The lights dimmed and the curtain rose. Suspended in blue was the bedroom, and through the gauze I could see the sparkling glass animals. They were arranged upon a low table. Somewhere was the unicorn, yet unbroken. I settled in my seat, and my own memory play began.
It all came back: the suppertime smell of spuds frying, sugar cubes and lemonade, a fistful of pidgeon seed thrown in the park, the gold-tooth grin of the old shortstop who hawked racing forms on the corner, the milk cold and creamy in moist bottles being delivered to our landing on the fire-escape, and, oh sweet Jesus yes, Sammy Marcucci's jazz, blowing hotly from across the alley.
One evening Sammy leaned out of his window and called to me. I could see him from my position at the kitchen table. For a moment it seemed as if his dark head had become part of that violet space between our buildings. Then a window opened above him and a shaft of golden light beamed down from that roaring tinsel heaven two flights up. This magical light made the sweat on his face glisten. His teeth flashed white.
"Hey, swinger. Whatcha doing?"
I had been writing. Though it appeared that all hopes of continuing were dashed for the night, I leaned back in my chair and toyed with the idea of ignoring him. No damn way.
"What's that, swinger? A diary? I wonder what kind of hot stuff you dream up to put in it. Hah hah hah!"
"None of your business," I replied testily. "Say, Sammy. Why don't you lean further out and maybe take a swan dive."
He let out a slow whistle. "Man, I'd sure hate to pancake down there!"
Suddenly there was a loud banging outside my window and then the sounds of hard scuffling in the alley below.
"What's going on?"
"Oh, somebody is getting his head knocked."
Garbage cans were being upended and slammed against the brick wall. I heard the sound of flesh and bone yielding to quarter-inch pipe. Someone moaned. Then came the sound of scurrying Keds. By the time I reached the window all there was to see was a black kid slumped against the wall and holding his ear.
"How many were there?" I asked.
"Don't know, but he sure as hell was outnumbered."
A moment later I detected a shadowy form sprawled behind three cans. The kid with the gashed ear picked up his length of pipe and slipped away.
For a while Sammy and I gazed down at the silent battlefield. Neither of us said much. Then from that place above us there came a chorus of "heys" and, rolling down in trumpet-like ripples, the hearty laughter of Doris the Archangel reminded us that her never-ending party was in full swing.
I pointed up toward the action and teased, "Sammy, why don't you crash that party? That's where the real swingers play."
"No kidding."
*
The story I was writing was titled "Dead Cat Alley."
The wild ju-ju woman stroked her violin. Her black Creole hair, spun into a hot tangle, shone sort of blue-ish beneath the glare of a naked bulb. She was looking absently down the hall from which you could ease out of situations, obligations, and the building itself.
You exited into Dead Cat Alley, a pathway to that Fresh Start, moonlight permitting. When you enter the alley you cannot tell exactly what lies at its end. But once you have taken your first naive steps into the gloom, things ahead look promising.
Dead Cat is not paved. It simply leads you to the back door of the Inferno Bar, and situations.
The Witch was communicating. Her violin sobbed ancient laments that bore traces of Spain, Morocco and the Louisianna bayou. Our eyes would not meet.
Leave, she said. Leave this place.
Dante brought me a drink. On the house. I poured water, and the green poison turned white. I braced it with vermouth. By now my breath was bad, with a mad perfume of anis and blended Columbian. The drink was harsh, very harsh. A mudslide toward oblivian.
Dante put a finger on my knee. He bent close and whispered: "Her man, The Skinner, is looking for her, I hear--"
"So?"
He straightened up. Stiffly: "So, Padre. It means nothing."
The Skinner had cut off one of Dante's fingers, to get, it is told, a ring. So goes the myth. Truth is, The Skinner and The Witch desired the finger to work magic. Thus Dante ended up in a Spell Box.
The thing that was Dante now laughed nervously and walked away. In the light his black curls shone damp with oil and sweat. Momentarily he and The Witch shared the same smokey cone of light. Then he passed on.
The Creole woman paused in her playing and put down the violin. She took a seat at a nearby table. Our eyes finally met.
"Hello, Padre."
"Hello, Maria."
She chuckled and said, "Crazy man, you know that tonight it the worst night for this."
"I wanted to see you."
Then with her best bedrom smile she said, "This is a public place."
I called to Sammy. "Hey, are you going out?"
"Going right now."
"Mind if I tag along?"
"No, swinger. Not tonight."
His head zipped back into that amber world of whiskey, jazz and prophylactics. He drew down his paper shade and that was all there was to Sammy Marcucci.
Monday, May 30, 2011
Sunday, May 29, 2011
The Looking-glass Door
Tinker Wilson sat at the horseshoe bar of The Pastime, drinking his fifth beer and pondering the ruin of his marriage, a brief affair begun in college. Next to him was a young workman in white overalls patched colorfully at the knees who was commenting on the baseball game. "Gowdy is fulla shit."
He glanced over and made note of the fellow's sandy hair and painter's cap. He drained his bottle and bought another one. Then he vacated his valued place and walked. Passing behind people clustered at the bar, he noticed that most of the guys were also involved in the game. His opinion was baseball sucked.
Wilson sauntered across the dead carpet, knowing that roaches and rat turds remained beneath the booths where hippies gathered, wearing sandles. A couple of women shot billiards. Brenda Norcross was drawing a bead on the nine ball when someone bumped her on the rump.
"Scuse meh." Slurred South Georgia.
Norcross whirled, cuestick raised high in the smokey air. "Hey, man!"
The man was already gone, lurching down the aisle toward the commodes. Colliding with other players. She shook her head and doubled-down on the nine ball.
Wilson surveyed the room. He saw that a crowd had gathered to watch a money-spiced game at Table One, the resereved table where a professional racked the balls. Then he recognized Norcross. Playing alone, leaning over her table and lining up a shot. Her auburn hair tumbled heavily about her shoulders and framed her pinched face, pointy nose and chin. She wore a lavender Holly Near teeshirt and snug olive corduroys. He watched her kill the nine ball.
"Easy score, Brenda."
"Hey, Tinker. How are you?"
"All right. You?"
"Fine. Just fine. Well, come on. Belly up and rack'em."
"You with anyone?"
"Nope. Get yourself a stick."
That means Elaine isn't with her, he thought. God he hated the image of is exwife in bed with Norcross.
Referring to the action on Table One, Wilson asked, "You think ol' Willy-Boy will beat that kid?"
"Dunno."
*
Norcross was aiming at the seven ball. She adjusted her posture and Wilson saw the swinging of her unbound breasts. The Jiggle. Before he realized the enormity of his action, he put a hand upon her hip. He squeezed her, saying, "I'll be back in a second."
She missed. "Goddamn the fuck in the first place!
It was the missed shot, wasn't it? she thought. Not his copping a feel.
Wilson had left his can of Miller Lite on the table edge. Norcross took a sip and watched him select a cuestick from the rack. She observed his cheeky ass, held in check by tight bluejeans.
Christ, the things Elaine had said about him. Filthy underwear!
A wicked giggle.
Wilson returned to see her grinning. No, smirking.
"What--?"
"Nothing."
He began a blood-thumping scrutiny of Norcross. She had a body to die for, was his estimation. He felt it was a pity he had not asked her out before committing himself to Elaine.
*
Wilson punched open the men's room door and saw two scraggly bearded young men enjoying themselves while urinating. His mental snapshot: long greasy brown hair, frayed bellbottoms and longtailed checkered shirts. He backed away from their scene and went out the way he had come. Norcross saw his face from a distance.
As soon as the lovers exited she got the picture.
Tinker-boy is confused.
Wilson racked his shin on the unflushed commode. He sent a jetstream of clear urine from his bloated bladder. Miller Lite. Suddenly the door banged open. A redneck drawl: "Sorry there!"
The door slammed shut.
When he returned to Norcross he commanded, "Let's get out of here."
"What makes you think I want to leave?"
His face flushed with embarassment. "Please."
"Something happen?"
"Yes. But that's not it. We have to talk."
"Big Boy coffee shop. C'mon."
They wended through the crowd, going past the horseshoe bar. Someone had selected a song on the juke box. The Doobie Brothers. "Listen to the music--" And as the looking-glass door closed behind them they beheld a reality of limitless possibilities. They walked with new eyes into the warm neon rain.
He glanced over and made note of the fellow's sandy hair and painter's cap. He drained his bottle and bought another one. Then he vacated his valued place and walked. Passing behind people clustered at the bar, he noticed that most of the guys were also involved in the game. His opinion was baseball sucked.
Wilson sauntered across the dead carpet, knowing that roaches and rat turds remained beneath the booths where hippies gathered, wearing sandles. A couple of women shot billiards. Brenda Norcross was drawing a bead on the nine ball when someone bumped her on the rump.
"Scuse meh." Slurred South Georgia.
Norcross whirled, cuestick raised high in the smokey air. "Hey, man!"
The man was already gone, lurching down the aisle toward the commodes. Colliding with other players. She shook her head and doubled-down on the nine ball.
Wilson surveyed the room. He saw that a crowd had gathered to watch a money-spiced game at Table One, the resereved table where a professional racked the balls. Then he recognized Norcross. Playing alone, leaning over her table and lining up a shot. Her auburn hair tumbled heavily about her shoulders and framed her pinched face, pointy nose and chin. She wore a lavender Holly Near teeshirt and snug olive corduroys. He watched her kill the nine ball.
"Easy score, Brenda."
"Hey, Tinker. How are you?"
"All right. You?"
"Fine. Just fine. Well, come on. Belly up and rack'em."
"You with anyone?"
"Nope. Get yourself a stick."
That means Elaine isn't with her, he thought. God he hated the image of is exwife in bed with Norcross.
Referring to the action on Table One, Wilson asked, "You think ol' Willy-Boy will beat that kid?"
"Dunno."
*
Norcross was aiming at the seven ball. She adjusted her posture and Wilson saw the swinging of her unbound breasts. The Jiggle. Before he realized the enormity of his action, he put a hand upon her hip. He squeezed her, saying, "I'll be back in a second."
She missed. "Goddamn the fuck in the first place!
It was the missed shot, wasn't it? she thought. Not his copping a feel.
Wilson had left his can of Miller Lite on the table edge. Norcross took a sip and watched him select a cuestick from the rack. She observed his cheeky ass, held in check by tight bluejeans.
Christ, the things Elaine had said about him. Filthy underwear!
A wicked giggle.
Wilson returned to see her grinning. No, smirking.
"What--?"
"Nothing."
He began a blood-thumping scrutiny of Norcross. She had a body to die for, was his estimation. He felt it was a pity he had not asked her out before committing himself to Elaine.
*
Wilson punched open the men's room door and saw two scraggly bearded young men enjoying themselves while urinating. His mental snapshot: long greasy brown hair, frayed bellbottoms and longtailed checkered shirts. He backed away from their scene and went out the way he had come. Norcross saw his face from a distance.
As soon as the lovers exited she got the picture.
Tinker-boy is confused.
Wilson racked his shin on the unflushed commode. He sent a jetstream of clear urine from his bloated bladder. Miller Lite. Suddenly the door banged open. A redneck drawl: "Sorry there!"
The door slammed shut.
When he returned to Norcross he commanded, "Let's get out of here."
"What makes you think I want to leave?"
His face flushed with embarassment. "Please."
"Something happen?"
"Yes. But that's not it. We have to talk."
"Big Boy coffee shop. C'mon."
They wended through the crowd, going past the horseshoe bar. Someone had selected a song on the juke box. The Doobie Brothers. "Listen to the music--" And as the looking-glass door closed behind them they beheld a reality of limitless possibilities. They walked with new eyes into the warm neon rain.
Saturday, May 28, 2011
The Feel-good Programme
Once there was a midnight Christmas Mass in South Florida. Each fat white candle wore a halo of golden gauze. Each wick curled with scented smoke. In the crush of people the serge and the woolen of winter gave off a hint of mothballs. Even with its doors wide open, the church held its breath and warmth like a beast of wordly burden. A cold Norther pressed upon the tropical night. Coconut fronds rattled above crocus hedges. Stunted banana and frangipani shivered in stoic silence. Silent Night.
It was 1954. Joe was ten years old, and he was having a tough time with his Communion Fast. At home were platters of date cookies, toll house cookies, gingerbread and shortbread, and wafer-thin sugar cookies sprinkled with candy glitter. So, standing in the third-row pew with Mom and Dad and singing "Adeste Fideles," he hungered and craved and even salivated for just one sweet morsel.
"Sorry," he whispered to Crispen, his guardian angel, and posted the tiny pang of guilt in a prayer-envelope to God.
MEMORY EDIT: Delete "tiny pang of guilt."
"What should I add, sir?"
"Let's see," the supervisor said. "Remember, we want this to be a totally positive feel-good programme. Skip the whole guardian angel thing. Pick up with Joe thinking about his parents. He feels safe and secure. It's a wonderful moment."
The Sans Souci hotel had passed from being an Art Deco hotspot during the Yuppie '80s and was now a retirement home for brain diseased Boomers, whose azure dreams drifted like cumulus clouds over a distant sapphire Gulf Stream.
Joe lived there, memory-impaired.
On the Night Before Christmas his granddaughter brought a gift. It was a new memory chip for his Thinking Cap.
*
She found him out on the pier, baiting a hook. Evidently the Thinking Cap had provided him with a long-forgotten expertise. His face shined.
"The moon is beautiful out there. On the water," Joe declared. A lucid statement that amazed her.
The Thinking Cap was a marvel, glistening on his head.
She did not understand how it played God with neurons, synapses, and nano linkages. Nor did she care. It was, quite simply, Magic.
"Merry Christmas, Grandfather."
Up in his little room, precisely at midnight, Joe was ten again and singing hymns with Mom and Dad. The church was alive and quick with angels!
It was 1954. Joe was ten years old, and he was having a tough time with his Communion Fast. At home were platters of date cookies, toll house cookies, gingerbread and shortbread, and wafer-thin sugar cookies sprinkled with candy glitter. So, standing in the third-row pew with Mom and Dad and singing "Adeste Fideles," he hungered and craved and even salivated for just one sweet morsel.
"Sorry," he whispered to Crispen, his guardian angel, and posted the tiny pang of guilt in a prayer-envelope to God.
MEMORY EDIT: Delete "tiny pang of guilt."
"What should I add, sir?"
"Let's see," the supervisor said. "Remember, we want this to be a totally positive feel-good programme. Skip the whole guardian angel thing. Pick up with Joe thinking about his parents. He feels safe and secure. It's a wonderful moment."
The Sans Souci hotel had passed from being an Art Deco hotspot during the Yuppie '80s and was now a retirement home for brain diseased Boomers, whose azure dreams drifted like cumulus clouds over a distant sapphire Gulf Stream.
Joe lived there, memory-impaired.
On the Night Before Christmas his granddaughter brought a gift. It was a new memory chip for his Thinking Cap.
*
She found him out on the pier, baiting a hook. Evidently the Thinking Cap had provided him with a long-forgotten expertise. His face shined.
"The moon is beautiful out there. On the water," Joe declared. A lucid statement that amazed her.
The Thinking Cap was a marvel, glistening on his head.
She did not understand how it played God with neurons, synapses, and nano linkages. Nor did she care. It was, quite simply, Magic.
"Merry Christmas, Grandfather."
Up in his little room, precisely at midnight, Joe was ten again and singing hymns with Mom and Dad. The church was alive and quick with angels!
Pecos Getaway
A big wet cactus kiss. Finally I'm laying down my last Ace to sink the fireball in the Corner Pocket no Tilt. It's Closing Time for you, Pappy. Chug down and get ready to pay up. Boom! Tadpole's .44 goes off.
The slug pops Big Pearl's beercan. Blood on baseboard. Tadpole is swinging the gun around, and this time it's going to be close. Boom! Pappy clutches his hip. Meanwhile I'm whipping my cuestick around like it's a straight white snake. Tadpole slumps down, a blue chalk gash across his brown Cajun cheek. Big Pearl has lost two fingers. She stoops, picks up her gold ring and begins to cry.
Goddamn. 44! The butt crushes the backend of Tadpole's skull.
"How you doing, Pappy?"
He says nothing, begins to puke.
I can't do anything for Pappy or Big Pearl, a pink waddle of a woman with butch-cropped platinum hair. She is moaning now, and wadding her hand sloppily into the folds of her skirt.
"Call an ambulence, Henry," I say to the barman. "And you better call Sheriff Tucker too."
Henry nods OK.
It looks like a gob of strawberry preserves oozing under Tadpole's black shag.
"Junior," says Henry. "You better clear out."
"Shit no. I was in my rights. Just cracked him a bit too hard. That's all."
"Give me the revolver, Junior."
I hand him Tadpole's .44.
"You're higher than a kite, boy."
"Reckon I am. You excuse me, Henry. I'd kinda like to hit the washroom."
"You packing any dope?"
"Naw."
But I am, and the feathers are stirring up, blowing all around, and I feel my knees turning to mud.
"I'd better sit a spell."
"Boy, you didn't have to bust his head. You know."
"No, I don't know."
"OK. You stay there. Right where you are."
"Henry, you're right. I'd better clear out."
"You stay right where you are."
*
The Dice are rolling. Henry's backdoor slams behind me. My boots are grinding down the alley. My knees feel like swollen pockets of mud. October moon: a huge glow bulb high over the desert mountain range. The Chevy pickup starts easy. Henry's backdoor bangs open and Sheriff Tucker bounds out, comes running like a huge gray cat.
"Stop right there, Shithead!"
In the rearview mirror, receding away from me, he brings up his .38 Special with both hands.
A prickly feeling runs wildfire up my neck. His gunmetal fist explodes with orange flame. Slug whine. Blue glass spiderwebs front and back, and I'm rattling away with a punched-out windshield.
Henry had told me to stay put, but that didn't make much sense when Sheriff Tucker roared up, his siren whooping. I could smell hot blood.
The last time I saw Pappy he was bleeding to death.
Rimrock ten miles ahead. Milkpaint landscape, with mesquite, clumps of pubicbush in the moonlight. The desert road promises to lead me safely straight to the stars.
Jackrabbit in the road.
The slug pops Big Pearl's beercan. Blood on baseboard. Tadpole is swinging the gun around, and this time it's going to be close. Boom! Pappy clutches his hip. Meanwhile I'm whipping my cuestick around like it's a straight white snake. Tadpole slumps down, a blue chalk gash across his brown Cajun cheek. Big Pearl has lost two fingers. She stoops, picks up her gold ring and begins to cry.
Goddamn. 44! The butt crushes the backend of Tadpole's skull.
"How you doing, Pappy?"
He says nothing, begins to puke.
I can't do anything for Pappy or Big Pearl, a pink waddle of a woman with butch-cropped platinum hair. She is moaning now, and wadding her hand sloppily into the folds of her skirt.
"Call an ambulence, Henry," I say to the barman. "And you better call Sheriff Tucker too."
Henry nods OK.
It looks like a gob of strawberry preserves oozing under Tadpole's black shag.
"Junior," says Henry. "You better clear out."
"Shit no. I was in my rights. Just cracked him a bit too hard. That's all."
"Give me the revolver, Junior."
I hand him Tadpole's .44.
"You're higher than a kite, boy."
"Reckon I am. You excuse me, Henry. I'd kinda like to hit the washroom."
"You packing any dope?"
"Naw."
But I am, and the feathers are stirring up, blowing all around, and I feel my knees turning to mud.
"I'd better sit a spell."
"Boy, you didn't have to bust his head. You know."
"No, I don't know."
"OK. You stay there. Right where you are."
"Henry, you're right. I'd better clear out."
"You stay right where you are."
*
The Dice are rolling. Henry's backdoor slams behind me. My boots are grinding down the alley. My knees feel like swollen pockets of mud. October moon: a huge glow bulb high over the desert mountain range. The Chevy pickup starts easy. Henry's backdoor bangs open and Sheriff Tucker bounds out, comes running like a huge gray cat.
"Stop right there, Shithead!"
In the rearview mirror, receding away from me, he brings up his .38 Special with both hands.
A prickly feeling runs wildfire up my neck. His gunmetal fist explodes with orange flame. Slug whine. Blue glass spiderwebs front and back, and I'm rattling away with a punched-out windshield.
Henry had told me to stay put, but that didn't make much sense when Sheriff Tucker roared up, his siren whooping. I could smell hot blood.
The last time I saw Pappy he was bleeding to death.
Rimrock ten miles ahead. Milkpaint landscape, with mesquite, clumps of pubicbush in the moonlight. The desert road promises to lead me safely straight to the stars.
Jackrabbit in the road.
opening up like a flower
Welcome. This little room will collect assorted writings, some of which have lain in desk drawers for so long they haved turned brow. Through revision I will endeavor to make them entertaining. I call them confections and nocturnal delights.
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