The Bicycle Review
Issue # 4, 15 December, 2009
Original Artworks by M.K. Bullock. Photography by Charles Hayes.
All images copyright 2009, Bullock and Hayes.
Bicycle Review # 4
Welcome back, cyclists.
This issue, conceived, as usual, during a depraved episode of gin-soaked madness, features the photography of Charles Hayes. We're honored to have these pictures, which dissect so many aspects of “Modern Life” for your study and edification, not all of them human. We don't know much about Mr. Hayes, but his excellent work should speak for itself.
On the fine arts side of things, this issue features the drawings of M.K. Bullock, illustrator, and a regular at the original “5 Bicycle Review” reading at Eagles Café in North Hollywood, after which this publication is named. We had tried out Mitch as an assistant editor, but it didn’t exactly work out, so now that there’s no conflict in giving him so much space in a single issue, I’m happy to. We’re based in Los Angeles, and Mitch’s work lives, breathes, and screams L.A., but can be enjoyed by anyone who hasn’t lost their sense of humor, wherever they are.
Kevin Jeffrey Watson has also left us, for umm…personal reasons. We love Kevin. The we must be royal, as it’s only me left, now.
So, we’re looking for a new assistant editor. Qualifications: No experience, and a love of literature. Must have tastes which range from unusual to downright creepy, without being prejudiced towards more subtle forms of expression. Send us an email at thebicyclereview@gmail.com.
Share the road,
J de Salvo
Kafka’s Bicycle
Franz was spotted on the Charles Bridge riding backwards toward St. Nicholas Church Place, where he had a small apartment. Prague was getting dark, and the Vltava River swelled to the max. A rain started and he hurried inside the apartment, where the air was quiet and gloomy. His window opened not outside, but inside a nunnery, and he could observe nuns during the evening ritual, going to the toilet, pissing, and often, masturbating lying in their beds. One lost story left by Kafka to his friend, Max Brod, talks about his secret love affair with a Catholic nun who crept into his room and engaged in libations with Franz, sucking him off all through the night, smoking cigarettes in between love sessions. She actually never went into bed with him, to keep her vow of celibacy.
The bicycle with thin wheels hung on the wall, and in the morning, was hobbling forward toward his office, the insurance company where Franz worked. The bicycle would stop from time to time for a breather, on its own, usually in front of a photo shop displaying erotic postcards, and sometimes in front of a beer joint for a quick Pilsen, and a breakfast consisting of an order of kosher Pastrami. He usually took off while eating, because he didn’t want to stick out in the regular crowd as some kind of an observant conservative Jew. In reality, he was an assimilated Germanic Jew, just like some of the geniuses of his time — Freud, Einstein or Bruno Schultz. He was part of a new breed of European intelligentsia, as many of the Jews of his time. He had an old bicycle made in Prague, but with a Jewish squeak. His glasses were also looking just like a bicycle. His writing had the speed and the rhythm of the bicycle wheel. He would take a ride down CharlesBridge to look at the high heeled prostitutes in the park, picking up soldiers. One day, a traveling theater came from France, performing Alfred Jarry’s Ubu. Jarry, himself, was riding a bicycle on a stage, shooting a hunting rifle wildly in the theater. A spectator/mother screamed “Assassin! You could have killed my son!” Jarry stopped and politely bowed. “Guilty as charged. My apologies, Madame. May I offer to make you a spare child?” She did not refuse. But the spare child was now Franz Kafka, and the bicycle, I guess, was left there as a present by Jarry, himself. Former owners were mentally retarded poet, a dog catcher, Mein Gott, and a lady of pleasure.
Sitting in an orchestra section at the Prague State Opera, Kafka’s fiancée was dreaming of Berlin. It was the last time they had dinner together on Kudam Strasse in front of the Metamorphosis Cafe. They ordered tea, each according to their own ailments, reproducing a tea ceremony they witnessed in a film documentary. Ziggy (their friend Freud) explained once that the dynamics of a couple is established and perpetrated at the family table, where all the decisions are made and publicly announced. Soon they are joined by Albert (Einstein), Robert (Walser) and Robert (Musil). She daydreamed of a suicide, and was asking herself if Franz will make love to her while she’s dead. Necrophelia or narcissism? An urn full of ashes tied up to a bicycle is floating down the river.
Copyright 2009 by Valery Oisteanu
Protest This
You realize you’ve never protested anything
But think the experience will be beneficial
So you decide to boycott me
Start a picket line that criss-crosses my front lawn
The sign in front screams
‘We protest you’
While the one behind whispers apologetically
‘Not really. We actually like you. We’re just doing this for the experience’
I guess I should be flattered
That I can be so useful
But if the neighbors start to stare,
Please stop
Copyright 2009 by Christopher Coleman
Living in the Grandiose
Nautical mind, who
out of forcefully living
in the grandiose
becomes populated
with sea monsters
and fishermen inundated
by murky dreams.
Deep, dilated torments
awaken irrationally,
cheerless, as if sprouting
out of a profound
immersion.
But the view
above the boat’s hull
is the same as below it.
You haven’t found
the miraculous pearl.
The one that penetrates
nautical mysteries
and raises the splendor
of occult currents
in the underworld.
What the ego becomes
is always part of your substance.
It waits for your flesh
to turn into audible glass,
so you can see yourself
surrounded by
yourself.
Copyright 2009 by Sergio Ortiz
His Mother Mary
Three years later. Sunday morning. The father finally speaks to Mary. A fragile man. Inside a humid sacristy the priest advises the ministers and sacristan.“Mary fill the pitcher. All the way. Use the Boones Farm. It’s going to be a full house today.”
In the name of God. At the altar. Mary helps a frail priest pass eucharist.
“The blood of Christ” She hands the young soldier a half full goblet.
“Ah-man” The young man sips the sacrifice.
She stares. Sees blood in the man’s eyes. Mary wonders if the soldier can still smile with a lover. She wipes the glass clean with a lipstick soiled handkerchief.
Most evenings. After dinner. Mary escapes by van to the desert. Alone she listens to classics. The young woman imagining fears. Pain. Mary recalls the other day. At work a handsome rock star sneered at her uniform.
“God what a sleazy looking costume. Come here baby take the dollar”
The next day. In a hot kitchen. The father glares at Mary. She cooks dinner for her dad and a wounded serviceman. Makes chicken garbanzo soup.
“Mary have you ever actually been to confession?” The marine asks.
“No. Fuck. Never got around to it.” She looks inside the dishwasher for a knife.
Most every word out of Mary’s mouth these days is “Fuck.” Her father sticks to a chair. Can’t stand the girl. The old man’s options limited. The soldier hungry as hell. What a slut. The father’s daughter still has no degree. She carves and chops dead chicken fat off the butt.
“Shit. Is that the mailman?” Mary wipes her hands with a dirty dish towel.
She runs to the box. The winter schedule arrives. Mary opens the envelope. Looks at it. “Shit!”
The University of Guitar Hero raised tuition fees again. Mary stuffs the college catalog in the trash.
Copyright 2009 by Ginetta Corelli
Three years later. Sunday morning. The father finally speaks to Mary. A fragile man. Inside a humid sacristy the priest advises the ministers and sacristan.“Mary fill the pitcher. All the way. Use the Boones Farm. It’s going to be a full house today.”
In the name of God. At the altar. Mary helps a frail priest pass eucharist.
“The blood of Christ” She hands the young soldier a half full goblet.
“Ah-man” The young man sips the sacrifice.
She stares. Sees blood in the man’s eyes. Mary wonders if the soldier can still smile with a lover. She wipes the glass clean with a lipstick soiled handkerchief.
Most evenings. After dinner. Mary escapes by van to the desert. Alone she listens to classics. The young woman imagining fears. Pain. Mary recalls the other day. At work a handsome rock star sneered at her uniform.
“God what a sleazy looking costume. Come here baby take the dollar”
The next day. In a hot kitchen. The father glares at Mary. She cooks dinner for her dad and a wounded serviceman. Makes chicken garbanzo soup.
“Mary have you ever actually been to confession?” The marine asks.
“No. Fuck. Never got around to it.” She looks inside the dishwasher for a knife.
Most every word out of Mary’s mouth these days is “Fuck.” Her father sticks to a chair. Can’t stand the girl. The old man’s options limited. The soldier hungry as hell. What a slut. The father’s daughter still has no degree. She carves and chops dead chicken fat off the butt.
“Shit. Is that the mailman?” Mary wipes her hands with a dirty dish towel.
She runs to the box. The winter schedule arrives. Mary opens the envelope. Looks at it. “Shit!”
The University of Guitar Hero raised tuition fees again. Mary stuffs the college catalog in the trash.
Copyright 2009 by Ginetta Corelli
from “TELEFRICASSEE”
An 101 part episodic roux brought to you by The Honeymooners, Mr. Lucky, Hazel, Meet Mr. McNutley, Oh! Susanna, Our Miss Brooks, The Twilight Zone, Leave It To Beaver, Astro Boy, The Real McCoys, Make Room For Daddy, Outer Limits, Father Knows Best, Mr. Ed, Ben Casey, My Mother the Car, The Addams Family, Lost in Space, Honey West, The Mod Squad, My Favorite Martian, Green Hornet, Batman, Family Affair, Candid Camera, Mr. Terrific, The Wild Wild West, Diff’rent Strokes, The Rifleman, The Many Loves of Dobie Gillis, The Time Tunnel, The Bionic Woman, Love American Style, That Girl, Chico and The Man, The Girl from U.N.C.L.E., The Flying Nun, Get Smart, Fantasy Island, Gidget, Have Gun Will Travel, Green Acres, Alfred Hitchcock Presents, Petticoat Junction, The Man from U.N.C.L.E., Sea Hunt, Colombo, Then Came Bronson, The Living Doll, Nip/Tuck.
#27: IT'S JUST A BOY
It’s just a dream
I tell my executioners
but they just guffaw
and its getting worse
that mosquito bite
turned me into a racehorse
Linda invited me to a party
and I was the only boy
••
#59: I FORGIVE, SING
I forgive you
for spilling shrimp cocktail
on my new white crêpe dress
for trying to show me the “American Way”
that all girls should know
But can you forgive me
for having too many dates at one dance
for falling for a surfer who turns out to be
my math teacher
for analogizing the movements of a caged preying mantis
in order to perfect the necessary kung fu applications
upon Low Sing, who truly deserves no mercy?
Do you
You know what I am talking about
Low Sing
••
#75: IN MY PERFECT THIS
In my perfect world, I would walk down the sunny streets every day
And go to the Pink Sand Box for a drink, maybe an ‘Electronic Radar Grill’ on the rocks or an ‘Otto Preminger’ which is a frosty gin drink with mulled Winesap apple and Otto Preminger right in the middle of it sloshing and yelping about like crazy
And Sammy Davis Jr. would pop his head out the window of the brownstone next door and say “Hey Man, What’s happenin’?”
And I would say JAMBO! and give him the little OK sign with my hand and there would be
Milton Berle right there in a big limo across the street and I would say “Hey Lefty!” and he would frown and act annoyed because really he is right handed and he wonders what I know that he doesn’t but that’s the best part
I’m not telling and in my perfect world
all my enemies would be tied to pretend electric chairs
and all my friends would be loafing around telling electric chair jokes
and I would tell them “That’s what you get for you-know-what”
every confounded day
And say “Just call me Mortician To The Stars” and they would get all nervous and I would pop over to the studio still nursing my delicious Otto Preminger
On my perfect day
Robin Hood would be hiding in his dressing room with his head in his hands with the lights off and he would look up when I open the door he would say “Just give me a minute...I can do this...”
••
#80: THE DIFFERENCE, DIE
The difference between Cowboys and Indians
is that Cowboys use expressions like There’s A Price
On Your Head and call each other names like The Kid
and Indians never say “UGGH” that’s just a terrible myth
which doesn’t distinguish them from the Cowboy but what
do they really do
generally well is they enjoy falling in love
or out of love, it doesn’t matter, or is that Cowboys, no it’s not
Indians are actually usually not red-headed and extremely tall,
giants, actually, but they do say things like Don’t You Feel
Like A Murderer Murdering Yourself
Which makes you stop and think and wonder
What does that really mean
Beats me
Why don’t more people know this or care
Or understand instead I can just see Cowboys
sitting around, staring at the fire
eating beans and playin’ the gob-iron
howlin’ on the lickin’ stick
an’ there’s a lonesome coyote yelpin’
hearin’ the followin’ words with great
frequency and in order of value
grub, fixins, posse, varmint, dagnabbit!
die.
••
#96: I'M SORRY, NO
I’m sorry, I have not had the pleasure of introducing myself:
My name is Pupa.
I have a pooch, I am from Italy, and I love a boy named Rusty.
And oh. I have a Daddy.
Daddy says: Pupa! Get a job!
Pupa! Watch out for the leprechaun!
Pupa! Get some glasses or perhaps a million dollar dress!
I say: Daddy! I am a man!
My name is Pupa!
Daddy says: Pupa! No synopsis available!
I say: Pupa, Pupa, Pupa!
The Life of the Party!
I have a rum cake!
I have a whoopee life!
Oh Daddy!
Oh Pupa!
Daddy says: no
••
#97: TODAY, PURE DELIGHT
Today you never think of Clint Eastwood owning a horse
But for many years he did. He was a cowboy star.
Although perhaps he only owned a horse on television.
At the end of the day, I can see him turning to his pretend horse,
smiling, and saying, “Adios, amigo!” But this is not what
I mean to talk about. What I really want to do is confess
That I tried to get Clint Eastwood’s horse to fall in love with me.
Normally, you might say, “I am not sure I want to hear this”
which I would understand. But perhaps it would make it easier
if I explained that I am a horse, too. My name is Ed. I am a
pretend horse, just like Clint Eastwood’s horse, from
Hollywood, USA. My pretend owner is named Wilbur. One of
my favorite things to say in the world is “Oh, Wilbur!” and he
often says, “Gee Whiz, Ed!” The funny thing is, in spite of all
the high jinx that I put him through, Wilbur is still alive, doing
other things, as is Clint Eastwood, doing other things as well,
the man who was best known for saying “Adios, amigo!” to that
horse of his that I wanted to fall in love with and might have
been a pretend horse. What’s left? Well, just that that certain
horse, the horse without a name, perhaps pretend, never fell in
love with me. He didn’t even pretend. And Wilbur was annoyed
and embarrassed by my attempts, and Clint Eastwood was,
understandably, irritated, and said “GOODBYE” instead of
“Adios.” Time is money, after all. The good news is that it is
entirely possible that neither Clint Eastwood nor Wilbur
remember any of this. And of the four of us, only I would carry
this pain in my heart, normally, but that’s also a spot of good
news, too – I don’t – for I died a long time ago, and thus, I am
not alive either, and don’t hurt a bit in my heart. Clint Eastwood
still is about, though, and he even smokes little cigars and owns
many guns and he doesn’t even cough. It’s not fair, nor is it
good, to be a pretend horse. You die earlier than the rest, and
without love. The rest of life, however, the in between, the love,
the pretend parts, is pure delight.
Copyright 2009 by Ricky Garni
Mexico 2009
These electrical wires wrap up the walls perpendicular to the
rounded meeting of the roof and the wall. Some turn
in tight curves to achieve intended ninety-degree changes to run
the simile's parallel to that curve that is the grace
of so many rooms here. The double-barrels of something like
the white extension cords of my youth in the 1980's
United States of America running toward the room's ceiling's metaphorical
center (painted in places into the wall and escaping to
the unpainted, inverted plain of the ceiling's painted white blankness)
and crashing in a horrible mass of tangle and black
electrical tape.
Copyright 2009 by Edward Wells II
Sayings of Mormon Women
A woman whose son left Utah to go to school in California said in a voicemail two months later: “Once again we haven't heard from you at all, even when we expected to. Are you all right? Please let us know, so we don't have to show up unexpectedly on your doorstep or send the police over.”
Another told her daughter, when she was about to set out for college at BYU, to show herself worthy of the family. When her daughter asked how, she said, "Marry a good man, and bear good children.”
Another, who had to finish school and pick up shifts as an accountant after her husband lost his job, said, “I'm buried in work, but it’s kind of fun. I'm glad we don't work this much all the time, and it is good to have the income. I do enjoy Sundays very much. No work.”
After her son was criticized for bringing the Lord into his science lesson in school, a mother said, “Remember, the more ridicule you suffer for our Lord the more you please Him.”
Another said to her husband, regarding an upcoming dentist appointment, “Make sure they give you the five percent discount on the filling. They often forget to do that. Then I will need that invoice with both amounts so I can take it to work and get reimbursed from my medical reimbursement account. Otherwise I'll be bouncing all over the place, but this way we'll be just fine.”
A mother told her gay daughter, “We still love you, but we don’t think that’s going to set a good example for your sisters. We’re asking you to get help or leave.”
Another, who had three kids out of the house and two to go, said in a letter: “Tonight Matt and Amanda volunteered to do dinner. Then we watched old home movies. Those really were the good old days, before the awfulness started. I'm glad we preserved the movies. Some day maybe I can get it on to DVD, but then they'll probably update the technology to something else.”
Responding to her daughter’s check-in message, another said: “We did get together for Easter, all but you, of course. We missed you and wish you would be part of us on occasion.”
Another, during winter, said over the dinner table that she felt “very sad” that the last hour of church was cancelled due to concern for people being able to drive home safely. “That was a shame, because it was Relief Society I missed, and I don't like missing that. It is awesome.”
A newlywed, being asked by her friends if she had made advances to her husband, said, "No, but my husband has made them to me.”
Another, after her father died, said the Bible encouraged her to try out for a reality TV program involving dancing. She told the story of randomly opening to a passage from Ecclesiastes. "It said, ‘There's a time to mourn and a time to dance.’ And I felt like it was almost from my dad saying, 'This is your time to dance.’”
After hearing her daughter had imbibed in alcohol at a party, the mother asked her daughter, “Who would want to marry you now?”
Another one sent her ex-husband a card for his birthday. On the front of the card was a bear holding a soccer ball with the caption, “I get a kick out of you.” Inside the card she wrote, “HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!!!”
A woman’s husband, who had fallen away from the church, asked his wife: “How could a woman take up an hour or two hours talking about God? Meanwhile I haven’t eaten a thing.” She told him, “I could speak to the Lord for hours and more, and you would be wise not to hold it against me.”
Another woman, planning to take a trip to St. George with her inactive friends, was told: “If you come with us, we ask you please promise that you won’t keep on about the Gospel in all our stopping places, but will sit there and enjoy yourself at mealtimes like the rest of us.” She agreed. But at a gas station in Beaver, she prayed, and was told by her Heavenly Father that she should never feel forbidden to speak of Jesus Christ and His True Gospel. Back in the car on I-15, she said: “The fact is I can no longer keep my agreement with you. I can’t help speaking of the Gospel, even if the whole world forbids me to do so.”
Another, to her son in California who rarely called, and was having a hard time financially, said, “Isn’t it time for you to come home?”
Copyright 2009 by Michael Palmer
A Glass of Water
I sat down at the counter. It was going on midnight and I didn’t have a dime.
“Can I have a glass of water, please?”
“Are you going to buy something?” she asked. She was worn and tired. Her plastic nametag had been sprayed with a cream sauce, maybe soup; it said “Kate”. Her eyes, cold, said she’d seen me a million times before. Or others like me.
“I don’t have any money.”
She nodded, bit the left side of her thin bottom lip. “No water, unless you buy something.”
“Please? I’ve been walking a long time.”
“Mister, if you don’t have any money you got to go. This ain’t a well.” She wiped her hands on the blue apron, drawing attention to it, reaffirming her station, her authority. The customer was right as long as they could pay the tab.
“Could I use the restroom?” I was sure there was a sink, if not I’d drink from the toilet.
“You going to buy something?” I shook my head and she left me there. I watched the stainless steel doors to the kitchen flap behind her. I listened to the sizzle and steam of the kitchen escape in short bursts as the doors settled back home. Was she getting me the water? I looked around the restaurant. It was empty except for a trio of high school kids smoking cigarettes in a corner booth. They laughed and coughed and blew smoke rings. They’d made a mess of the table with their ashes and food and drinks. The boy with the acne shredded a white napkin for fun. I watched him watch the girl and boy necking across the table. His mouth twitched between drags from his cigarette. The girl squealed and tilted her head back showing her long smooth neck. The napkin-shredder looked away and I heard his boot thumping on the floor. He turned to me and I looked down at the counter, made busy wiping dust away. The motion released a fine misty layer from my jacket.
“How you doing partner?” the bald man burst through the swinging doors, the waitress in tow. He had the face of a shrewd lizard. He had some sort of scaly skin condition affecting his scalp. His eyes were bulbous behind his glasses. He wore the short sleeve oxford and clip on tie of a diner manager. He looked as hard and square as a brick. The waitress remained behind him, looking over his shoulder, a full head taller.
“I’m real thirsty,” I said.
“Mm. Well Mister, our policy is that we only serve water to paying customers.”
“I told him,” the waitress added over his shoulder. The man went on talking, but I was too parched to listen. He said something about loitering and explained the concept of a business to me.
“Can I just sit for a minute then?”
“No,” he said. “Not unless you buy something. Don’t make me call the sheriff.”
“I wouldn’t do that.” I realized after saying it that the statement sounded like a warning. I wondered if they took my meaning: that I didn’t want trouble. I stayed silent and still except for my tongue, which I ran over the dry grooves and bumps of my hard pallet. I imagined cool water, ice clinking in a sweating glass, so cold it burns. I let myself stand on the lip of the glass and fall inside, naked, drinking my fill, the ice sticking to my skin as it rinsed away the grime.
The manager and the waitress stared, waiting for me to turn, to retreat. I looked at the counter again. I poked at a nick, a cutlery slip. I traced the graffiti (Mike was a faggot, JC and Connie were in love). I heard steps behind me, the door opened, jingling a bell.
“Bye now,” the waitress said, sweet as the day old pie in the glass case behind her.
“Bye Katy,” the girl from the booth said. Her voice drew my eyes up. I saw her reflection in the bakery case. Her dress was white and dotted with yellow threaded flowers, hand made and summery. I saw her boyfriend, tall and hard and smooth skinned, his hand on her sun browned shoulder. The girl’s smile had too many teeth. She looked less beautiful than she had across the restaurant. I bet she was used to compliments, took them as gospel. She didn’t realize the size of the pond she was in. I hoped she’d never leave the town.
“He’s got it,” the guy said thumbing toward the napkin shredder, still in the booth, still shredding.
“Course, he does,” the waitress said with a knowing smile.
“Say hi to your daddy for me,” the manager said. “Tell him I’m going to take that sow prize this year.” I felt like a stranger at a party where everyone new each other.
“I’ll tell him,” the guy said, “but I hope you got something special ‘cause his is a real beauty.”
“How many pounds is she?”
“Hank, I ain’t tellin’ you shit!” The voice sounded bitter and menacing, but the manager’s big eyes glazed with swelling laughter.
“Alright then, alright then.” The manager was still laughing after the door swung home and the bell died. He looked at me and for a moment I thought maybe he’d changed his mind, but his humor had followed the couple out the door.
“Didn’t I tell you to leave?”
“I told him,” the waitress said.
“Please, just a glass of water,” I said. “Let me drink from your hose even.”
The manager shook his head. “We don’t have a hose.” He went back through the swinging doors to make good on his word and call the law.
“You shoulda gone when I said so,” the waitress said over her shoulder, following.
I looked back at the table, at the boy. The pile of white paper in front of him had grown. He stared at the empty space left by the girl’s neck. He lit a cigarette while his previous butt smoldered in the ashtray. He leaned forward on his elbows, blew a tight dark stream of smoke across the table.
The manager and waitress came back. Both of their faces were set in the same smile, victorious.
“Now, you done it,” the waitress said.
“I called the sheriff. He’s on his way.” I focused on the calloused tip of the stubby finger he pointed at me. “You best git.”
I nodded, rubbed my hands together. I looked straight up, head back, and let the cool breeze from the duct above me hit my face and neck.
“Just give him a god damned glass of water.” The napkin shredder stared into his white pile. He had no more napkins. He was out of fuel.
“Manny,” the manager said. “Don’t you start.”
Manny didn’t look at him, just kept on looking into the pile of white. “The man is thirsty. Give him a drink of water and he’ll go.”
The manager looked at me and I nodded, as slight and humble as I could, but the prospect of that cool drink shook me hard.
“Water’s for paying customers. No water unless you buy somethin’.”
Copyright 2009 by C.S. DeWildt
Why They Kill Presidents
A few weeks after Lynette Alice is released from prison, I show up at her apartment, speak into her lowered peephole, ask about Jimmy and Gerald. I hate how rambly I sound, try not to imagine what my boss would say if he knew this is what I’ve chosen to do for a vacation. She takes me in, points at the floor by the window, mouths "sit." Continually peeking out the window, she tells me about the note, insists it's James Page, not Jimmy, says she saw something evil in his future and thought it might befall him at Led's Long Beach show. After I make her my famous mojitos, she shows off a replica of the red robe she wore while pointing the Colt at Gerald.
"Why weren't the bullets in the firing chamber?"
She giggles at my question, showing teeth that are white. I ask if the prison guards called her “Squeaky.”
“Every day. What are you really doing here?”
I flash a picture of my son, Griffin, say he keeps asking why people try to kill presidents. I can only imagine what my wife would say if she knew, if she hadn’t died in the delivery room.
Lynette Alice drains the rest of her mojito, puts on the red robe, points her finger at me, orders me to my knees. I close my eyes, bristling as her stubby finger moves around my face. I let this go on for a few minutes before looking up. “What do I tell him?”
Her eyes are slits. “Questions like that are why I never had kids.”
Copyright 2009 by Dave Erlewine
Rescuing Nothing
I Went in search of nothing, I wanted to know more about its non-existence, I eventually found it bolted to a red shag carpet on a far away western mesa, You know nothing when You see it screaming under an unforgiving sun, They had cut a jagged hole in it, I could see nothing was clearly suffering..., Dusty glass shards rained down from heavy blue, glass clouds, I took out my steel umbrella in one hand, and a hammer in the other, and took out the nails that appeared to be made of a light only a god could manifest, nothing was clearly grateful. but said nothing... We faced each other, acknowledged each other silently, and drifted opposite ways... I suspect in the travelings of nothing, It was just in search of meaning, I suspected it wanted to figure out out what it was, and ultimately find out if it was a form of something... It coveted form, meaning, and definition fiercely...
Copyright 2009 by Eric J. Brinovec
Fleeing and Fucking Forgetting
When Missile killed a man in cold blood there wasnt any heaven or purgatory even hell forgot about him.
The run in his stocking ran like a reindeer.
The helmet on his head was looser than a nail in Jesus coffin.
The wedding ring on his left hand turned blue.
The avenues around this town he knew so well had become tributaries for the homeless and strange.
Maybe one day Jesus will come in earnest ardor and forgive Missile but until then running is better than being because you dont think so much and your left hand doesn’t feel the revolver so much anymore.
The medication they gave Missile at the prison hospital slowed him down a bit too where is his wife The only one that ever understood him is still looking for the man she married.
Where are his two beautiful children the ones who love their papa so much but now have to fight in school just about everyday to shut the bullies calling them jail bait and prison pork.
Missile ran from the guards he ran from the dogs he ran from himself he ran from the past.
Like death wagging its tail Missile just wanted one day hell one hour of peace so he could decide what to do next.
God abandoned him it seems like a long time ago no more midnight masses no more midnight masses no more priests in purple no more singing in the choir.
Just get to the next day Missile kept telling himself it cant get any worse just keep running like a bear to honey like a mountain to its core like bad men to their missing oar like scars do to sinking sailors and silos sit in meadows of sinking dawn.
Today Missile stopped running today he rested in the grass today he eased the chains around his ankles today he at least tried to get his hand around his face and his palm around his feet.
Today may indeed be like tomorrow and Tuesday but not if he tests his automatic boredom against the man he killed brushing the flies from his bloody toes as if any of this hardly existed as if the wife and kids will take him back just for being out just for trying more than usual on one day.
Just for bending the wooden cross into an inflated donut just for counting too many rainbows in the sky of green and the dungeon of black raisins just for killing when killing is not a color.
Copyright 2009 by Radomir Luza
Lunchtime Sonnet
The door creaks like an old frog
unclogging its throat in the immobile day.
A constant slow churn of the larynx,
this sound of stalled motorists.
The uncertain shuffle of grocery carts,
guided by women of immaculate color.
Between their shoulders, a sun’s
unnerving scar sits like a sphinx.
Sequin purses, like nooses, hang
from uncoiled wrists and men,
in their hearts, carry oil fields.
The thing most feared here,
lies not in two parted fists,
but in the dull mud of eyes.
Copyright 2009 by Radames Ortiz
Acting Lessons from a Barrymore
He remembered swashbuckling. The weight of the sword in his hand, the zippered whisper the sword would make as it cut the air, the clank of metal to metal, which was a sound that made his teeth hurt even in memory.
He remembered twirling a lasso, pistols rattling in the belt on his hips like extra bones.
He remembered the warmth of women beneath him, quick flooding pleasure.
He remembered arresting sad drunks, ignoring them, as he had his children, as they cried themselves to sleep.
He remembered holding still while a man with soft hands drew dark lines around his eyes with a kohl pencil then powdered his face. He could still taste the wax in lipstick he had to wear.
But more and more he remembered looking up, the cold bodies around him, the sky smaller and smaller above him.
The problem was he wasn’t sure that they were all his memories exactly.
His newest nurse, Mrs. Tompkins, was not interested in the distinction. In fact, she did not seem at all interested in comfort and even less interested in him. She’d started coming three weeks ago, or maybe three months, the most recent in a series of home care nurses hired to live with him, though he did not know who did the hiring. She sat silent with him in front of the television and went outside every once in a while for a cigarette. She didn’t tell him stories of her bad dates as Miss Diaz had, nor did she read to him as Mrs. Nardoni did. She wore aqua green scrubs every day. Her hair, an elaborate weave of braids and beads, and her nails, painted in red and gold with a rhinestone on each index finger, suggested to him that she had fire burning somewhere. It was childish, he admitted to himself, but he was bored and he wanted to see some flames or at least a spark.
So when she sat with him one afternoon and Grand Hotel was on, he said “Oh, old Lionel. And John. John was a rowdy cad.” He knew it was a little too familiar, as though he’d been on a first name basis. But he could picture them at parties and in bars, drinking champagne and martinis. John making witty quips like “Love is the delightful interval between meeting a beautiful girl and discovering that she looks like a haddock” or surprisingly wise things like “a man is not old until regrets take the place of dreams.” He could see him say that quite vividly. There was John, sitting in a tufted black leather chair, wearing a paisley satin smoking jacket. If he tried, he could even smell the smoke of John’s cigar, sweet as cherries.
He hoped merely that Mrs. Tompkins might ask about the connection, note the coincidence of the name, his and theirs. She glanced at him, a question seeming to light up her eyes. She opened her mouth, but then said nothing.
“I acted in my youth. A number of roles, really. Mostly silent pictures,” he said, sure of himself for the moment.
“I thought you were a cop?” Mrs. Tompkins said.
“I was. This was earlier,” he said, but as he said it, he was less sure. Maybe he had played a cop? Maybe he had dreamed he was an actor? “I’m old, you know. More than a lifetime.”
“The picture’s back on,” she said. She went for a cigarette. “A cop with a funny accent,” he heard her mutter as she passed.
He remembered a shiny red apple sent to his dressing room.
He remembered the taste of strawberries, eaten from his sister’s hand.
He remembered first seeing a blooming bougainvillea, being taken by how papery the flowers were.
He remembered answering to the name Pytor.
He remembered crawling over bodies, digging feet and hands into the walls of a pit, the feeling of the air on his face as he reached the surface.
Some memories were more welcome than others. Some filled him with choking dread. Some washed over his skin like warm sunlight. Some knotted his stomach in guilt.
He remembered the Red Army.
He remembered wanting to wrap himself in Lillian Gish’s tresses.
He remembered trying to teach a girl in pigtails how to say “many thanks” in Russian.
He remembered the director telling him he’d changed his name, calling him a Barrymore in the hopes of increasing ticket sales. He remembered not minding.
The trouble, he thought, was all of this sleeping. He slept much of the day, as much of the day as of the night. And he did nothing else but open his mouth for Mrs. Tompkins to fill with soft, practically pre-masticated food like applesauce and fortified oatmeal. Catheterized, he pissed into a bag. Mrs. Tompkins bathed him. He was reduced to infancy, no wonder he wanted to curl into Mrs. Tompkins’ breasts, so big they pulled the sack-like scrubs taught. Her skin was dark and shiny as chocolate icing. He imagined her flesh warm. And he was forever cold now, no matter how many blankets Mrs. Tompkins piled on top of him. With so much sleeping he could hardly be expected to distinguish dreaming from memory or memory from reality.
When Mrs. Tompkins returned from her errands the next afternoon, he saw that she had been to the library. She had checked out a biography of Hollywood’s royal family, the Barrymores.
“I doubt you will find much mention of me in there,” he said.
She winked, like she understood his modesty, like she was flirting.
He remembered a boy in his arms. He remembered being terrified by the boy’s fragility.
He remembered enlisting in the Navy.
He remembered how young some of the whores he handcuffed on Sunset were, their breasts hardly more than nipples.
He remembered the feel of the guard’s body, the sound of the make-shift blade tearing flesh, the warmth of the guard’s blood running over his hand.
He remembered the smell of horses and grass.
He remembered how small his wife’s earlobes had been, like rose buds, and that he never told her how beautiful they were, how they made his skin tingle even after they weren’t talking any more.
He remembered loading a rifle, firing into the whiteness of winter.
“I did some checking up on you,” Mrs. Tompkins said another afternoon. “You were both a cop and an actor. You were in the Navy too. But you were born in Russia. It’s in your file. You were a damn Cossack. Saved yourself by killing some guard with the lid of a tin can. And though you weren’t in that book, you really were in the movies, too. We’ll have to rent some of them, though I can't imagine any as big as your life.”
He overheard her on the phone, casually telling people she was caring for an old actor, namedropping at awkward places in the conversation. To her sister: “Well, I’m sure momma didn’t mean to say that. You know how she is. Cranky. Like this old Mr. B.” To her cousin: “Henry you got to get this diabetes under control. Stay away from them cheeseburgers. I want you to live as old as a Barrymore.” To her mother: “You take those pills. That arthritis is going cripple you otherwise. Like the Barrymores. Half of them in wheelchairs.”
“You ever go to family reunions?” she asked one evening while bathing him. He couldn’t think while he was naked. The chill air made the hair on his wet skin alert.
“The Barrymores weren’t much for reunions,” he answered vague as a horoscope.
She was quiet for a few minutes.
“Damn,” she smiled. “You’re the closest thing to a star I’ve ever bathed,” she said, sponging his back gently with warm water. Her technique was softer than it had been. She seemed to take pride in how easy she could be, handling his delicate parts with something like love, making the brush of the washcloth like the rough kiss of a cat's tongue.
He’d witnessed mistakes like this one unfold before, a thing you watch fall, a glass bell perhaps, and don’t try to catch until it is sure to shatter. A name was a name, he told himself, and Barrymore was a name, like any other. What harm could it do to let her think he was an all-caps Barrymore?
“Maybe you’re a cousin? Families are always bigger than they seem. Hell, I got a half brother I only found out about a few years ago. And I wouldn’t be surprised if an unknown niece or nephew turned up at a Tompkins’ Bar-be-cue one day,” Mrs. Tompkins paused. “I always loved them old movies. We got to do something to mark this. You don’t want to fade away. You need some stimulus.” She wagged her index finger at him as she said this, as though he were a bad puppy.
He remembered first seeing the Pacific Ocean at night, waves cresting with phosphorescence, the whisper of their crashing.
He remembered pressing his eyes closed, trying to still his pulse, trying to be convincingly dead.
He remembered ice breaking on the Ural.
He remembered spying his adult son in a Denny’s one morning and walking back out, pretending that he didn’t he hadn’t seen him at all.
He remembered answering to the name Bill.
He remembered his mama giving him a fur hat, petting his head affectionately.
Maybe Mrs. Tompkins was right, he thought. Stimulus. Maybe she might wheel him out for a walk or take him to bingo at the rec center. Or maybe take him to a matinee. He hadn’t been to a movie in decades. He didn’t like them in color. It made everything too real, too ordinary. But the idea of getting out of this condo, this cave of brown shag appealed to him. There were worse indignities to old age.
The flood of people in his mind was rising, images rushing too fast. He could see Lionel clear as day, rehearsing a scene from You Can’t Take It With You, Lionel making some joke and everyone laughing.
He remembered the overwhelming flat expanse of the Steppes.
He remembered filing forms, taking names endlessly.
He remembered hunger so severe he thought of killing a solider sleeping next to him so that he could eat him.
He remembered someone telling him the story of John stealing grapefruit from Ethel’s pantry and selling it door to door.
He had not expected what followed. A few days later, Mrs. Tompkins placed a paper in his hands “Is your child the next Sidney Poitier or Paul Newman? Find Out! Acting Lessons from a Barrymore, Hollywood Royalty.” She looked at him expectantly, smiling wide and open. She looked so young. He hadn’t noticed she had little-girl eyes.
“So you’ll do it?
He did not want to disappoint her, but he couldn’t teach anyone anything. Acting was not the same thing a twirling a lasso or riding a horse dressed like an Indian chief. He shook his head no.
“But the children will love it. And it’ll be good for you too. I’ll fix everything. Maybe you could give them some tips. What’s the hardest thing about being an actor?”
“Playing dead,” he said. He wasn’t sure what he meant, but he’d said it so quickly and with such conviction.
Mrs. Tompkins looked surprised, but she didn’t question him. “Well, I guess you could teach them to play dead. Their parents would probably appreciate it every once in a while.”
His whole body was saying no, but he hated the way her face sank, the light dimming in her eyes. The idea of it made him itch. Made his stomach antsy.
He remembered the smell of frozen Siberian dirt, unforgiving hard minerals.
He remembered the flesh on the bodies on either side of him growing cold, darkening.
He remembered Gloria Swanson’s smoky eyes.
He remembered waiting for the phone to ring.
He remembered a director shaking his head.
He remembered answering to the name Boris.
“I’ll do it,” he announced to Mrs. Tompkins, as she tucked him in. He feared the nights now, the unwelcome memories more vivid in the dark.
She smiled and patted his cheek, “That’s my Mr. B.” She squeezed his hand. He hoped she might kiss his forehead. She didn’t. She looked like she might though. “I’ll get right on it,” she said. He’d be a Barrymore if it made her notice him, even if made his hands tingle, even if it set his nerves on fire, even if it killed him.
He remembered a blast and his horse tumbling under him.
He remembered the edge of the tin can, the metallic taste of the cold meat from the can, a string of flesh stuck between his teeth, cutting his finger on its lid, the warmth and taste of his blood, and the idea rising clear as fate that he could use the lid as a blade.
He remembered seeing the spout of a grey whale from a Navy battleship.
He remembered John, on a hospital bed, saying, “Die? I should say not, dear fellow. No Barrymore would allow such a conventional thing to happen to him.”
Of course, they had all died. And he was dying too.
He remembered playing dead.
On the appointed afternoon, Mrs. Tompkins dressed him in stiff, scratchy synthetic-blend pants that hung loosely around his waist, clinched the cuff of his dress shirt with a pair of her earrings, combed his remaining threads of white hair over the top of his head. Then she wheeled to front center of his living room, stranding him with his back to the TV, where he sat like a ceremonial old king awaiting his court, smelling of Listerine, Vicks, and piss, propped up with his oxygen tank and a nasal cannula. His stomach clenched and gurgled. He knotted his hands into fists as best he could.
Mrs. Tompkins led a half dozen or so children, wearing unreasonably bright colors. She lined them up like suspects. He had not seen children in so long; he’d forgotten how uncanny they could look. They smelled like apricots and ammonia. They looked at him, their eyes too wide for their faces.
He cleared his throat and tried to extract all the dignity he could muster from a wheelchair, as he remembered Lionel had done. "Well," His voice hissed like a deflating tire. The children looked scared.. His chest tightened. "I" he paused. "I wish I had a rope." It wasn’t what he meant to say. "I wish I had a gun." That wasn’t it either.
"Tell them who you are," Mrs. Thompkins whispered from behind him. Stage mother. Director. General. Nurse.
But he could not remember. There was nothing in his mind except this room, the faces before him, a throbbing in his left arm. He looked to the sky for an answer, but it was blocked by the tundra-white ceiling.
"You're a Barrymore," Mrs. Thompkins said from behind him. She placed her hands on his shoulders, but the heat from her hands only made him feel icier. "Tell them."
But he said nothing. He closed his eyes, let his head loll back, his mouth fall open, his muscles slacken. Playing dead, like a possum, had saved him once before. He hoped it would again. He could hear a child with a stuffed nose breathing heavily. He could hear Miss Tompkins' drumming her fingers on her crossed arms. "Mr. Barrymore," she whispered. One of the children started crying, then another. He tried to block out sound. He stared into the blankness, the deep purple behind his eyes. "Mr. Barrymore," she said again, but the sound was further away, like he was closing his ears too. He withdrew further until he could smell nothing, nor feel. He liked it here, though he couldn't have put it that way. His body senseless and mind finally empty. Memoryless. He could have been anyone.
Copyright 2009 by Kimberly Freeman
1.
'semblance'
the boon of a sunny summer's day
bike ride
where a single bicycle track
keeps bikers going in either direction
on close to collision courses
a breeze blowing
to keep the pedaller's cool
often enough
(although not quite often enough)
a young woman either with some delay
overtaken
or cycling in an opposite direction
can be stared at seemingly innocently
as a requirement to avoid a collision
often enough
(although not quite often enough)
short skirts
or skirts amenable to colliding with a breeze
offer sights for the seeing
of succulent thighs
at times right up
to where they meet
at other times imperfectly restrained by a hand
(modesty at least intended)
staring at thighs relegates a face
to indistinct peripheral vision
a quick glance
(which might even be considered as well-mannered)
confirms the idea of the possible separation
of pretty faces and beautiful thighs
some young women ride their bikes
bent over the handlebar so deeply
that generous glances of cleavage occur
to the attentive passing cyclist
an elderly intellectual riding a bike
may not be all he seems
2.
'woe the weirdo'
when I was arrested and taken
to an interrogation unit
there were two interrogators there
only one of whom spoke to me
questioning me about verses of which
I was being suspected as being about
to write verses referring to a conversation
taking place in the setting of a moving train
just to let you know said the speaking interrogator
about the type a man you're dealing with
I will say this
that first of all I used to be happily illiterate
my parents no doubt meaning well but
wholly misguided gave in to pressures coercing
them to send me
to school
where I was forced to learn how to read and write
regrettably enough
now I am not a religious man however not a day goes by
that I don't pray for a cerebral haemorrhage to erase
from my brain any reference to or knowledge of
the alphabet
a stroke of luck so to speak
sometimes he continued I can't but think
that I am the last normal person in the world
normalcy is not exactly the norm these days
with the likes of you expressing their misshapen thought
in verse and worse in writing
I: but I thought thought is free
he: what a thoughtless mistake
ten years ago declared the interrogator interrogating me
you spoke to my daughter
that brought back a memory
the girl sitting opposite from me
and how in the course of the train-journey
she spoke to me
with the clear condescension the young have for the old
to idle away the time no doubt
she wanted to know what I'd done with my life
and since I was not about to tell her that
I confessed to being a retired journalist
she pronounced that all journalists are scum
with grim satisfaction
the chiselled lines beside the pale thin rainbow of her mouth
deepened downward signalling
small breasts and lower down thin thighs
don't even dream of sitting there
gawking at my body she hissed
end of conversation
her father the interrogator let me go
because he said I shouldn't get the impression
that he enjoyed interrogating poets
every one of them scum
like daughter like father
that same night I dreamed of her
we were in bed together
her bed I think not mine
her small breast and thin naked legs
and my old remains
and we were engaged in unlikely copulation
I pondered the situation and held still
don't stop she growled I am about to come
I am about to go said I and left her bed
there was a washing-basin affixed to a wall
two faucets valueless antiques
emblazoned in cracked white-and-blue enamel
with the words COLD and COLD
washing her residual stickiness off me
with the very cold water from one of the taps
made me feel small and insignificant
no need to wash she called out mockingly
there is pouring rain outside to wash out
poetic scum
I left and woke up and got out of bed to go to my desk
and write these lines
someone is kicking down the front door downstairs
the interrogator told me that the poetry police
have an open door policy
3.
'the notilrim'
the notilrim is a reed flute held
the wrong way around
and played by sucking air through it
the cheap availability of plastics
boosted inventivity in the recent past
and led to the appearance
of an ingenious musical instrument
known as the nasal fife
held in one hand it could
be fitted over the nose so that
two openings in it communicated
with the virtuoso's nostrils
blowing one's nose into it
would produce a mournful sound
reminiscent of a swan getting drowned in snot
the young woman who played the notilrim
could do so for hours on end and did
for she was never out of breath
she offered to let me kiss her
but I declined because I thought
she sucked
4.
'tragoedia (partial script)'
[enter from the left young women
resplendently naked
apart from cothurni
rhythmically slapping their breasts]
ah my body ah my body ah my body
ah my body ah my body ah my body
ah my body ah my body ah my body ah!
[enter from the right old women
dressed in sackcloth
wearing worn slippers
arhythmically stomping walking-sticks]
ow my body ow my body ow my body
ow my body ow my body ow my body
ow my body ow my body ow my body ow!
[enter a pride of hungry lions proceeding to devour
the young choristers while ignoring the old
with obvious distaste]
[curtains]
5.
'funny'
at first sight
masturbation might seem
as a word
to be closely related to
turbulence but
it's not
the Latin words involved in truth
are manus (for hand)
and stuprare (to soil)
the latter verb in turn
sharing a root with
stupid
it doesn't take genius
to have a bit of fun
Copyright 2009 by Levi Wagenmaker
A Gotham Diva Who Loves You
Dear Empire State Building:
You probably think me a flaky female. I’m just writing to say that with you once again dominating the New York skyline, you’re so much sexier to me. None of my posse have ever been fans of the World Trade Center, but saying so seemed unpatriotic, especially after Ground Zero. Until last night. Crossing the Kosciusko Bridge in rush hour traffic, surrounded in acres of cemetery below, I looked up at you and beheld your early evening grandeur just before I drove into the guard rail.
Flaky, right? It doesn’t matter. I’ve known you for a long time but I never saw you the way I did last night. You looked great in silver and green with your antenna trimmed in red. Against that violet autumn sky, you looked vulnerable.
I’ve had a lot against you from the very beginning. Sometimes it wasn’t even you. Like back in toddler days. When Mom took me shopping at Macy’s I was terrified to look all the way up at your pinnacle. Mom said you were just a mean old building casting cold shadows, but with the conviction that comes from reading hundreds of comic books, I knew you were truly sinister, built by space people who lived inside you in secret apartments and ate all the humans who worked on your many floors.
Then we moved. New York was a bad influence on kids, my dad said. I grew real homesick for big buildings so I put a poster of you on my wall but Mom made me take it down. She didn’t understand. But then I went to City College and met Deb O’Nair from The Bronx, a vegetarian Marxist. We moved in together and took jobs as secretaries for a prophylactics firm on your 102nd floor. The bosses kept taking us out to Beefsteak Charlie’s, as if a little red meat and a few cocktails would make us feel less desperate about Western Civilization and fellatio. But it never did for our real lives as girls-about-town began only after we punched out of you. We ended up calling you The Man.
I had problems with my boyfriend, too. I guess it wasn’t his fault but working that high up in the air made us feel like worker ants, neuter and anonymous, piling up facts and figures for the big release that would conquer the sky. Then Gina started hanging with the wrong crowd. It didn’t take long to start seeing your elaborate radio antenna as an extended hypodermic, poor Gina on the corner with her nose running, waiting for her medication. One day, when things were really looking bad, we took a lunchbreak that lasted two weeks. Needless to say, she got clean and we got fired.
After that I stopped looking at you altogether. I fell for the ChryslerBuilding which helped me out of my spiritual crisis. I decided that this smaller Art Deco structure represented the real New York: style and grace, unconcerned with measurements in the Guinness Book of Records. I had an affair with a janitor there. We met in the private suites he cleaned and we made it overlooking Central Park, the United Nations, the 59th Street Bridge. I never glanced west at your lovely profile in the sunset. You were big and bad, and I still had scary dreams like getting into your express elevator all the way to the 110th floor only to wake up falling.
Why am I writing? To say I always knew I wanted you. I had a lot of growing up to do first. I stopped working office temp jobs, combined my day and night lives, took a loan, got out of midtown, started my own company and moved my offices into the World Trade Center, the new Numero Uno. The rent was raised, the company neared bankruptcy and my New York boyfriend tried to sue me for psychological damages when I started to see another guy.
When Gina wrote from Vermont to say she channeled a being named Roy who told her the Big Apple was possessed, I knew I had to get out for awhile. I rented a car, packed all my stuff and took off. I didn’t know where I was going, but I cried when I looked over from the Brookyln-Queens Expressway. That’s when I saw you, as if for the first time, surrounded by early evening lights, alone but not lonely, an angel of a skyscraper. Maybe every phallic thing in the world should get bested or outdistanced for, no longer having to carry the weight of being the tallest building in creation, you glowed with your own confidence. I suddenly recognized it’s been you all along. That’s when I accidentally smacked into the guard rail.
I knew something had changed because while I waited for the tow-truck, commuters threatening my life and honking their horns, I felt calm. I guess you could say I’ve lost my own Numero Uno obsession and regained my senses as well. That’s probably why you struck me as so beautiful. I know now that I can take all of you.
Stand tall,
A New York Woman Who Loves You
Copyright 2009 by Kirpal Gordon
FATHER MINE
father who never fathered but by blood
shushes death’s shadow clutching his torah
of promise who once as he-man worshipped
mother’s vagina to soothe his Jew blues
the grave’s terror his holiday Yahweh
the sun’s shalom of reincarnation
and as the thorn brushed moon now falls across
his hospital pain he a foot in hell
bargains his soul for a son’s angry kiss
begging the angel of my vacant heart
at love’s end crippled by hollered scars
of ego by troubled waters the rabbis
of guilt the hosannas of his neglect
the painted glass chorus of family fears
I clutch his screaming fist of lack love years
as he stinks death strains love “you son of mine”
and climbs Jacob’s ladder begging forgiveness
the lashing words breathing his awful last
while we break the bread of blood knowing
I’m next begging before the gates of Christ
Copyright 2009 by Paul Lobo Portuges
BUZZING LIGHTS AT THE STADIUM WILL MAKE YOUR BODY SING
The night that single-A first baseman Doug Polish died from a ricocheting bullet in Rose Marie Pro Shop Stadium, NC, home of the Yammie Shammies, was the last night in a long history of violent rivalry between the Portland Blue Bells, from VA, and the Yammie Shammies, from NC. Authorities shut down the stadium and owners resigned themselves to a lost season, for both sides of the rivalry were heated, buying firearms and taking shots at the opposing team, often into the private lives of the players. One woman claimed to have seen a masked sniper fleeing the scene of a routine bumper collision. And when she recognized one of the drivers as Rafael “Freaky” Santos, the third baseman for the Shammies, she knew fans from Portland, VA were striking back. Other fans reported that their friends had either retaliated in some non-violent, but disgusting way, or had seen a friend retaliate in a violent or disgusting way. The front office of the Yammie Shammies refused to comment on the amount of cow dung that was removed from the vehicles of the owners and general managers two days after Doug’s death. Doug hated playing for the Blue Bells, because he had to endure the bizarre antics of the fans from VA and NC, not to mention the over-the-top promotions the owners of the Shammies cooked up during the off-season. The night Polish died he had endured the Yammie Yank, the Blessing of the Combines, Nearly Naked base-sliding, and Baseball Skeet, which coincided with Pack your own Pistol night. The Yammie Shammies were responsible for the target shooting range behind the center field wall, where one could shoot at either silhouettes of Blue Bell players, Osama Bin Laden, or random silhouettes. Polish, himself, had shot at the targets, and found them unsettling, especially the hint of afro haloing many of the so-called random targets and the suggestion of either pimp hats or church crowns. And it was one of the regular shooters from Portland, VA, Alan “Blotto” Jones, who had traveled 30 minutes for Pack Your Own Pistol Night, who was in fact, a Doug Polish fan, who killed Polish when he fired the fatal shot that ricocheted off the steel foul pole in right. He had been aiming for a robin he was convinced was bringing bad luck on his team.
Skip Tracy, RHP Portland Blue Bells 7-8 ERA 4.02 Doug hated playing here. You’re not recording this, are you? I hate playing here, too. You know why? The goddamn fans are fucking crazy. Last year, my first year here, I got signed in August, so I show up. It’s the end of the season, right? And this hot girl, I mean hot. Blonde, stacked, got this great sexy walk, she comes up to me after my first game and wants to party. She’s a little older than me, and I’m running Bull Durham porn in my head, and my teammates are giving me the fish eye. The back-up catcher mouths something to me, over the shoulder. I can’t read lips. I’m not deaf. What? Oh, sorry. So she wants to go to her camper, where she tells me she’ll rock my world. Only now the whole locker room is waving their arms at me, and I’m thinking they want to fuck with the rookie, right. So I ignore them, and they keep making signals behind her back, all the while she’s licking her lips, and pulling down her top, and rubbing her thighs together. It’s very hard to concentrate. Somebody, I don’t remember who, might have been Doug, starts waving flags, like I’m coming in for a landing. Somebody else is making duck calls. What am I? I’m from the goddamn suburbs of Florida, man. I don’t know duck calls. So she’s gotten me all hot, and I’m assuming the team is in someway rooting me on. You know. Turns out, this girl is like a secret weapon. She has a rare strain of a Japanese genital rash. Something you don’t see in the states. The team calls her Rashy Randy on account she’s got a rash, and she’s insatiable, which she was. Anyway, I couldn’t pitch for two weeks, which was what she wanted cause I couldn’t help the team win the last series of the year. Shammies took it in four.
August 25 6:45 PM Visiting clubhouse Rose Marie Pro Shop Stadium
Doug Polish sighed and hitched up his jock. It hadn’t felt comfortable all night, and thought about removing the strap altogether. But he knew if he did he would get smacked in his groin by a hopper. So he left it on and tried to forget it. For a while he thought about his girlfriend, Shannon, whom was flying in the next day. He grew aroused thinking of her smell, the light apple of her hair, and the deep tan of her skin.
“Doug.”
“Huh.”
“Time to get your game on, yo.” Tim Watson, the catcher smacked him on the rear with his glove.
“Yeah.” He said, but Tim was already gone.
Ramon Javier Aquinalla Vasquez, LF Portland Blue Bells .287 AVG 22 HR 56 RBI
How you say, crazy? Insane in membrane? One time I was on field, I had hit home run, and fan tossed a fake grenade at me from stands. In Dominican we see grenades from soldiers who want to kill you. I did what Dominicans do. We run from grenade. I didn’t know it was fake. Doug was good man. I hope his family all right.
Tommy Kellam, President of Doug Polish’s fan club I loved Doug, I liked him when he played for the other team. He was fun to watch. Always flashed the leather. I mean, he wasn’t my favorite baseball player, but he was my favorite A player. He signed a ball for me, and his rookie card. I was hoping he’d go on to the majors, and I could brag about seeing him when he was a single-A nobody. I wrote a poem for him, and sent it to the other members of the fan club. There’s only five of us, but we were loyal.
Doug, you were named for a Polack
But you made the bat crack,
And you caught the ball
As quick as summer turns to fall.
You were a good ball player
I wish you could have been mayor.
I hope they play you in the big ball park in the sky
When they retire your jersey we will all cry.
Sally Gillihan, Head Office Yammie Shammies We started the wild promotions to build on our attendance and our rivalry; my husband’s from Portland. I’m from Yammie, of course. Our whole life is a compromise. I guess every marriage is. We live on the border. Sometimes it gets confusing. What state you’re in? You know? Anyway, our summer revolved around the ballpark. Summertime is all late nights and lots of cool beverages. I guess I should say our summer revolved around the ballparks. We spend a lot of time in Portland. Away games, of course. It was my husband’s idea to buy the hot dog cannon so we could fire hot dogs at the players as they took the field during the seventh inning. Both stadiums have one. They’re hot, you know. The wieners. You can eat ‘em. Many of the players do. You know they’re hungry, all that running around and fielding the ball. I’d be hungry if I was them.
Ron Wroblewski, 2B Yammie Shammies .210 AVG 22 HR 32 RBI
I hate that goddamn hot dog cannon. I hate it cause I’m the only player in its short history whose tasted its slapping wrath from both sides. I got traded you see. I started off in Portland, playing for the Brewers single A team, the Blue Bells. I love the Brewers. I’m from Milwaukee, right, and I was so psyched getting signed to my hometown team. I didn’t mind A ball. It’s tough, you gotta go out there and play the show every night. I was settled in last year, newly signed from Georgia Tech. I started every game after August 1st. I’m a fan fav. I hit a walk-off grand slam in the bottom of the ninth, against the goddamn Yammie Shammies. Hit that fucking ball off the giant pants mascot just behind the left field fence. Fans swarmed the field and raised me above them and carried me into the clubhouse where we celebrated. Little did I know how deep the rivalry was between the two teams. We lost the division to them, but we won the season against them, 12 to 11, thanks to my grandslam. And when I got traded from the Brewers to the Reds I expected to go to a different A team. You know. Each farm system has at least three of them, but I went across the river. Ended up playing for my worst enemy, and playing against a franchise that inspired me in the first place. And how was I repaid? When I got to Yammie, they belted hot dogs at me. Told me to eat my welcome. Seriously. During the seventh inning, for the first thirty games I was belted with hot dogs. Most of the time they bounced off my shoulder. A couple hit me in the eye, which fucking hurts, believe me. The worst, of course, was when I went back to Portland. They hated me in Portland. Fans booed me, called me a traitor. They threw bottles at me, and they aimed their hot dog cannon at me. Solely at me, for the first half of the season. They popped my tires, shot my windshield out, and somebody filled my glove with caulk.
Sheriff Tommy “Fish” Hannigan
As far as we can tell the bullet that killed Doug, god rest his soul, was meant to hit the Blue Bell target that hangs from the foul poles on both the right and left side. There was an earlier account of the shooter attempting to mortally wound a robin which had taken a rest up on the pole. The shooter thought the robin was somehow casting luck against his team. Once he got a lawyer that story evaporated. I know that the Shammies have no problem with target shooting during a game, and I think this was a way for the fans take out their anger on inanimate objects, which is a real rush, I think it’s forward thinking, honest to god, but Pack Your Own Pistol Night, that wasn’t a good idea at all. There’s got to be some control. My God.
Bobby “The General” Roberts fan participant in Pack Your Own Pistol Night You know I’ve been packing my own pistol for two years. Never seen anyone get hurt. It’s educational you know. Everyone is comparing barrels, grips, ammo. Good for kids, I say. The target range is a fun time too, I don’t know if it bothers the outfielders when we start firing off rounds, but nobody’s ever complained. I don’t know that feller who killed that boy. I hope he gets what’s coming to him. Druggies. They’re everywhere.
Peter Pepper General Manager Yammie Shammies I tell you what I told everyone else. Pack your own Pistol night has been stricken from the schedule. We’ve replaced it with free bat night. No, I’d rather not comment. Yes, it really is my name. Thank you, thank you very much.
August 25 6:55 PM Rose Marie Pro Shop Stadium 1st baseline
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Doug Polish cursed as he dodged the third extra long wiener tossed at him in two minutes. It was bad enough that he was pelted with a fish, but the fact that the announcer picked his name out of the line-up as tonight’s strike-out party. For every strike out Doug notched, a lucky fan got a free catered party, complete with alcohol, and scantily clad servers, of both sexes. It was enough pressure without the promotion, add to that a stadium of angry fans who wanted nothing more than to see you FAIL. It was enough to make Doug’s head hurt.
“Sucks to be you,” Dale Dinger said as he walked past Doug.
“Fuck off, Dinger.” Doug hated Dinger.
Polish’s other teammates were more supportive, but still Polish felt alone on the field, like a small bird in the middle of a large grassy plain, a predator looming above, the wind in the trees and sunny light all around.
Groundskeeper Red “Pops” McKee Portland Blue Bells Forget Yankees-Red Sox. I root for two teams, the Baltimore Orioles and anyone who beats the Yankees. But forget all that. The biggest rivalry in baseball is between the Portland Blue Bells and the Yammie Shammies. They play each other 22 times a season, 11 at each stadium, which are only a mere thirty miles apart. Separated by the York River, a county line, a state-line, and generations of lust, hate, and hard river clay.
Portland, VA is a hard luck town. Suffered a lot during the depression, and was one of the few industrial towns that didn’t get a pick-me up in World War II. We didn’t have squat in WWII. We had crying mothers. But we did have women’s league baseball. Over in N.C.. They played in the old Yammie Shammie ballpark. And it brought us all together. That was a time when the two towns were bonded together against the depression, and an America that had forgotten it’s agrarian roots. My grandfather used to hitch up the wagon and drive anyone who wanted to go to the games across the state line. We’re talking all-American stick-to-it-tive-ness here. And talk about Americana. You had to cross the York River, yeah that York River, practically dripping with Revolutionary War History to get to Yammie Falls, NC, to see the Yammie Shammies, who’d been a single A team for the Cincinnati Reds since 1897. Two states sharing a great franchise, a franchise that nurtured Bucky Levine, Tommy “the spot” Taylor, Johnny “come-lately or not come at all” Michaels, the great “Lo-Ball” MacDougal. He could hit ‘em by golly. Anyways, like I said befores, we didn’t have a lot before 1961, when on a lark the Blue Bell Mining Corporation struck coal near an old vein that everyone thought had died out in the 1900s. So in the 1960s Portland had a re-birth, a whatdacallit. Renaissance. Yeah, one of them. Anyhoo, we got stores, a new bank, and a minor league ballpark. A nice one, too. All of us in Portland loved the Shimmies, always had, and suddenly there was a choice. And you know how things went down. Like they always do. Dirty, messy, and ridiculous.
“A rose by any other name” Two Towns, Two Futures, One Headache. Edited by Farnsworth, Foulke, Rice. University of North Carolina Press, 2001.
From the forward by Dr. Richard Wainwright Adams, III The torrid, sometimes florid history of the rivalry between Portland, VA’s “Stinky” Blue Bells, and our own Yammie, NC, Shammies is riddled with Hatfield & McCoy feuds, and as one might suspect, romance. My father, who was a die-hard Shammie man from his toes to his cap, told a story, about a girl from VA who fell in love with a boy from NC. This young girl had a crush on Portland’s Roger “Don’t Call Me Nancy” Deeks, an incredible short-stop. Handsome, lean, shy. A short-stop who would later go on to play for the Brewers, then later the Pirates. This girl had a real crush on him. And she would make the trip to the ballpark every summer night they were in town. She’d keep track of his at bats, and his glove work. And her family were die-hard fans. So much that they would accompany her to the games. Only she didn’t like her family much and during the ball games focused so much on Deeks that the world around her turned to soft gauzy light, and the sounds of the field enlarged in her ears. She became alive watching them, seeing into their eyes, and watching their bodies react. Her body reacted with them, and on most nights her body was so tuned to the beating of heart she thought she might explode. And of course, as things go in baseball, Deeks was involved in a slight skirmish with the ump, and was ejected. This poor girl’s world stopped for a moment, and could not again engage that theatre, so she wandered to the top decks to mill, pout, and eat chocolate. And whom does she meet also milling around, a boy from North Carolina, there to root on the visiting Yammie Shammies, who inadvertently, was the cause for the girl’s malaise. They struck up a conversation, and bam fell in love.
She knows that her family would not approve of her dating, at all, much less a man who rooted against the home team. So, they abscond, they woo, they kiss, they woo some more, they pet. You get the idea. And so one day the boy proposes marriage. The girl accepts, but knows he must face her family. So they get together, he comes over for Sunday dinner, and things are growing great until baseball comes up. Things get heated, and the boy, restraining himself, leaves. Well this does not do in the household of the Virginia girl. She starts taking more and more leave of her family, and they start following her. They hang from trees like bats. They hire farm hands to follow her around in an inconspicuous wagon. Cousins follow her around, and appear in shop windows. Relatives keep popping up wherever she is, no matter what she is doing. Her mother brings in the local quilting circle who teach this young vibrant girl how to make a quilt, something she does not care about, but is forced to endure endless hours of socialization until she can barely see. Her brothers take to roaming the border loaded on booze and shotgun shells. She has to swim the river to get away from them. Likewise, his family reacts to the hostility, and soon they roaming borders, and the local Methodist men’s club is indoctrinating this North Carolina boy, something he has no interest in as well. And one night, both sides of the family are particularly keyed up, this after a Shammie loss to the Blue Bells (a real laugher, 12-2). The families are shouting slurs back and forth, many of them suggesting that North Carolina is infected secretions, or that Virginians are the crotch-rot of the East, and so forth. Shots are exchanged and members on both sides of the river are injured. This begins a long feud between the families that spanned twenty years, until the progenitors of the feud died off, and the rest of the family had spread to other regions of the state. The couple married and settled in Texas. He’s running for the state house in the fall. I hear that when they come back to visit, they take in a Shammie-Blue Bell game, and root for both sides.
Angie Wells, fan participant in the Yammie Yank Doug was so cute. Oh my god. I’ve been coming to the ballpark all summer and trying to get his attention. He was too busy though. Paper said he had a girlfriend. Anyways, I was one of the Yammie Yank fans that night. Oh, all right. The Yammie Yank, is when ten fans line up behind ten visiting ball players and give them wedgies. Seriously. The fan who can yank the most, or the highest, gets a free shopping card, and local charities get 10% of that night’s concession, which is a lot of money, I understand. Anyways, that’s why I got involved with the Yank. That night I got to give Doug a wedgie. I won, too. Kinda ironic, isn’t? Do you have a tissue, I think I’m going to cry.
Butter Jenkins Assitant Groundskeeper Portland Blue Bells Just what in the hell is a Shammie anyways?
Terry “T-Bone” Flannigan III Yammie North Carolina Poet Laureate A Shammie is a technically anything made from Chamois cloth. For instance these fine pair of jeans I have on, quite snug in the crotch I must say. Or a soft cloth you might clean your car with. The Yammie Shammies got their name from the Yammie Shammie Pantaloon Factory, which was founded in 1845 down by the river. People from all over the world came to Yammie to buy pants. It put us on the map. Which is why the Yammie Shammies mascot is a giant pair of pants.
Hal Jennings Curator of the Portland Blue Bell Museum I saw it. Watched it go down. I’ve seen a lot go down here. I was here when the Kellams and the Pritchards had a big ol fight in the parking lot on account of their kids getting married. I have friends on both sides of the argument, and third cousins, too. And I saw the bullet strike his head. A pluck, almost. I was at the first base line, like always, taking in the action. He just kind of smirked, like he knew what had happened. I knew Doug a bit, and he hated the crazies. Last season he was struck in the head with a rubber baseball twice, between the third and fourth inning, and ever since then his hearing had never been the same. He had been hoodwinked into a cash scam by a fan posing as a sporting goods guy. He had been embarrassed at every turn of the last two seasons, all by fans who just wanted to rattle his cage. Most fans that like you will tell you so. Here the only way to show how much you love the team is if you mess with the rival team. Sick. Absolutely sick.
August 25 7:15 PM Rose Marie Pro Shop Stadium, Home Plate
Annc: Stepping to the plate is our Strike Out Party Pack Victim, Doug Polish. Batting .312 with 12 homers, and 23 RBIs. Let’s give Doug a Shammie welcome.
Catcher: Jesus, sucks to be you, Doug.
Doug: Your girlfriend gives good head
Catcher: Whatever, Doug.
Doug: No seriously.
Ump: Strike
Annc: Doug takes one down the middle. Wow, if I was at bat, I don’t think I would have let that one go by.
Catcher: Don’t you think you should pay attention?
Doug: I’m going to smoke the next hanging ball your snot of a pitcher is going to throw
Catcher: Big words from a small man
Ump: Ball
Annc: Just a bit outside.
Catcher: Going send you a fastball, right down the middle.
Doug: Right.
Ump: Ball
Annc: That ball was way off, but it had some zip to it. 95 on the radar gun.
Catcher: I bet that wedgie hurt. I saw her wind-up, she pulled you hard.
Doug: Men can take such pain, bud. I doubt you would have done better.
Catcher: But your face, it looked like someone had put some rotten fish up to your nose and then told you your mom was dead. A look of pure horror, it was.
Ump: Strike
Annc: Again, I don’t think Polish is paying much attention. Looks like there are cartoon Zs floating around his head. I swear I can see them.
Catcher: We’re going to get you out on this one.
Doug: “ ”
Catcher: You going to swing, or you going to take?
Doug: “ ”
Catcher: Doug?
Annc: That ball is hit deep to center, over the head of Vasquez, Polish will end up at second, with an RBI double.
Jackson King ,CF Yammie Shammies .317 AVG 22 HR 45 RBI Yeah I saw that dude get smoked. Bad business, man. I got offered a contract with the Nicks, and I think I’m going rethink this baseball shit. I didn’t know the guy, but the heat has been turned on, you know. I mean hot. I was in the grocery store the other day with my girl. She was wearing a sexy top, shows lots of back. I was kissing on her neck in the cereal aisle when this white pimply motherfucker comes up to me and starts talking smack about Doug’s death and how all the Shammies have got to pay. And he’s threaten’ my girl, you know. Calling her a whore and dirty Blue Bell fucker. And I decked the guy. Hit that motherfucker in the face. Surprised him, but shit, next thing I know I’m being led away in handcuffs. And on top of that shit, my girl left me for a football player. A kicker, at that.
Diego Montoyo, LHP Portland Blue Bells 3-2 3.79 ERA
Oh man, I saw it. Didn’t want to see it, but no man, I saw it. I turn away cause I see this guy shooting into the air, so I look to see what he hits. That’s why my pitch was crazy, wild. I don’t think it’s fair they ruled my pitch wild. I was looking at the bullet, man. Diego don’t like the fact someone shot my friend, and I get bad call.
Memo from the office of Bud Selig, Commissioner of Major League Baseball Doug Polish’s death was an unfortunate tragedy. We all know that minor league parks compete for family dollars, and that over the years many organizations have gone to great lengths to satisfy consumer need and wants. Polish’s death was the result of poor organizational planning, bad judgment, and 1.50 draft night. The commissioner’s office had no knowledge of the extreme, and often bizarre measures The Yammie Shammies conducted its promotions. The official stance of Major League Baseball states that the organizations may conduct whatever promotions it sees fit, as long as the players, and fans are not in danger. Clearly, this was not the case in North Carolina. From here on out, all promotions must be cleared by the commissioner’s office one month in advance. See the attached proposal for details on submitting promotions to the newly created Major League Office of Promotions. Thank you for your time.
August 25 7:28 PM Rose Marie Pro Shop Stadium, 1st Base
The sun settled down like spilled orange soda, and Doug Polish looked away from it. Near him he could hear two blonde bombshells chatting on their cell phones. One was making a date, the other was breaking one.
The current pitcher on the mound, Santos “Santeria” Ortega, had just struck out his first batter in two games. Santeria was a low-ball ground out pitcher, and he was happy with his slider. He did a little dance on the mound.
“Keep it up Santeria.” Doug shouted to the mound. His stomach felt scooped clean, aching and hollow. He was suddenly hungry, and turned his thoughts to the batter, David Tawny, a power hitter, who couldn’t seem to pull the trigger on the ball these days.
Strike one. Fastball inside corner.
Doug thought about his nephew, who had called him yesterday to remind him to get Ken Griffey Junior’s autograph when the Reds Organization hosted the annual family roast at the end of the month. Doug usually stayed away from that kind of fling, but he wanted to grease the wheels, and hopefully impress some people. But numbers impressed, not glad-handing.
Foul ball, third-base line.
He hadn’t promised anything, and most likely Griffey wouldn’t even be there.
There was a crack and the ball shot towards Doug, it veered to his right and he leaned over snatching it out of the air, like a swallow nailing a dragonfly.
Deputy Christy Louse, Portland, VA I worked the case as a favor to Doug. I didn’t know him. I met him once. At the gas-n-sip. He was buying beer for a party. He signed an autograph. “Christy, thanks for the support.” He was real nice. Didn’t make fun of my name, either. Which automatically puts him in my good book. There are plenty who don’t get into my good book, I tell you that.
Grady Thomas, The Yammie Shammie Mascot Our mascot doesn’t have a name. I mean, come on. It’s a pair of pants. It’s weird, being a pair of pants. As an actor you are trained to get into character. But I have a hard time concentrating wearing this outfit. My head is in the crotch, and I look out the zipper, sort of. Kinda weird, huh, looking out the zipper. The pants legs actually are my arms, while my legs are fitted in this micro-fiber, which shimmers, see that? When I’m on the field, the lights actually make this fiber invisible. Amazing, isn’t it. Only thing is, the fiber gives off heat, because it’s like turned on, or something. The lights, man. They activate the micro-machinery inside. Goddamn nano-technology. I sweat balls in this outfit. How am I supposed to get into character when my testicles are swimming in sweat? Should have gone into science, instead of art. I wouldn’t be sweating my ass off for $10 an hour, I tell you that.
Jake Williams, fan participant in Nearly Naked Base-sliding I came to pick up chicks. I really don’t pay attention to the game, but I was that night. I had my eyes on this chick, who had slid into home before me during Nearly Naked Base-sliding that night. She was only wearing a thong, and sea-shells. I swear. Anyway, she was moving down the stadium, along the first base line. I saw the crazy mo-fo stand up and scream something about birds, and curses. The shot rang out. This chick ducked, and that dude died. I hooked up with her later. Sorry about the dude, though.
Laquita Ames, Shopkeeper Portland Blue Bells Stadium Damn, when that Polish boy was killed our business went through the damn roof. Everybody was buying his jersey. You think he’d just gotten into the hall of fame. But I should hush. It was awful, what happened. It’s funny how people show they are sad. They buy flowers, or jerseys. Some write poems, or sing songs. My niece liked the boy. She said he was cute. I don’t know about that, but she sang at his memorial service. She made everybody cry with her Amazing Grace. I’m not looking forward to next year. I don’t know if I can do it. All the hate that’s been built up over the years. I’ve seen the merchandise. I have evidence that the teams hated each other. Some of these shirts are downright obscene. Unofficially licensed product, is what “they” call it. I call it rubbish. But some folks spend money on that kind of hate. I can’t take this much longer. I’ve looked into selling the shop back to the franchise. Business is fine, but I can’t take the excitement. I’m almost 60 years old.
Alan “Blotto” Jones North Carolina State Penal Colony # 45, Charlotte Look between you and me, that goddamn bird was making us lose. I saw it, man. It gave us the evil eye, and once it took purchase on top of the foul pole, I knew it wasn’t going to let us win. But that’s off the record. My lawyer has informed me that I was intoxicated, and that my tox screen was “both impressive and frightening.” I don’t remember what I took. That usually means I had a good time. Only reason I’m talking to you is to clear the karma between me and Doug. God bless him.
August 25 8:32 PM Rose Marie Pro Shop Stadium, 1st base
The itch in Doug’s crotch had ceased, and he had two hits the game so far, and one RBI. He made two fine catches, and though he thought it bad luck to do so, he looked ahead to the end of the game. That kind of thing would come back to haunt you. That kind of thinking could cost you a play.
He heard the shot, but to him it was far off. A dreamy pop, coming from a far off lawn. A back fire on the highway. He felt no pain, and his brain was aware as he fell forward, numb and warm all over. He wanted to put his hands up to shield his face before he fell in the ground. But did not. He was weightless, and contained no mass. He passed through the field, and into darkness, and back through the earth into light. Rising. Falling apart, becoming a single focused point. There was a hum, like the buzz of stadium lights. Big lights that burn deep into October. A warm sodium rush. There was no stopping him now.
Copyright 2009 by Scott Whitaker
