can find someone to help him move Chuck before the police see him.
"Come on, we have to get you off the tracks."
Jericho takes a deep breath and drags him across the gravel with great effort. Chuck strikes the air in mute objection. When Jericho hears voices nearby, he looks and sees two Bloomington police officers coming towards them. A fat, middle-aged man follows closely behind.
"Chuck, the fuckin' cops are here! I told ya! Now we're both going to jail."
Chuck closes his eyes and shakes his head. "Sorry."
The officers reach them. One has a crew-cut, a clean-shaven face and a dark suntan. He is in his early twenties. The second officer is bulky and middle-aged. His face is swollen and his eyes are larger than normal.
The younger one speaks first. "Looks like you two are having some problems."
Jericho frowns and shrugs his shoulders. "My friend's been drinking and I'm tryin' to get him home."
"Where's he live?"
"11th Street."
The older officer speaks. "And you? Have you been drinking?"
The officers think Jericho is older. If they take him to jail, it will be for public drunkenness and when he gets to the jail, they will find out his age and arrest him for underage drinking as well.
Jericho shrugs again. "Yeah, I've had some to drink."
The older officer looks at Chuck. "What's your name?"
Chuck raises his head a little and opens his mouth to speak. His tongue creeps out from between his purple lips and rolls around. His mouth moves but makes no sound.
The younger officer snorts. "I'm pretty sure I know where he's going."
The fat man walks up behind the older officer and points at Jericho. "I saw this one trying to pull the black guy off the railroad tracks."
"Where do you live?" the older officer asks.
"436 South Pierce."
"How much have you drank?"
"Not much. I drank some whiskey earlier."
The older officer takes a long look at him. His puffy, freckled face is secrecy and high blood pressure. His giant eyes do not blink and his body is tense and still.
"Do you think you can make it home?" he asks Jericho.
Jericho nods. "Yeah, sure. I'm not that drunk."
"Then I strongly suggest you go there. If we see you out again, we'll take you straight to jail."
Jericho nods repeatedly. "Of course, no problem. I'll go home and stay there."
The older officer nods. "Get out of here then. Your friend's going to jail."
"Alright."
Jericho turns and walks westward on the railroad tracks. He checks the fifth of vodka hidden in the waistline of his pants. He hears the fat man speaking.
"I saw the two of them and the black one couldn't stand up, so I figured they were a couple of drunks. I had to call."
"We're glad you did. If they'd been here when a train came through, it would've been a real mess for us." the older officer says.
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